I commute into Manhattan every day and in the process I have learned the art of riding Metro-North. The morning and evening commutes are peachy – everyone is very quiet and absorbed in their Kindle/Nook/iPad/archaic dead-tree reading material. However, one day this week I was coming in late and I took the 12:05 train. These people are not regular travelers. They are tourists, or people with children taking them to a museum or a zoo, or unemployed people. I usually cut them some slack because they aren’t regulars and don’t know the proper protocol (summary: “Sit down and shut up”), but this particular trip was fraught with emotions. There were a bunch of nondescript white people scattered around the car, and in front of me was two Hispanic ladies. They were chatting about whatever and didn’t hear the conductor say that this was an express, so they couldn’t get off at Fordham. He told them that they would have to go to 125th Street and hitch a train back to get to Fordham. Fine. At this point, Primary Hispanic Lady gets on her cell phone (don’t do that) and starts having The World’s Loudest Conversation Ever (definitely don’t do that). She sounded like this (start at the 30-second mark):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R6OhjpyveNw
But we were all trapped in this metal tube that reflects sound like nobody’s business, so even though I had my headphones on she was slicing through my podcast and my skull like one of those boats in the Arctic that punch through the ice and leaves crunchy piles all around it. This is my podcast experience:
“So, Chris, tell me about the latest book you’ve read –”
“I TOLD HER THAT SHE SHOULDN’T LET HIM TREAT HER LIKE THAT!”
“– excellent novel that really evokes –”
“I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT! YOU KNOW, I SAID THAT WOULD HAPPEN! YOU REMEMBER!”
“– that last one I read that made me feel –”
“HAHAHAHAAHAA!!”
This went on for a good five minutes. All the white people were looking around, silently trying to figure out who would get up and talk to her. Finally, this gray-haired fella walked over, got her attention and made the “quieter, please” gesture. Primary Hispanic Lady apparently misconstrued this to mean stop talking in English, so she continued to have her insanely loud cell chat, but now in Spanish. I wanted to explain to her that even though I couldn’t understand what she was saying, it was still, shall we say, dampening my travel experience. It now sounded like this:
“I would recommend this novel to anyone who enjoys –”
“ME GUSTA EL QUESO CARPINCHO VAGON AXILA MUCHO TORPEDO QUE LO COMPARTAS CONMINGO!”
At some point the super-trendy late-teens Scarsdale lass sitting across from me looked at me and shrugged her shoulders as if saying, “Eh, ethnic people, what are you gonna do? Am I right, Fellow White Person?” And I wanted to say, “No, no no, I am not in your camp just because I share your honkitude. I have traveled on the train with a large quantity of splendidly rude white people. Please do not try to commiserate with me.” By then the train trip was over (hooray!) and the Primary Hispanic Lady turned to Secondary Hispanic Lady and said, “Did we miss 125th Street?” The Scarsdale Trendy Girl leans over and, in the most passive-aggressive way imaginable, smiled and said, “Well, if you had been listening to the conductor…” then flipped her hair like they did in teen 80s movies and stalked off. I’m surprised her feather extensions didn’t fly out, she flounced so hard. At that point I became torn because I couldn’t decide if I hated Primary Hispanic Lady or Scarsdale Trendy Girl more. I decided that I hated everyone everywhere and I wanted to live on a mountaintop where I could just watch all the internet’s cat videos until the end of my time here on earth.
Moral of story: I’m thinking of getting the word “misanthrope” tattooed as a tramp stamp on my back.