Open Letter To The Guy Who Started Stomping On My Feet Yesterday On The Subway Since He Thought I Was Trying To Trip Him
You were the angry black guy with the fake Timberlands and a black baseball cap, the kind that doesn't affiliate you with one franchise but (in fact) all franchises, as if to say you simply love the game in general. You were that guy, and you were standing, and you were wearing a heavy winter coat and were probably hot; I was the guy whose feet you started stomping on when the A pulled into High, or around that point, under the supposition that I was trying to trip you, perhaps because it's like, Mets or Yankees, Phils or Pirates, pick a side already. I would like to clarify a few things for you:
1. I was sleeping--an important detail for two reasons. The first reason is, how could I be trying to trip you if I was sleeping?!?! What the fuck! The amount of deep subconscious hatred I would have had to harbor against you or your kind, and the amount of blind mind/body/feet/atomic coordination I would have needed to a) know you were in front of me and b) stick my feet out with minimal anachronism, are qualities well beyond me.
The second reason is, while I was sleeping I had an LL Bean bookbag with me, perched on my lap. Perhaps you remember this bag; you kind of like, leaned on it a little when you got up in my face and started yelling at my face, in a manner that made several people in our little area on the subway car repopulate other, less yell-y areas. Anyway look: It would have been impossible for me to stretch out my legs and trip you without losing control of the bag on my lap. It would have fallen to the side, or started sliding down my legs, or done something most likely pretty offensive to you. But the fact is that the bag was still on my lap when you started stomping on my feet, heel first, like my foot was a skateboard and you were trying to heelflip my ass. The bag hadn't moved, and my knees were still bent at around a 90-degree angle--which is to say my feet were well within the margin of acceptable non-tripping placement. You are giving me a lot of credit, way too much, if you think I went to this much covert trouble in an attempt to get one on you, e.g. only "pretending" to sleep.
2. For the sake of the other passengers, I said to you, "I am sorry." I am not sorry. I did absolutely nothing wrong. This is admittedly one of those Schroedinger's Cat-type thoughts I find myself having now and then, but: If I knew how much of an asshole you were, maybe, maybe I would have imagined myself tripping you. I would have thought to myself, "By some incredible power I have just inherited, I know that this guy in front of me is a total asshole. Knowing this, I would feel slightly more justified in tripping him than not." That's as far as it would have gone though. I definitely wouldn't trip you.
3. Both of us got off at Jay Street. I let you get off first, entirely because at this point you struck me as a free radical and I didn't want to have my back turned to you. I did not let you get off first, as your body language implied, because I wanted to devastate you with a blindside elbow to the back or because, with a twist of irony, now I really wanted to trip you. Your frequent glances in my direction, as we both waited for the F cross-platform, did not go unnoticed.
4. You didn't even trip! This is probably the thing that bothers me the most. You stomped on my feet, which still hurt, under the supposition that I was trying to trip you. Pardon me for being philosophical, and rhetorical, but how were you measuring my try exactly? Does the mere existence of my legs constitute a threat? Does close proximity, such as what we shared on the subway, i.e. something I had neither control over nor knowledge of, since (remember) I was sleeping--tell me, was this the loot, the warrant, or the crook, you know what I mean? I hope you enjoyed the rest of your Ash Wednesday.
