WAMPOHOLIC

            “Jeeeeesus,” I hummed through gritted teeth, already pocketed by the other patrons. Stairways should be wider than two abreast. To be trapped behind these meandering nobodies, swaying like they lift their legs using the opposite shoulder, feels like an attack on my own freedom; life, liberty, and pursuit of walking at a comfortable clip. One step. Two step.

            I had to run for the C train. We both arrived at my home stop at the same time, but it pulls down the platform because the train is too short to fill it all. Three step. Four step.

            It meant that I was not in optimal exit position when the train got to Spring, and could only outpace about half of the passengers on their way to my surface stairs. Five step. Six step.

            Out from the subway overhang, the rain tapped on my face to remind me that I had no room to open my umbrella. I could be opening it into one of these suckers, and as thrilling a moment that’d be, some red-nosed depressed dad taking out his extra coffee energy on a shouting match with me would only break pace.

            I was just a couple blocks away thanks to long strides through the rain and down the near-greasy sidewalk, but I had ended up behind a grandma who had seemingly lost all will to live. Why even walk at all at this point? I hadn’t noticed how quickly I was gaining on her, but that’s to be expected when she’s doing the mummy shamble, and now there were two even streams of clueless dipwads in the oncoming direction, cutting around the crone and giving me no room to even dart off the sidewalk. Each time I tried, I got caught up in an oncomer’s eye contact, and my leg moved outwards for escape but my foot twisted inward at the last second to stop myself from possibly bumping him. A collision would leave me looking no better than the crone.

            “C’mon c’mon c’mon…” I might as well have tapped it out in Morse Code with my teeth.

            I practically vaulted off the sidewalk. If she’s going to “fucking comandeer the sidewalk, then,” (said to myself as I vaulted) then I’ll take my efforts to the other side. Smooth sailing.

            As I stepped into Roots Cafe, shaking off my umbrella, my rustling seemed louder than the entire body of patrons. Typing away, fingers flying, safe in their etiquette-constructed cubicles, and I whipped off my hoodie, aware of the sweat on my forehead and pinpricking on the front of my thighs. Wet from rain, wet from effort, disgusting. Once my breathing slowed, I whipped out my cellphone from my front jeans pocket. 11:55 AM.

            I would have preferred to be two minutes later, but maybe I could delay my coffee order until Sal arrived.