Picture this: here I am standing on the Metro minding my own business, reading my book. I am tucked into a corner and am not blocking any doors or any walkways. I am, however, holding onto to one of the poles because the driver of the yellow line seems to be doing his best to ensure we never reach the end of line intact.
The doors open at the Pentagon City stop and three teenagers (two guys and a girl) get on the train. This, in itself, is not bad. I was a teenager once. Emotionally, I probably still am. So whatever. Despite the fact that the girl is clutching some new fangled video game called “Hitman” like someone will try to rip it of her arms, I do my best to ignore them. Until one of the teenagers (the shorter guy) commits my biggest Metro pet peeve: leaning against the pole I am holding onto and squashing my hand against him.
I think this is really gross. I don’t like some stranger pressing their sweaty selves against my hand when I am simply trying to hold the pole. Not only is it gross, it’s rude because it ensures nobody else can use that pole because apparently you need the ENTIRE THING to hold up the weight of your body.
So the guy is leaning against the pole and my hand is trapped against his upper arm. I try to wiggle my fingers around (under the guise of getting a better grip) so he will get a clue that he has taken my hand hostage. No luck. So I do it again, with a little more vigorous wiggling. Nothing. Finally, I jerk my hand loose which causes him to dislodge from the pole a bit. This is when he looks around and notices my hand had been squashed. I shoot him a dirty look and get nothing in return. No sheepish glance, no apology, nothing. Just a blank stare. Sigh.
But it could have been worse. Once when I was holding onto the pole, some skeevy guy came along, leaned up against the pole, and trapped my hand against the sweaty, nasty back of his neck! I think that was the low point in my metro adventures. That and the chicken-juvie hall girl (see my post of May 6, 2006 for details).