The other morning, my usually sparsely filled G train was rather crowded. Hating the newcomer feeling, even as it applies to riding the M.T.A., I cast my eyes down and focused on the task at hand — THE SEAT.
YES! But was it acceptable? My brain shot back the safety reading: Seat; no unidentified liquid or goo; nearest passenger on two-seater by window: balding man, casual business. GO!
I sat down and stuck my head into a book, still somewhat uneasy. As a small woman, I feel lucky to squeeze into any seat, yet am overly sensitive, always feeling a need to protect my space. A common thought emerged, “Can’t this man tuck his legs in a bit?”
In a few stops, seats opened up and I scooted across the way. More relaxed, I brought my head up to view the scene. I glanced toward the man I had been sitting beside, who was still thumbing through his smartphone. I couldn’t believe it! I had been sitting next to someone from my hometown, a guy who had also made the move from the little town of Manville, N.J., to New York City. I was just as stunned that he hadn’t recognized me!
I walked over, sat down and gave him a nudge. He was my brother.
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