The F Train

by Siobhan M. White

I’m talking to you, Miss My-Fat-Ass-Takes-up-Two-Seats-Plus: If you can’t fit in one seat – and you’re only allowed one seat – STAND UP – you’ll burn more calories standing, anyway. And I’m talking to you, Mr. Lean-My-Entire-Body-on-the-Pole: Yes, that is my hand that you are squishing under the weight of your shoulder, and don’t give me a dirty look when I try to pull it free, as I need my hand, you know. And you, Mr. I-Think-I-Have-the-Balancing-Skills-of-a-Tightrope-Walker: You don’t, and you’ve stepped on my foot thrice already as you’ve bounced around, holding your briefcase in one hand and your unfolded, flapping New York Times in the other, wiping newsprint all over the sleeve of my white blouse. And you, Mrs. Bulldog, charging your way onto the train without allowing others to get off to make room for you – you’re just plain rude and impatient. And you, Miss I-Gots-No-Time-to-Groom-Myself-at-Home: There’s a reason it’s called “personal hygiene” – it’s gross to comb your wet hair as the droplets splash those around you and to pick at your zits absentmindedly before you decide to slather them with cover-up. And, finally, you, Mrs. I-Am-Holding-a-Very-Hot-and-Very-Full-Cup-of-Coffee-on-the-Crowded-Train: You could spill it on people, staining their clothes or burning them; it’s against the law, for Christ’s sake (why are there never any cops around to give you a $25 ticket?); and coffee makes your morning-breath stink even more than it already does.


Siobhan M. White rides the F train every morning and every evening, and has done so for 12 years. She is not an angry person. Really.