…assholes on a train….
I was in the post office on my lunch break to send out some books. While standing in line because there was only one person working the counter, I overheard two men in business suits behind me griping about their morning BART commute.
These two men were late twenties, possibly early thirties, well dressed and well groomed. They looked like nice young men.
The taller of the two was complaining because he was made to feel guilty by other people on the car and relinquish his seat (the ones supposed to be reserved for handicapped and pregnant women) when three women got on. In his own words, the train was packed. He’d gotten on the train in Fremont, so he was lucky, he had his pick of seats. “I always sit by the door so I can get out before all the slow idiots can get in the way,” he said.
He went on to tell his buddy that these three fat chicks on crutches get on and all of a sudden everyone is telling him to get up and let them sit down. He wasn’t going to, he said, but people were getting angry. So, gave up the seat and went to stand by the door.
“They should have a rule like the do with bikes,” the buddy said. “You know, you can’t get on a crowded car if you have like a wheelchair or too much luggage or crutches and canes and shit.”
Now, by this point, I was a little perturbed. As a fat chick who is sometimes in need of a cane, and who can stand on the train, but it will mean back pain for days, and someone who has asked an able bodied young man to give up his seat for me, I was exactly the person they were talking about.
I probably would have let it go and not said anything, but then the tall one said, “I know. This one got off at my stop and couldn’t even walk right. Bitch blocked the whole escalator. Screamed like a crazy person when her crutches got hit by some hot chick’s suitcase.” And they both laughed.
By this point other people in line were acting uncomfortable. I knew I shouldn’t even open my mouth, but I was furious. I turned and very quietly said, “I hope that you never find yourself permanently injured and at the mercy of someone like you for the very small kindness of a seat on a train. I am willing to bet any one of those women on crutches would gladly give up their injury and stand so that your able, strong body could continue to exhibit the laziness of someone who has never had to really work. And while I’m at it, I hope that sugar-laden coffee and fat-soaked donut in your hand don’t settle around your waist to be joined by all the rest of bad food choices you’ve made in your life turning you into a fat asshole that young lazy assholes like you make fun of because of their own insecurity.”
They both stared at me for a second. The tall one called me fat bitch. I smiled. “Yes, I am fat and I can be a bitch. But I’m okay with that, and I don’t need or want your opinion of how I look.”
At which point, it was my turn to go to the counter and mail my packages. I doubt they’ll learn anything by my diatribe. But maybe….just maybe….