By: Gabriela Yareliz
Some days on the train, we fight for our lives. Other days, we fight for our pride.
There was a man who was leaning his whole body against a pole I needed to hold onto. Butt, torso, shoulders and head. I have never seen a body contort more to make so much contact with a pole. Pure stupidity. I need to hold onto this pole on the packed train because I am short, and there is absolutely nothing else I can reach that will prevent me from falling.
Defiantly, I slide my hand to the most reasonable height on the pole given my backpack and umbrella hanging off of my arm. I grip the pole like my life depends on it (my balance does). Listen, my core is strong, but I am not risking the integrity of my limbs to train surf. The man doesn’t look at me, but he presses into the pole harder. Are you kidding me? I wonder. I grip the pole harder and stiffen my hand. He backs off a bit. At the next stop, he tries again. It’s like he wants me to let go and give up.
Joke is on him because I don’t give up, and now, I am pissed off. I am dying holding onto this damn pole. The pole will be cut and placed in my casket when I pass. I stiffen my hand again and refuse to move it. There is nowhere to move it unless I want his butt pressed against my hand. And newsflash, I don’t want to touch this man at all.
The pole drama continues until we reach a major connecting station. Some of the train gets off. He quickly snags a vacant seat because every woman on the train be damned. I grip the pole.
He gives me a dirty look. I give him a smirk. I put on hand sanitizer dramatically to get his sweat and stupidity off of the back of my hand. My station arrives, and I walk off, shoulders back, victorious.
The world is filled with jokes disguised as people. This one was pretending to be a man.
GABRIELA YARELIZ 