The “Man” Sprinting From the 6 to the 4 At Grand Central This Morning.
The 4 express had been at the platform for a moment, its doors open.
The 6 pulled up at 9:33 this morning. You–very white male, 40, wearing suit, glasses and cream-colored scarf–burst out of the door like shaken champagne. You’d lowered yourself into a squat and sprung when the doors opened, calling on your milquetoast frame to run for the first time since Mother’s ill-fated suggestion regarding the cross-country team freshman year in high school.
You simply had to be on that express train. You slammed into a very large man–6′ 3″, 230, and black, for what it’s worth–who was walking along the platform. You muttered some lame acknowledgement of your transgression. The large man looked back and shook his head.
You indeed gained entry to your beloved express train.
But then a funny thing happened. The train sat. And sat. And sat, doors open–rendering your extreme urgency completely unnecessary. You pretended to read a magazine as you stood there, clutching the pole. You knew everyone on both the 6 and the 4 was looking at you and laughing, thinking, what a dork. That lame-ass busted his skinny white posterior to make a train that continued to sit there.
You, sir, claim the Tool of the Day prize.
Disapprovingly,
Trainjotting.