Frustration Underground: Newspaper Rage

The subway has sucked of late. Now that I am a full-time 2x a day subway rider, I can say this with confidence. The uptown 4,5,6 have been running slowly and the commuters seem ruder than ever. Yesterday and today, I experienced what I can only describe as "newspaper rage."

Yesterday:

The train may have been less than full approaching 14th Street, but once those of us on the platform got on, lady, there's no room for your full-sized New York Times to be spread out in front of your face like the end seat near the door here is your freaking living room. Oh, you're annoyed with how closely I'm standing next to you so that you can't give your arms that full extension? You're so frustrated that you keep flapping your paper out to show your annoyance with everyone? Even though the train is so crammed I don't even need to hold onto anything? That just makes me stand closer to you and shove my bag in your grill. "You're a piece of work," I say to her. DON'T GIVE ME STINK EYES, LADY! When we get off at this last stop together I will let you off first and then I will step on the back of your shoe.

And I did.

Today:

Remarkably, I get a seat. It could be the early hour (7:00 am) or the fact that I'm not sure if this train is fully air conditioned. Others crowd in. I sit next to a dude on the end of a bench by the door who is reading a newspaper. A fat guy stands in front of him, holding the bar and a newspaper of his own, which is miserably drooping over the seated guy's head like an umbrella. "SMACK!" I hear. I look to my right and Seated Dude is smacking Standing Dude's newspaper with his own. Standing Dude barely flinches, moves the paper up for a moment and then inevitably it flops down on Seated Dude's head again. FWAP! FWAP! FWAP! No words are spoken. Then seated dude gets up to get off at the next stop. Standing dude sits down next to me with his eyes never leaving his newspaper. I glance to my right to see what kind of fellow lets his newspaper smack into someone's head repeatedly. I notice an enormous bulbous growth on his earlobe the size of a pickled tomato which looks like a skin tag on steroids and I hear myself say aloud, "Good God..." as I avert my eyes quickly, trying not to barf. One more stop and I can get off this train, I say to myself, and as I say that I notice Formerly Standing Dude's right pointer finger enter his nose for a big dig. THAT'S IT! I bolt upright and push as close as I can to the door.