Ricochet is the best place on the internet to discuss the issues of the day, either through commenting on posts or writing your own for our active and dynamic community in a fully moderated environment. In addition, the Ricochet Audio Network offers over 50 original podcasts with new episodes released every day.
Okay, first of all, I didn’t “shove” you, I simply left the train and moved quickly toward the nearest exit – as if I’d just been ordered to evacuate the premises immediately – which is exactly how one is supposed to comport oneself in a crowded subway station at rush hour. You’re the one who chose to plant yourself squarely in between the subway car door and said exit, then tried to push inside like some clueless salmon against the stream of humanity trying to exit, which makes you, not I, the rude one here.
If I were anywhere near as “rude” as you said I was, I’d have stopped in my tracks to let you know exactly what I think of people like you but no, I simply suggested another place that I thought you should visit as I moved briskly by, because unlike you, I know better than to stand in the way of people who are trying to leave a train.
And just stop already with that wide-eyed, innocent, “welp, you cain’t expect li’l old me to know how these subway thangs work when we don’t have ‘em whur ah com from” routine. You know where else they don’t have subways? Tulsa, Oklahoma. And yet, somehow, despite having spent most of my life in that town before moving to the big city, I managed to figure out that the number one rule of elevator etiquette – “Let ‘em off first” also applies to subway cars.
No elevators in your sleepy little hamlet? Okay, how ‘bout boxes? Or tubs? Or drinking glasses? Surely, at some point over the course of your life, you have managed to become acquainted with the concept that it’s easier to fill something up after you’ve emptied it first!
As for your indignant accusation that New Yorkers are all “crazy people” who “fly off the handle at the tiniest things” (yeah, I heard that too), just how many “tiny things” do you think you could take in quick succession before that “aw shucks” persona of yours cracked? Let’s say you’re back home at the square dance (that’s right, I said square dance – ‘cause if you’re gonna pull that “Hayseed Hank” routine then I’m gonna run with it), and from (literally) square one, everyone around you is ignoring the caller and messing up the moves and getting in your way – starting left on the Do-Si-Do, Allemanding when they should Promenade – so no matter where you turn, you’re constantly tripping over and running into people through no fault of your own. Shore is frustratin’, ain’t it?
Now imagine you have to attend that same dance. Every. Single. Day.
So sure, I might have left work today with a smile on my face and a song in my heart but after the constant whiplash brought on by an endless parade of idiots stopping dead in the middle of a sea of fast-moving pedestrian traffic to take a selfie, check a map, or stare at their phones, and then my getting clotheslined by couples who want to join hands and spread themselves the full width of the sidewalk then slow to a crawl, and having to wait at the top of the subway steps for the group that’s using both sides of the stairs to haul up their massive suitcases so they can huddle together, regroup and count heads right in the entrance, then getting stymied on the stairs by the Parent of the Year who’s decided that a packed, wet staircase at rush hour in New York City is the perfect place and time to let Junior try and make it down the steps all . . . by . . . him . . . self . . . and then discovering at the bottom of the steps that yet another tour group from Mensa has spread out to occupy every single turnstile before it occurred to any of them to remove gloves and start searching bags and pockets for their MetroCards, I finally make it down to the platform just in time to see my train pulling away.
By the time the next one pulled in, a bevy of Belgian backpackers had joined me, not one of whom had the courtesy to remove their huge packs inside the car but all of whom then proceeded to carouse about the moving train with no regard whatsoever for the giant protrusions they were wearing, thus for my entire ride home it felt like I was being beaten up by a gang of oversized, amiably drunk turtles so when I finally reached my stop and you, Mr. Clueless Cowboy, tried to push right past me before I could exit, bellowing “is this the N train?”, no, that was no “tiny thing.” You were the living, breathing embodiment of the “last straw” and I should actually be congratulated, under the circumstances, for my admirable restraint.
You want people to stop being so “rude” to you in New York? Then learn some manners.
Also, pay attention. That was the “R” train, doofus. I hope you had a good time in Sunnyside.