7 Minute Insanity

I take the ferry to work. It’s a 7 minute ride. Everyday. Never 6 minutes, never 10. It’s a seven minute ride.

I emphasize the length because everyday, people get there early and line up. They impatiently charge the boat and frantically scout out a seat. They run to it. Then like a blowfish, they puff out so they look bigger and no one will sit next to them.

The erratic behavior and the length of the trip makes it extra bizarre when about 3 minutes into the 7 minute trip, these same people jump up and charge the front of the boat to ensure their seat on the bus. The irony here is giving up one seat to make sure they have another.

Maybe this isn’t amusing at all. Maybe it’s sad. But how I make it funny is I go and sit next to a puffed out person who has their bag on the seat next to them. I calmly and patiently try to sit down putting one butt cheek on the seat. A few seconds go by and they feel guilty. They move the bag. I scoot over. With both butt cheeks securely on the seat I now have them trapped in.

Three minutes later when everyone gets up and starts walking to the front, I patiently sit. Sometimes I read. Other times I just peacefully lookout at the NYC skyline, like I’m unaware of the shuffling bags and the bottlenecked door.

At first the blowfish begins to fidget. Then they look over at me. Then they look at the sea of butts that will get off the bus first. Then they look back at me. Then they start to whimper like a dog that wants out of a kennel. Then they put their bag on their shoulder and look at me again.

But they never ask to get up. They never say, “Excuse me, can I get by?” They never say a word. Because deep down, far below their pristine winter coats, below their navy suits, below their pasty white skin, in their hearts, they know that it’s completely insane.

And when the boat pulls to the dock and I know they can’t bear to sit a second more, I slowly get up and look out over the water at the rising sun like I’ve just returned from a long peaceful voyage. Then I smile at them and say, “Have a nice day.”

And on days I’m feeling extra warped, I then turn and run like hell for a seat on the bus.