God, how I hate commuting. I hate the train, and all the irritating things that come with it. I take the train because it is more feasible and economical (by a small margin) than driving to work. But that is like choosing a prostate exam over an endoscope.
I like my peace and quiet on the train, whenever possible, and sometimes, you get it. Sometimes you take a train, and there are less than the usual number of people on it, and they are silent or talking politely and quietly. You can hear them, but they are not loud, and that’s ok. It is a public place, after all. They are reading books and listening to I-pods at reasonable volume levels. These are the days where you get Shangri-la on rails, and your commute in to work is really not so bad.
And then there are the others. The other people, and the other days. Any who have ridden the wonders that is public transportation know who I’m talking about. Here are a few of the offenders:
You all know the type. He has his laptop out, poring over a spreadsheet. He takes phone calls often, barking orders at whoever has called him, loudly, and with exasperated rolls of his eyes to his seat mates, trying to imply the incompetence of the people on the other side of the call. His briefcase is propped on the seat next to him, and any thought of moving it for others will cut in to his productivity. He is the only thing standing between his Radio Shack store(1) and financial ruin.
Two turtle doves
And man, do they ever coo. These lovers are so devastated at the thought of 8 working hours apart that they kiss and grope and gaze in to each others eyes with the intensity of a creepy optometrist. He whispers in her ear, she giggles, and smacks him playfully on the arm. Oblivious to the people sitting in uncomfortable silence in the same quad of seats, they engage in foreplay for the entire 30 minute ride in to work. Nothing matters but their love NOTHING, you heartless bastards who would judge us! NOTHING!
Three French hens
Ah, the joys of having coworkers who travel on the same train as you! These hens are active in the morning, clucking loudly away about their home woes. How hubby didn’t cut the lawn. How little Johnny just won’t get to his homework. The complaints are of course interspersed with boastful and informative soliloquies about the wonderful pot roast that they made (it turned out perfect the first time!) and how they got that wonderful mustard yellow blouse with the blue flowers for 8 dollars on clearance sale. These chattering egg layers usually have a mother hen of the bunch, who imparts her opinion on every problem the other two hens bring to the table. As a bonus, if you run in to the same fowl clutch on the way home, they are inevitably clucking about their coworkers many faults. You do of course; have the privilege of being in the same train car as the most competent hens in existence.
Four calling birds
It’s fortunate that you have the summer off from these nasty little birds, but what they lose in the summer; they make up for starting in September. They chatter chatter chatter chatter incessantly at volumes usually restricted to Nikki Minaj concerts (and with about the same level of vulgarity) using more likes than a facebook post about hating cancer. These birds can be identified by their plumage of crop tops with belly button rings and shorts cut high enough to see their tail feathers. Ordinarily these birds sound more or less like crows with tourettes syndrome. They do have another distinctive call, however, as they chatter excitedly. It sounds more or less like a chickadee, but with different tones: “like-oh-ma-god-I’m-not-even-lying!” Steer clear to avoid being shat on.
OK THAT’S ENOUGH OF THE CHRISTMAS CRAP. It’s September, Dammit.
Eau do stink
Not much must be said about this individual. If you weren’t looking at them directly you’d wonder if you’d accidentally stumbled in to Calvin Klien himself (who apparently oozes pleasant scents directly from his sweat glands) but then you realize that this is an imposter. They do leave you wondering, however, how bad their natural smell is, that they bathe in it to the point that their seatmates get nosebleeds.
This individual is by far the lowest on the irritating factor, but way the hell up there on the creepy scale. Because you are in THEIR seat. For those who are more of a seat opportunist when commuting, and sit… you know… in an empty seat that is available at your stop, this person has THEIR PRECIOUS. And you STOLES IT FROM THEM. Shifty little eyes, hunched posture, and a glint of hatred in their eyes when they scuttle up the stairs to find you in their chosen squatting location. Gollum of course will not go away. If there are seats nearby, he perches on the edge of it, glaring balefully at you and rocking back and forth to the voices in his head. If there are no seats, he stands right there. Usually close enough so that one of his legs is in contact with the side of the seat, or clutching lovingly to the little handle on the seat tops right by your head. Stay alert. The time will come when you let your guard down and Gollum will make his move to get MY PRECIOUS back from you filthy, tricky hobbitses!
DJ pain in the ass
We of course, love music, so thank you DJ pain in the ass, for playing yours on headphones so loud that we can enjoy your music with you. Ours was a dreary existence before you came in to our lives. I will say this though; you should turn it down so that you don’t have to feel ashamed that we now know your play list includes One Direction.
A lovely bunch, don’t you think? Please please PLEASE…. Learn some manners.
(1) I know Radio Shack is out of business. Apparently he had to move his briefcase.