Furious Commuter

The whole point of life after high school seems to be landing the eventual steady job. I know a lot of people in law school who, for instance, toiled to get to that financial apex of the steady job: the associate position. (I was going to make a joke about it being the spiritual nadir of the steady job as well, but then I decided I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings -- besides, some consider hit men to have steady jobs, too.) Still, while I like having a job, I wish it weren't so, well, steady. All my days have started to look the same. Sure, some days are better or worse, more productive or less so, but what I can't shake is that, no matter what, it's the same desk, the same computer, and the same view from my window. What's worse, I've noticed that this monotony has had a very peculiar effect on me.

Depression? No. Hardly. I haven't been constantly jumping for joy the last few months, but I'm certainly not depressed. (See Alessandro circa first year of teaching for more on that.) Rather than sad, lately I've been experiencing a bit of a split personality.

Take this morning for example. I was lying in bed hitting snooze whenever my alarm or my phone (I set both) would go off when I noticed some rumbling noises coming from above. It wasn't that loud while I was still in bed, possibly because I was half asleep and not really cognizant of much, but once I got up, the noise became louder. And it started getting annoying. From my desk chair, it sound like a couple of people might have been playing a game of tackle football above me. Or perhaps someone was holding a ballet class and the students were practicing grand jetés across the floor. I started complaining out loud. (When you live alone, you tend to talk to yourself. Or so I've been told.) Once, I stood up as if to go upstairs but then decided against it. More noise. I was now cursing out loud. More noise. I stood up again. A loud crash above me....

I went completely blind with rage. The next time I was aware of my actions, I was holding my swiffer broom and slamming it into my ceiling. Luckily, my upper body strength is akin to that of a 12-year-old girl who doesn't like the outdoors, so I didn't actually put a hole in ceiling. But the blind rage was not new. It has come before, mostly when I commute. Actually, ALWAYS when I commute. The other day after work, I was walking from the Dupont Metro when my friend Jon tapped me on the shoulder. It took a good 3 minutes before I could string together coherent sentences. Why? Because I was so wound up with this peculiar anger that I couldn't think straight. I zone out completely. Like I'm a different person. I become...FURIOUS COMMUTER.

Furious Commuter is a pretty angry guy. He always sighs loudly when someone is standing on the left-hand side of the escalator BEFORE saying, "Excuse me." He finds it necessary to express his disdain with their standing choice and just asking to pass doesn't quite do that enough. Sometimes, when the fury steals his speech, Furious Commuter merely waves his arms in the air behind the unsuspecting idiot. He does this to show other commuters how furious he is (in hopes that they will join him in thinking the left-stander an idiot). Furious Commuter's other patented moves include swatting at departing trains with his Express, sitting sideways along two Metro seats so that no one will sit next to him, glaring at people talking loudly on their cell phones, and (in Furious Commuter's defense, only when no children are present) loudly exclaiming, "Fucking typical!" whenever there is a metro delay.

Furious Commuter has arch enemies. He despises tourists. They are his 2nd least favorite thing about DC (the first being the Bush Administration). He hates that they always seem to travel in family packs. Stupid mother pushing idiot baby in stroller with borderline-vegetable dad hurrying along two youngsters who indubitably ride the shortbus to school from their quaint home in Nebraska. I know that such judgment is elitist and unhelpful, but Furious Commuter doesn't care. He wants them to go back to their crap-ass midwestern town where they can vote Republican and study the Bible far from his morning commute. The thing that brought Furious Commuter out this morning was a glimpse of a clearly-from-out-of-town family of SEVEN where none of the children were over the age of seven. Furious Commuter thinks forced sterilization might not be a terrible idea.

Furious Commuter hates how the whole family stands in front of six farecard machines while dad is using all of his brainpower at just one. He despises how tourist families will rarely sit down (Furious Commuter guesses that minorities scare them) but instead insist on congregating right by the door, the concept of moving into the center of the car completely lost on them. Still, the thing that sends Furious Commuter into that wonderful blind fury within seconds is the clusterfuck at the turnstiles. Ah, yes. He hates people who don't own a SmarTrip card. He hates seeing a big ass in a jumbo skort with a fanny pack perched to the side standing right in front of a turnstile and not going anywhere. Peering over said fanny pack, Furious Commuter sees a hapless tourist attempting to force their paper farecard upside down into the "out" slot. Now, I know that someone who doesn't ride the metro regularly shouldn't be expected to get it on the first try. But Furious Commuter doesn't care. He much prefers the loud grunt of exasperation, sometimes with a bit of frustrated flailing, as he dodges around Fanny Pack's 10 children (all in CIA or FBI sweatshirts...oh, how Furious Commuter loathes those tacky sweatshirts) to another open turnstile. If none are available, the fury rises just a bit, but Furious Commuter deals by exchanging knowing, furious looks with his fellow furious commuters.

This morning, Furious Commuter (after seeing the aforementioned fury-inducing brood of seven), made his way quickly through the turnstile when he saw that a train was waiting on the platform below. He rushed to the escalator only to be stopped by one of his other archenemies: Woman with Rolly Bag. WwRB was with a companion and the two blocked the way (even after Furious Commuter's very angry "Pardon me") just long enough that he did not make the train. He turned around to glare at WwRB and noticed that she had on dark sunglasses. WwRB was a blind woman. Furious Commuter had grunted angrily at a blind woman on an escalator. I looked down embarrassed.

Then Furious Commuter thought, "So? Her blind ass should've gotten out of the way," and shot her another unseen glare.