Straphanger Joe Says Say It, Don’t Spray It

It’s five o’clock on the F. I just got on at the 23rd Street station heading north and into Queens.  

I can’t believe it. I walk onto the train and we’re sitting one person per bench with a number of orange and tan benches empty. I take my usual seat at the top of the L and behind me and to my left sits a man in a black Obama-Biden t-shirt, the lettering in bright yellow, his union symbol on the back.

 

He’s in his early 30s, short hair, white skin with a reddish hue. He pops open a bottle of seltzer.

 

I hadn’t noticed him more than peripherally as the Peases’ book is open in my lap and I’ve only 30 pages to go before I know enough to conquer the universe through the understanding of body language.

 

We’ve all got enough space, many with their bags next to them in the seat, staking out their territory, and almost everyone is sitting in some form of the “crotch protect” position–hands folded in lap–men and women alike.

 

I hear a woman’s voice from behind me, two benches away say, “Watch it with that!” to the man with the Obama-Biden t-shirt.

 

“What?” he says with a thick Queens accent.

 

“Watch it with that so you don’t spray it.”

 

“I’m not going to spray it,” he says, amused, it seems, at the attention.

 

I turn around to get a glance at the woman. She’s wearing jeans and a bright rose-colored windbreaker, curly hair, white and in her forties. She’s sitting in the crotch protect with her small black pocket book on her lap.

 

“Just watch it cause you might spray it, and I don’t want to get wet.”

 

Obama-Biden looks around to see if he can find any allies. I look down at my book.

 

“What are you talking about?” He parts his hands, palms open to the sides in an offering of peace. He smiles and laughs a little.

 

“Just watch it,” she says.

 

“I’m not going to spray it.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Because I open eight of these a day. I open it to the side first–over here. I let out the air like this,” he demonstrates as he speaks, “and there’s no problem. Like I said.”

 

“Just be careful with it.”

 

“I am.”

 

I go back to my book. We pass through Manhattan and into Queens. Obama-Biden takes out a book and starts to read. I don’t know what the woman is doing.

 

Somewhere around Queens Boulevard, Obama-Biden starts to whistle. It’s Whistle While You Work. It annoys me, but I try to press on. Twenty pages to go.

 

Somewhere near Northern Boulevard the woman behind me says, “Oh, would you stop with the whistling!”

 

“What?”

 

“Would you stop with the whistling? It’s annoying.”

 

Obama-Biden puts his book down and shakes his head. “What the fuck? Why don’t you mind your own business? You’ve been on my case since I got on this train. I can fucking whistle if I want to.”

 

“Just stop with the whistling, you idiot.”

 

He gets up and walks past me, looking back at the woman. “You’re a crazy fuck, you know that?”

 

“You’re a jerk,” she yells. “An asshole. A stupid idiot. A stupid dork. A stupid bitch.”

 

Obama-Biden sits down in the next section and looks around at the few people sitting near him. He spreads his hands palm up as if asking, Can you believe this woman?

 

We get to Roosevelt and he walks up to the door nearest me. He looks over at the woman as the door opens. “Parting will be such sweet sorrow,” he says with a laugh. And walks out the door.

 

I’m right behind him. He turns and looks in the window opposite her. “Fuck you, you crazy bitch,” he shouts. Then he gives her the finger, smiles at me and disappears into the crowd that’s heading up the stairs.

Yes, sir. Just another day on the F train.