The guy in the white dress shirt and khakis, throwing his weight around at the 28th Street stop this morning.

The 6 train heading down from Grand Central was jammed. We spilled out at 28th, happy for the fresher air of the subway platform.

A large mass shuffled toward the two revolving doors heading out of the exit at 26th Street. (Two revolving doors servicing a busy subway station…Quaint, or entirely impractical?)

Protocol gets a bit dicey at this exit. People gradually form two loose lines for the two doors, but frequently, people sneak up the flank and cut the line. It’s not exactly like cutting the line at the bank or Duane Reade, since the lines are never proper single-file, people are moving all the while, and no one’s ever waiting too long.

Still, it’s a breach of commuter etiquette when you step in front of other people waiting to use the doors.

And that’s what happened today. A man of about 30–skinny, corn-row braids, tugging a large suitcase on wheels–snuck up on the right. You, Mr. White Dress Shirt and Tan Khakis–also about 30, in gelled blond hair–watched as this man cut in front of you, and the other 40 people waiting to leave.

You’re not a tall man, but you have square shoulders and a stocky build; you look like you played a little linebacker in high school, or was a hooker in the SUNY Oneonta scrum a decade before.

Your broad back was to me, but I could sense your body tense as the man cut the line. You were going to address it. I knew you were.

You did not disappoint.

As you stepped into the revolving door just behind Corn Rows, you gave the door a little extra shove. The door hit Corn Rows in the back, and caused him to stumble just a bit. We’re never one to advocate violence in the subways, but we feel you struck just the right balance–enough to let Corn Rows know he’d broken the rules, but not enough to hurt him, or even elicit a counterattack. It was as if Corn Rows had fallen offsides at a ruck on that Oneonta rugby pitch, and you politely but firmly suggested he get back onside with the sharpened studs of your size 10 Reeboks.

As we stepped up the stairs and out into the sunlight, you pulled a Marlboro from your pocket and sparked it up.

You’d earned it.

Respectfully,

Trainjotting