…but inconsiderate people really annoy me. Being a frequent passenger on public transportation, I get to see a lot of inconsiderate people. Last week when I was coming back from an art class in Jamaica Plain (southwest Boston) I saw a memorable instance of a person being inconsiderate of others.
I am very aware of how my body occupies space. Not because I am some gifted athlete or dancer that works with my body, rather, it is because I am clumsy. Growing up my father called me "butterfingers;" I had this bad habit of dropping things. My step-mother, a relentless packrat and displayer of everything she packratted, always dreaded my summer visits because I was forever knocking things over. In my defense, the cards were stacked against me as there wasn’t a single horizontal surface in her house devoid of some piece of kitchy crap. After a while it got so bad that whenever something was knocked over or a picture frame on a wall was askew, it was just assumed that I had done it. Having received enough lectures about accidentally knocking things over has made me a bit paranoid about where my body is in space.
So back to last Sunday…
I transferred from the Orange Line to the Red Line at Downtown Crossing subway stop. Getting on board the Red Line at Downtown Crossing means avoiding the huge crowds at the next stop, Park Street. I stepped onto a relatively uncrowded car and sat on the most forward bench seat. The seats are lined against the outside walls of the train car so seated passengers are facing the center of the car. The most forward bench in this case was a three seat affair. On the identical seat across the aisle from me sat two women.
The woman across from me to my left was rather mousy. She gave one the impression that she was a recent parolee from a state mental hospital. Perhaps it was the constant moving lips, the wild eyed stare, or the manner of dress that suggested she had neither picked the clothes nor put them on by herself. However, she was armed with one of those convention tote bags and had some manuscript with her. For all I know she could have been a famous researcher on her way to MIT, Harvard, or Tufts. Just the same, I was happy she was on her side of the aisle.
Unsurprisingly, the seat next to the mousy mental researcher was vacant. Another smallish woman occupied the final seat of the three seat bench. Although she was absolutely quiet for the duration of her upcoming ordeal, this woman screamed out post-doc. Boston is filled with post-docs, Cambridge even more so. I think the economy of the Massachusetts Bay area would collapse if post-docs didn’t exist. (Forgive my snarkiness here, but a post-doc is usually a recent Ph.D. who either didn’t get an academic job or is desperately avoiding getting an academic job and is killing time until the next year’s job search. The universities around here love them because they are cheap and don’t expect tenure.) I knew the woman wasn’t a grad student as she was carrying a Whole Foods paper bag. As particular and snobby as most of my fellow graduate students are, almost none of us can afford to shop at what we affectionately call Whole Paycheck.
The reason it was important for me to tell you I got on at Downtown Crossing is because the next northbound stop on the Red Line is Park Street. At Park Street, all five lines of the Green Line (in both directions) stop to let out and pick-up transfers. So anyone in downtown Boston that wants to go north into Cambridge usually hops on the Red Line at Park Street. As the train pulled into Park Street, I could see the normal mob waiting on the platform. After the train stopped, many of my fellow passengers got off, unfortunately for them, neither of the two women across from me departed.
As it was Sunday evening, the waiting crowd was smaller than usual. So the newcomers got on board and many found highly desirable seating (i.e. no one sitting next to them). Until the lady, whom I shall call Mother Hen, stepped on board.
Winter clothing is not flattering. It is designed to prevent death from exposure. When you see someone dressed stylishly on board the subway you can almost anticipate the schadenfreude you will experience once they step in a slushy pile of black, nasty, crusty urban snow. It almost warms you up to think about the sludge oozing into their patent leather shoes as the salt or sand muddies their expensive suits or ruins the wearer’s hose. I almost feel like I am part of a Marxian proletarian mob to see this person who thinks he or she is above the rest of us schleps. Eying this person, I know they aren’t any better than the rest of us. If you are so wealthy that you don’t have to worry about staying warm, then why the hell are you taking a subway?
But I digress…
Mother Hen boarded the train dressed like most sensible Bostonians. She wore a heavy winter coat. Because the temperature was hovering somewhere above freezing, she was only in a waist length coat. Once again, because the temperature was merely cold and not instantly lethal, she wore what I think were either heavy duty leggings or somewhat low rent jodpurs. She had with her a spacious yet homey sort of purse as well as a book bag of some sort. In short, she looked like she belonged in Cambridge, well-to-do, but not too well-to-do.
Mother Hen looked old enough to have college age children. Despite her heavy winter clothing, she looked like she took care of herself but was by no means a gym rat, perhaps water aerobics or the occassional yoga class but definitely a vigorous walk every so often. She had earbuds or at least visible cords to unseen earbuds descending from under her winter hat. Her entire outfit made her look exceptionally top heavy and especially wide at the hips. Not that she was a wide woman, it was just that carrying the bags and the bulky winter clothing made her wider than she must have been used to.
What definitely made her look like she belonged in Cambridge was the utter disregard she showed for the two mousy women when she plopped in between them failing to notice how they were nearly ejected from their seats. To add insult to injury she did this weird hip movement which reminded me of a hen settling in her nest to lay an egg. The movement pushed the bags further out thus making more room for herself. This room came at the expense of her benchmates. To her credit, the woman to the left had taken enough of her meds that morning to prevent a violent physical reaction. However, her face clearly betrayed her sense of violation.
Mother Hen was completely oblivious to her incursion into the personal space of either woman. The post-doc was in a state of shock as she was now smashed against the wall of the train and Mother Hen. The Whole Foods paper bag was now scruffed up. I couldn’t help but think of the damage to her arugula or be slightly fearful her balsalmic vinegar might start leaking through its now chipped crystal decanter. Yet Mother Hen sat there oblivious to the disruption she had foisted onto the other women.
What I dislike the most about people like Mother Hen is that they prey upon their victims’ sense of manners and desire to not rock the boat. The Mother Hens of this world know that most people don’t want to be rude or give offense. They would rather silently suffer than cause a scene. So impoliteness is met without resistance.
It is like when a smoker, waiting for the same bus as you, lights up a cigarette as you wait under the bus stop shelter. I don’t begrudge smokers the right to poison themselves. I do think it is a bit much for one to start smoking right next to you without so much as a care about being upwind from you. And the part that absolutely drives me crazy is when the bus finally does arrive, the smoker just tosses the cigarette in the dirty, nasty, slushy snow bank. The snow bank will turn to ice and we will get to enjoy seeing this cigarette butt everyday for the next few months. Until the spring thaw when we get to witness the spectacle of months of accumulated cigarette butts go floating down the Mass Ave gutters.
I hate winter.
A little bit of Mischief... 