We all make mistakes. Heck, just last Tuesday, I typed a semi-colon when I meant to do the full colon.
So in that spirit let us collectively choose not to rehash the humiliating case of one Edwin Gallart, a Bronx man who exactly five years ago got his arm stuck in a Metro-North toilet while attempting to retrieve his cellphone.
Surely you remember that sad tale, which was repeated in media outlets from Norway to the North Pole. Hopefully, after the media crush that surrounded Edwin Gallart subsided, the world forgot Edwin Gallart’s name, returning him to his rightful place among the millions of anonymous souls, known only to family, co-workers and friends, going about their business each day.
I think we all had the same reaction when we read of Edwin Gallart’s ignominious plight, right down to the cops and firemen blowtorching the stainless steel commode off of Edwin Gallart’s arm, as 600 displaced passengers impatiently waited for another train. We thought, that could be me. Maybe in a fit of confusion, of madness even, perhaps fueled by just having spent a day’s wages on a handsome new mobile, we too would jam our arms down that hellacious chute (“stainless”? hardly!), hoping our fingers find the phone instead of, well, you know.
So please, dear readers, let us not dwell on the actions of that man Edwin Gallart, now 43, whereabouts unknown. Let his name and fateful deed that late October day in 2003 be forever stricken from our memory cells. Let us let Edwin Gallart live in peace.
With any luck Edwin Gallart qualified for the Witness Protection Program and scored a sweet tract mansion outside Phoenix.