Misery On a Train

Well, I arrived at the Toronto Via Rail station tonight on my way to Ottawa for the holidays. The train was very full, so I got on and off two cars before finding an empty seat. The only problem was, it wasn't quite empty. It was occupied with bags and a coat.

On my honour, the account that follows is, I believe, as objective as I can possibly be. The dialogue is my verbatim account, not exaggerated one iota for effect. I have tried to avoid any biases that would skew the meaning. Capital letters represent louder than normal conversation - slightly beneath pre-shouting levels.

“Is this seat taken?” I said politely.

“I've got no space for you.” was the dry reply.

Uh oh. Holiday Cheer alert. This felt like the beginning of Seinfeld episode, in which my reaction depended heavily on my interpretation of which word was accented in her response. I proceeded, somewhat blindly, but politely:

“Unfortunately, there are no empty seats on the train. It’s sold out.”

“Did you try the other cars?” she responded.

“Yes I did - two others. They had no seats, unfortunately.”

I knew that I might soon be on the receiving end of a quiet sigh or furtive eye-roll, likely followed by reluctant capitulation. She did begin to move her things, muttered something incomprehensible under her breath for a few seconds, but then, she emerged in a strident tour de force, with a loud and clear:

“I RESENT THIS! I don’t know why I have to be crowded in my seat just to accommodate your needs.”

[my eyebrows involuntarily raised].

And the more unexpected follow-up:

“Since you’re being such a PRICK, I suppose *I* will just get up and STAND, which is what I would be doing if I were you.”

An odd feeling took hold of me at this moment - one that only that comes with the confidence of deeply knowing you are correct, as opposed to the anger that accompanies having to prove it. I rarely feel this - situations in life are almost never black and white. As a result, there are far too many soul-sucking opportunities and invitations to a vigorous defense of one’s own position, to - you know - avoid the annihilation of your very persona by your adversary. But this… no… this didn't qualify. This was what Obama, reacting to ludicrous criticism lobbed in his general direction during the historic 2008 presidential campaign, aptly called “silly season.”

There was also another fellow (I’ll call him “Bob”) standing behind me, also looking for a seat. I turned to him and said:

“I’m being a prick.”

We exchanged a chuckle. I then stood silently while she moved her things, a bit crestfallen that I’d have to be seat mates with misery incarnate for the next couple of hours. A small retort emerged from my mouth at the prospect of this:

“You want me to stand until we get to Ottawa?”

“I’m GETTING OFF at Cobourg!! I won’t be here for the whole trip. You should just stand.”

Via Rail route map, courtesy of viarail.ca

Now I don’t know exactly where Cobourg is, but it sure ain't in the first few stations, not that that really matters. It’s somewhere in the middle there, buried deep within that bored, slurred French-Canadian VIA-P.A. Quebec-Windsor-corridor city drone:

“GuildwoodOshawaCraptownBrockvilleDeadendCobourgDontWannaGoThereNapaneeAvrilLavigne KingstonBellvilleFallowfieldEtceteratopolis…Ottawa”

Quick mental approximations put Cobourg conservatively about 1.5 hrs away. And I know Ottawa is 4.5 hrs away.

Panama Canal Excavation

I didn't respond to her assertion, but she continued to fret and futz about, as if the displacement of a coat and bags were infinitely more difficult than the laborious excavation of miles and miles of leaden, rocky divestiture that would ultimately reveal the Panama Canal.

“Shall I put that in the overhead cabin for you?” I said, somewhat bemused at this point.

“NOPE! NO NO no… I’ll just MOVE IT OVER HERE in front of me and crowd myself!” she replied.

I ignored this as well and started doing stretches in the aisle. Look, I’m a busy man… sometimes you just take the opportunities you can get. Since she’d eventually finish moving her things, I had no interest in escalating the situation. Plus I've heard that a well-executed breathe-and-stretch can promote circulation, flexibility, and a general sense of well-being.

In the end, she didn't stand as she had so threatened, albeit somewhat puzzlingly.

The seat now vacated of its ghostly inhabitant (the coat did look like a very flat person strewn over the entire chair back and bent into the cushion), I finally sat down. She was somewhat discombobulated and managed to drop her phone at my feet at the tail end of her fidget-fest.

Being a bit… round, there was no way she was going to be able bend over in her window seat to retrieve it. So I did, and handed it to her.

“Thank you” she said in a low voice.

And then, my friends, an interesting thing happened. After a few minutes passed, she turned to me and said, in a semi-stern, semi-admonishing, low-toned half-rebuke:

“I shouldn't have used the word ‘prick’. Entitled. That’s what I should have said. I have a problem with people always feeling like they’re entitled.”

Now, good people: obviously I don’t feel I should have to defend my entitlement to sit in a passenger-less seat after having bought my ticket (which could literally be thought of as one’s “receipt” or more poetically, “badge” of entitlement). And I believe I’ll always inwardly maintain that within our sphere of experience, a human being is usually at least marginally more entitled than a coat and bags. Maybe you could make a case against this at the” Gucci Coat-Fest Millennium Extravaganza” or the” Sesquicentennial Prada Bag Love and Appreciation Gala” but even then…

But that aside, I have to tell you that I was floored. I hadn't organized a figurative million-man protest march over her behaviour, nor had I suffered the ravages of a figurative hunger strike to lend weight to my point. I had neither quipped cleverly nor parried deftly and stuck the knife in… I had somewhat absent-mindedly done a few stretches, picked up a cellphone, and remained relatively silent. And this was enough to encourage my bile-soaked, portly prognosticator to back up ever so slightly (and more importantly all on her own) from “prick” to “entitled.” I do think that Ghandi and Dr. King would have been proud of their legacy and its incarnation in this minor moment.

The most anticlimactic moment of all was when she left the train. She only barely managed to squeak out an “excuse me” to ask me to vacate the aisle seat to let her out. She exited the train without further comment.

About a half hour later, “Bob” was returning from the W.C. and walked past me and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Hey prick - how are you doin’ ?!”

Laughter, and this rant, ensued.