My World Or Die

The F train was packed with bodies but when the doors opened two people who’d been standing near the doors exited, so I they left a little spot for me to stand and I boarded. Of course behind me were three other people who shoved themselves on so there we were, four people standing where two should be, all smashed up against each other like an experimental dance troupe.

This won’t do, I thought, and I eyed a vacant area towards the middle of the train—not a huge space, mind you, but definitely large enough for my petite frame. With the right contortions it would be big enough for two, let’s say.

Ever the polite one I excused my way towards the spot, holding my stuffed orange messenger bag in one hand and my Margaret Atwood book in the other (Oryx and Crake, if you’re curious). My poofy down coat swished as I inched towards vacant real estate. I got to the spot without shoving and put my bag on the floor because there’s nothing worse than getting jabbed in the back by an inconsiderate passenger’s bag and yes the floor of a New York City subway is filthy but come on if you wanna travel first class take a cab. This is coach and anyone carrying a brand name bag is in possession of counterfeit Chinatown fashion, mkay. Put it on the floor, only the bottom will pick up dirt, and the stitches are all gonna fall apart in a month anyway.

By the time I put my bag down the train had started to move. That first second when a train moves jolts your body and since I hadn’t yet grabbed a bar I knocked into the woman next to me. She was short, golden-haired, over 55, wearing a brown tweed ladies’ jacket and matching long skirt and she had on too much honeysuckle perfume—eau de drag queen, you know? When I bumped into her she turned around all stunned and I looked her in the eye, smiled lovingly, and apologized, and SHE gave me the look of Satan. Oh yes she looked down her pointy powdered nose at me and made the same huffing sound my cat Luna does when she can’t get what she wants. Now, I’m about 5’7” and huffy puffy dragon must’ve been about five foot ZERO, and SHE was looking down her nose at ME...well at my waist, I guess.

I had no censor, I just blurted out “OOO, testy TESTY!” And she shook her head and turned away.

That’s the end of that, I thought, but then every time the bottom of her coat would rub on my leg or the train would bump my shoulder against her frizzed-out Miss Clairol hair, she’d turn around and huff. I ignored her and pretended to read while I fantasized about taking a machete and hacking her. Then I imagined her with a bloody injured leg during a terrorist attack and me walking by her and going, “nuh uh, I remember whatchu did to me on the F train, save yourself bitch.”

Passive aggression is my lifeblood so when I was getting off the train I looked her in the eye, smiled, and said goodbye, thinking I’m so much better than you, you poor piece of shit.