The other day, on the subway, I witnessed a sight I’ve been dreading for as long as I’ve been alive.
Not a brutal act of violence.
Not an unfortunately intimate public display of affection.
Not even a friendly dose of partial or full-on nudity.
No, it was worse.
Much, much worse.
The other night, on the subway, the man peacefully asleep on the bench across from me jolted awake suddenly, heaved a couple of times, and then proceeded to vomit all over the floor—mere seconds before the doors opened.
So close… yet so very, very painfully far.
We all know I’ve struggled with the whole concept of reverse peristalsis ever since The Great Hot Dog Incident Of ‘08. My upchuck aversion is the main reason I had to set aside my dreams of being a nurse (also the fact that I never dreamed of being a nurse).
But this felt more like an initiation into New York like I hadn’t experienced before.
Now, every time I sit on a seat in the subway, or hold onto a handhold, or just breathe the air in the subway in general, I can rest assured that it really is as disgusting as my imagination thinks it is.
Sometimes it’s nice to be proven right.