Baby, You Are Sexy

I wound up taking a late-morning train due to a doctor’s appointment, so when I got on, there were plenty of open seats.  I sat down near the door.  Across the aisle, a woman had parked her massive stroller in the wheelchair accessible area and was standing above her son who looked to be about 2 years old.  Sitting right in front of the stroller was a very thin woman with long pink braids and tattooed arms.  The woman leaned forward and started playing with the boy, complimenting the mother on how well-behaved and happy her child was.  It was clear that the two women did not know each other.

The tattooed woman said that her stop was approaching.  She leaned her head a bit more into the stroller and said, “You are one sexy baby.”  I looked up from my book thinking that maybe she was now talking on her cell phone, or perhaps to a friend or boyfriend who had stepped unnoticed onto the train.  Nope.  She was talking to the toddler in the stroller.  She repeated, now addressing the mother, “Seriously, your baby is sexy.  Just sexy.” The mother didn’t say a word—she just looked at the woman and then at me.

“You stay sexy, baby.”  And she got off the train.

The Red Pee

Yesterday evening I ascended the stairs toward my train platform. Quite humid with cloudy skies, but in general I was very happy to be getting some fresh air and a bit of sunshine.

As I reached the top, I looked down and noticed a man—red hair, bright red jacket, slightly burly, a bit disheveled, probably mid-30s—standing on the ground in between the platform and the tracks.  Unusual for someone to be standing where you might actually get hit by a train if it were to arrive.  After a few seconds, my eyes focused, and I realized what he was doing. He had his dong (yes I said “dong” –I find it far more hilarious and far less offensive that other phallic nomenclatures) out in plain sight and was peeing on the side of the platform.  He stared at me, and I stared back at him.  Excuse the quip, but it was like staring at a train wreck—no one else was around, and I couldn’t look away. 

He made no facial expression nor movement to cover himself—or to finish up for that matter.  As my train approached, the conductor began blowing the horn.  I found this unusual, as they very rarely blow the horn on my route. I realized that she was actually blowing the horn at the man, trying to startle him and get him to zip his pants.  She stopped the train at my platform and stared out her window at the man, continuing to blow the train’s horn.  The man—mid-stream—shuffled around the other side of the platform, partially out-of-sight; well, except for his bright red jacket.

While disgusted and disturbed, I couldn’t help but also be impressed as his time spent urinating was reminiscent of Jimmy Dugan in A League of Their Own.

The Dwarf Train (not to be confused with the Short Bus)

Glancing around the train this morning, I couldn’t help but think of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I could easily fit every commuter into one of the seven categories.

Sleepy: The tired head-bobber. These commuters miss their stop at least once a month and arrive to work late with wrinkled clothes and drool-stained collars. I know because I work with several of them. (For the record, I have never fallen asleep on the train.)

Happy: The perky, needs no caffeine and always wakes up on the right side of the bed commuter. They never have a case of “the Mondays” and are the people I want to punch on a regular basis.

Dopey: The dwarf to collectively describe every high school student on the train. I’m sure my teenage conversations were equally brutal to anyone who had the misfortune of overhearing… and for that, I am retroactively sorry.

Grumpy: All of the not-yet-caffeinated commuters. (myself included)

Bashful: The tentative lurkers who are afraid to sit next to anyone and spend at least three stops wandering up and down the aisles until an empty row becomes available. To them, I say: grow a pair or buy a car.

Doc: You can spot them from a mile away in their scrubs and white coats. I never mind if one of them ends up next to me… perhaps I will get smarter and/or healthier via osmosis.

Sneezy: With my itchy eyes and sniffles, this is definitely me during allergy season. It is my sincere hope that my incessant A-CHOOs will prevent any of the first five dwarfs from wanting to sit next to me… but if there is a Doc anywhere within arm’s reach, beware. I will totally steal your Zyrtec.

Submitted by guest blogger Mia Angiolillo

Skirting the Issue

Leave it to the rain to bring all the wack-a-doodles out of the woodwork on SEPTA.  Until today, my daily commute has been surprisingly uneventful, which, if you’re a regular on the R5, is the most you could hope for.

After getting settled on the outside seat of my two-person row (yes, I am that anti-social commuter who will make it as difficult as possible for you to sit next to me), I looked up and gawked. All of my mother’s years of “it’s not polite to stare” went out the window. I looked. I looked away. I looked again.

There, seated across from me was a disheveled man in a baggy tank top and a loose-fitting hemp skirt. SKIRT! On a Wednesday morning at 7:30, no less.

At first, I thought he was on an incredibly unfortunate “train of shame” ride home from a Flintstones themed party and his foot-powered car got towed by the Philadelphia Parking Authority. But as I looked (gawked) further, it appeared that, perhaps, this was how he dressed all the time.

From his scruffy beard to his shoes that looked like leather pouches loosely fitted around his feet to his four large bags made from coarse woven fabric, I wondered WHO this skirted nomad was and how he ended up Paoli/Thorndale bound.

The bearded lady who escaped from the circus?

An overgrown dyslexic man-child who confused SEPTA with SHERPA?

Bin Laden’s now unemployed pasty stunt double? I don’t think we’re in Abbottabad anymore, Toto.

Regardless, I hope he is headed to a better place than wherever it was he came from. He sure looked like he could use a good night’s sleep, a pair of trousers and a hearty meal… I wonder if he likes skirt steak.

Submitted by guest blogger Mia Angiolillo

The Man Who Wanted to Sit Down

On the ride home last night, a couple got on the train at about 52^nd street.  A tall string-bean of a man was pushing a woman in the largest wheelchair I’ve ever seen.  They were both wearing Phillies t-shirts, clearly on their way to the ballgame.

There was a women dressed in scrubs sitting in one of the seats that face each other and can be folded up to fit a wheelchair. The man asked, “Would you mind if I take this seat?”

The woman gladly got up and stepped over by the door.  The man then sat down in her seat.

She looked down, bewildered.  I could tell that she was contemplating whether or not she should inquire.

“Excuse me, but I think I’m confused,” she said. “I thought that you were asking me to get up so that you could fit the wheelchair into the space.”

He replied, “How would the wheelchair even fit in this space?”

“Here, get up and I’ll show you.” He rose and she folded up all three seats.  He said, “Oh, I had no idea.”

She said, “I thought that’s why you asked me for my seat.”

“No, I just wanted to sit down.”