The Early Program Coordinator Catches the Elbow to the Ribs

There are two breeds of morning commuters in New York City: the early-birdies and the later-losers.  I'm not talking about the commuters chosen at birth - the type-A personalities down on Wallstreet who get to work around 5:30 in the morning - I'm talking about the 9:00 a.m. crowd and the 9:30 a.m. crowd.  A few years or decades ago, New York decided that some offices would open at 9:00 a.m. and others would open at 9:30 to ease the transit congestion.  Generally, the 9ers go home at 5 and the 9:30 peeps bounce at 5:30.

Although genetics doesn't guide the 9/9:30 distinction, something else certainly does although I'm not sure what it is.  When I come in to work at 9:30 (yup, I'm a later-loser), the people on the subway next to me are relaxed even when we're packed in so tight that someone else is holding the newspaper I'm reading.  We roll towards Manhattan, reading books, sipping a latte and listening to Coheed & Cambria.  Yes, all of us on the subway listen to Coheed, didn't you know that?  But on a morning like today, when I come in to work early... holy shit.

It's as if someone put just a pinch, a smidge, a dash of crack cocaine in everyone's coffee.  And it's not what you're picturing - no no, it's not a twenty-something throwing elbows and cross checking people in his way.  No, it's a seventy-year-old woman with an umbrella, a granny cart and a serious case of gout ready to throw down and whip the ass of anyone and everyone for the hell of it.  When we lined up to get out of the train, I swear I caught the glint of brass knuckles or a rusty chain on the other side of the door.  Picture the Giants and the Patriots facing off at the line of scrimmage: steam jetting out of our noses, sweat dripping off our chin, ready to pull the head off the animals on the other side.

Sitting here at my desk, safely typing away, I thank God for delivering me safely.  My bruises will heal, cuts will dry up and I'll never come in to work early ever again.