A public service announcement to L train riders

One of these mornings somebody’s going to get hurt on the L train. And it’s not going to be me.

Some nineteen-year-old boy’s going to “accidentally” brush his elbow against my breast for the 20th time and I’ll kick him smack in the groin so hard he’ll still be picking pieces of his privates out of his teeth after the restorative surgery.

I may be short, but I’m a high kicker. I flush public toilets with my foot, even in restrooms with those auto-flush buttons halfway up the wall. So you might want to brush those bangs out of your eyes, “new wave” Williamsburg gentlemen, and get your jollies some other way.

A further word of warning, L train riders: I am not a morning person. If you must lecture your friends as though through a megaphone about the post-Easter customs in Bulgaria, at least hold onto the goddamned pole instead of thrashing around and banging your gigantic ass against my hip while I’m trying to sip my coffee. Don’t look surprised that you can’t stand still as the train barrels through the tunnel below the East River. Your sassy, punk-grrl haircut and biker jacket aren’t fooling anyone. Trust me on this: you are not cosmopolitan when you try and fail to surf the trains on your first visit to a city where feminine hygiene products are sold in the drugstores.

Speaking of the poles, L train riders, do not embrace them with both arms and rest your cheek against them and refuse to let others hold on even after a crowd boards the train — especially when one member of the crowd is five feet tall and scowling at you in a way that suggests she might be mentally unbalanced. (This is the L train, after all. She very well may be.)

Listen, it’s not my problem if you want to expose yourself to diphtheria germs. And I don’t judge you because your “fur” coat looks like it’s made of filthy, spent bubble-wrap that once served as part of an alien costume on Dr. Who. I don’t care if you want to wear fourteen scarves and three skirts like Stevie Nicks in her heyday. Even your matted, oil-streaked coif will not give me pause. But if you don’t make room for me to hold on to the pole, don’t be surprised when I wrap my hand around your bloody neck and hold on that way.

Thank you for listening.


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