We Could Be Heroes

Today, after eating three and half of the Mrs. Fields Search for the 30th Anniversary Cookie Contest's winning treat (I know you're dying to know which cookie won - but I'm sorry, I'm sworn to secrecy) and chugging 8 ounces of water, I left work. I walked to the N train on Broadway with my coworker Cheryl and complained to her about feeling like I was about to explode. Then I saw this dress in the window of Miu Miu and mysteriously felt better. That is, until I swiped my Metrocard and noticed a giant scab on the back of the old man's head in front of me. I gagged and jogged far, far, far down the platform. Away from the scab.

If you've talked to me lately you know my commutes have been horrid - I left my old school iPod in Minnesota and have been forced to listen to the awkward subway conversations, loud gum chewing and have become very aware of all the people with staring problems. Anyways, my train comes, I hop on, and I stand against the doors.

Then, amongst the noise, I hear a lot of heavy breathing and some phlegm snorting all coming from one source. I look down to my right and see the Scab Man. He's snorting and moving back and forth and I'm staring, wondering how he made it onto my train car. I'm perplexed. Suddenly, a tube the size of my Dad's funny looking thumb that's supposed to be taped and secured tightly into the man's throat pops out and falls lightly onto his beer belly. The snorting gets louder. I panic and gag and panic and reach my hand down because I'm not sure what's happening and nobody else sees what's happening and I'm freaking out.

Scab Man doesn't notice my helping hand and instead picks up his tube and starts jabbing it into his neck while moving back and forth and snorting louder. I literally hold back barf as I witness this scene, and even more so when I realize nobody else does. Can this man breath? Is he going to die on this train - right now? I reach down again and get in his face just as the tube successfully makes it back into its proper place and I catch a glimpse of pussy ooze and get a whiff of a sour smell. Scab Man doesn't acknowledge me - and I stand up fighting back tears and cookie barf.

I didn't save Scab Man's life. Clearly, he saved his own. But I was there, even if nobody noticed. And if he hadn't gotten lucky with that third jab, I might have been a NYC subway hero because I was the only friendless commuter with the pod-free ears. Nobody else would have heard those snorts for help.