I’m still doing that thing where the subway pulls up and it’s jam packed except for the car that stops right in front of me, as happened with an uptown 1 train at the 59th Street station tonight, and my mind says, “Whee! Nearly empty car!” when it should be screaming, “Look out!”
Because when the car door opened and the giddy group of commuters pressed forward, we realized the car was desolate because of the large yellow puddle of puke on the floor, which someone had halfheartedly attempted to cover with a few McDonald’s napkins. The napkins had no effect; the puke resembled chunky polenta and judging by the smell, contained enough gastric acid to dissolve the napkins and possibly the floor’s wax.
The person at the fore of our group, an old, fat and slow-moving lady, stood teetering in the doorway, stymied as to whether she should enter or retreat and wait for the next train. Those of us stuck behind her were all like, “C’mon lady, make up your mind,” because we were cranky and wanted to get home. That’s the test of a true New Yorker—possibly a metaphor for living here in general: Are you on the puke train or are you off?