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When I reached the subway platform this morning, I silently thanked the horde of waiting commuters for having done my waiting for me. The train arrived, much more crowded than usual for the time of day, made even more crowded by the group of us who got on at this stop.
All seats were taken, so I stood. Because there was still plenty of standing room, I didn't feel squashed. I was able to hold the pole with one hand and my book in the other, and I began my reading, paying no attention to my surroundings.
After three stops, the woman seated directly in front of me stood to leave. Hurrah, I cheered, I'll be able to sit. But as I made a move to sit, the woman standing on my right, without looking me in the eye, slipped in (shoved in?) ahead of me and took the seat. Once I realized what she was doing, I backed away slightly and made a "be my guest" gesture, which she didn't acknowledge. She certainly had my attention now. The first thing I did (pretending to read) was to check her age. Perhaps she was even older than I and thus was entitled to the seat. But she was about 50. Her hair was dark, worn in a pageboy, and she wore large, black-rimmed glasses. As she sat in my seat she took out a book and began to read. I returned to my own book, though I was no longer in the mood for fiction. Oh, I thought, pretending to read, maybe she's wearing high heels. I'm happy to let a high-heeled woman sit, because I know how very uncomfortable it is to stand on the subway when your feet hurt. But Ms. Pushy-Pushy was wearing flat-heeled boots.
She got off after three more stations, and I spent those minutes imagining why she had felt so entitled to my seat. (At no point was I curious about why I felt so entitled to her seat. That must be a different story.) Perhaps she was ill with some degenerative disease and was unable to stand. Or she was recovering from knee surgery.
At any rate, she held at least half my attention until she left the seat (which I took immediately) and the train. In the meantime, while I was still standing, a small man had boarded and stood beside me. He was abnormally short, a hair over five feet tall, reaching not as high as my shoulder. We carry with us a template of "normal" in our mind's eyes, and the slightest deviation from that template triggers our attention. We don't stare or judge or necessarily reach a conclusion—but some little part of us notices. That's how it was this time. I noticed that he was extremely small. Otherwise he seemed perfectly normal (whatever that is), though I didn't turn to look or otherwise investigate. He wore a jacket and tie and a tiny topcoat.
When I took over the seat (my seat) vacated by Ms. Pushy-Pushy, he moved over to stand beside me, the way subway riders shift position when space opens up. He stood beside me as I had stood beside Ms. Pushy-Pushy—but closer. Much closer.
I have heard of men who take advantage of crowded conditions to cop a feel or otherwise get their jollies under the justification of involuntary proximity. It wasn't that crowded, I assure you, today. He stood nudging my shoulder, invading my space, and making me extremely aware of him (paying me back for having noticed his stature—or lack of it?). I tried to read but was too distracted. Finally, I made up my mind that if he hadn't moved away by the next stop, then I would stand up and go to the far end of the subway car, even if I had to stand up for the rest of the trip. I do think he was reading my mind, for before we reached the next stop he had moved down the car, behind me. I don't know whether he got off, found a seat of his own, or simply found a younger, prettier woman to squeeze against.
We reached Yonge Street Station, the chief transfer point for those going downtown, and the car emptied. As I lifted my glance, a large man lurched past me to the seat across the aisle (we were both facing the front of the car, not each other). His face as he passed me was as grey as a dirty sheet. He looked like a very ill man. I wondered what ailment he had and whether it was as serious as it looked. And then, before I even finished that thought, a man in a red jacket came up to him and began to talk. Seats were available, either beside or at right angles to the Grey-Faced Man, but Red Jacket didn't sit. He stood in the aisle beside me for the next five stops, chatting loudly with his friend the Grey Man. I never did get back to my book.
A subway ride may not be stranger than fiction, but it is at least as interesting.
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