The Subway, again. Endless Source Of Offensive Happenings.

Ok, so I know I've already blogged and 'vented' (ha) about the Subway 'Blower', but it seems that riding the NYC Subway System on a daily basis will provide ample fodder for this blog. Hopefully, these appalling situations I'm subjected to can at the very least entertain any readers.

Setting: Thursday, 5:18PM - 4/5 Train

Squeezing my way onto the crowded, metal, torture chamber known as the rush-hour 4 train at Wall St., I find myself standing backpack to backpack with my fellow captives. I awkwardly reach up to grip the metal ceiling rail to steady myself against what I know will be a ride rife with sudden stops, starts and odd twists, which I've witnessed throw many a tourist off balance, and I discover the rail is still warm from a previous hand. I struggle to rid my thoughts of the images of said previous hand performing all sorts of unspeakable and germ-laden acts prior to gripping the rail before me. I gaze dead-eyed at my reflection in the blurry subway window wondering if I really look as haggard when I'm above ground, and wait for the doors to close. The hushed silence that usually accompanies the early morning subway ride is regrettably absent during the evening rush hour. I'm finding it difficult to tune out the loudmouths around me that have the audacity to assault my ears with their idle co-worker chit-chat and soon the 'Subway Seething' takes over. I liken it to road rage.

I look away from my reflection and down at the people luckily seated in front of me. I study the bald spot of short man in his 40's seated below me and I try to imagine how much hair he'll have left in 5 years. My attempts at this follicular calculation are interrupted by a loud, repetitive jingling immediately to my left. I look over to witness a fair-skinned, young woman who as lifted her bent and well-braceleted arm toward her head, inserted her pinkie finger deep into her ear and has begun vigorously shaking her arm and pinkie finger in an attempt to apparently scratch some sort of itch located deep within her brain. The five, heavy, bangle bracelets she wears on this itch-scratching arm are jingling about in such a loud manner (which I assume she cannot hear since her finger is in her ear) and for such a length of time, that the people behind her are actually beginning to arch their necks to look over to determine the cause of the noise. Now, while I've never been a fan of this particular method of ear scratching, I have witnessed others perform it in a less offensive, and without question, a less vigorous manner. As I return my stare back to the balding man, I'm utterly aghast at how long this scratching and jingling is going on and I wonder just how dirty that ear can be. While this new thought enters my mind, the young ear-scratcher extracts her finger from her ear, grasps the metal rail next to my hand and I am once again left dwelling on what lies on the rail beneath my own hand.

A few stops later, the crowd thins out and I find myself a nice cozy seat by the back door of the train. I thankfully sit, happy to no longer be holding the rail. I gaze blankly across the car and watch a man fiddle with his palm pilot. He removes the 'stylus' pen from the side, brings it up to the side of his head and begins to scratch the inside of his ear with it. I silently vow to carry Q-Tips with me from now on and pass them out for free. "Free Q-tips here!, Get your free Q-Tips here!"