Toast

There are just some professions you don't want to know about.  Sure astronauts, archaeologists, ninja war lord - these jobs sound bad ass and worthy of further investigation but does anyone really want to know the day-to-day details of the guy who cleans the porta-potties after Bonnaroo or the health inspector at your favorite restaurant.

Add to this list, a supervisor at the MTA.

The subway and I have moved past the honeymoon phase of our relationship, where it was all niceness and courtesy.  Now we are like an old married couple and that bastard just refuses to put the seat down.  It seems that the subway could really give a shit if I have plans on the weekend.  His willingness to provide service is optional - such a man.

Still I feel I have to rejoice in the happy moments of our relationship, like squeezing through the doors of the train as it was just about to pull from the station on my way home from 3rd Ward.  I was about to o.d. on hipsters and skinny jeans and was for once thankful to return to the land of breeders.

I must say, my Indiana Jones-like entrance was a sight to behold - at least according to the business-casual 50-something sitting across from me.  We started chatting, which reminded me, as it does every time I initiate conversation with random strangers, that I am truly my father's daughter.

"Whoo! I made it. I have been seconds late for every flippin' train this week."

"Ahh, well another one would have been here in ten minutes or so," said business-casual.

"Not on this line.  It sucks. I spent 30 minutes waiting for it yesterday."

Man raises eyebrow. I am oblivious.

Chit-chat ensues, mainly about how awesome I ridiculously think I am and the adjustment to stroller central - "And I thought the Midwest was bad!"

"So what do you do?"  I finally asked when I got tired of hearing myself speak.

"I work for the MTA." Oh. Gulp. Well, aren't I just a red-faced asshole. "I do quality control, visit each station and make sure things are operating as they should."

"Well then,"  stupid, stupid cocky Lyndsey reared her ugly head, "Can you tell me what happened this weekend?"  I went on to recount the whole long story - train to bus to train that broke down and made passengers take another train back up town to catch another train that was evacuated for unexplained police reasons, to go back uptown to catch two more trains and eventually get home 2 1/2 hours later.

"Hmm, I am not sure about the police incident," he said, "Maybe someone fell on the tracks."

I shouldn't have taken the bait, I really shouldn't have, but MTA guy opened the door and so I asked and he answered way too many questions about such incidents, including what code the police and conductors will say over the intercom if someone has been flattened.

"Yeah that move you made getting on here was pretty stupid. One misstep and you could have been toast. Next time, young lady, leave earlier or wait for the next train.  It's really not worth it if you end up dead."

And with that MTA guy got off, never to be seen or heard from again.  And I have been scared shitless ever since.

This is what I get for insulting his job.