TKOG Who practically sits in your lap

On Secret Society of List Addicts yesterday: reasons having long nails occasionally makes me want to stab myself in the eye with my (exquisitely manicured) index finger.

NTKOG #195: The kind of vigilante bus avenger who, upon witnessing minor violations of public transportation etiquette, makes the punishment fit the crime.

I am: annoyed by people who act singularly burdened to be stuck on the bus. ’cause, really, guys, the rest of us are thrilled to be here! (Well, excluding those dudes who seem to count rush-hour frotting as the high point of their sex lives.)

I am not: ballsy enough to call people out on it. Why make a bad situation worse?

The Scene: My morning rush-hour bus to work, which has the unique pleasure of crossing no fewer than three busy subway lines. Although I’m fortunate enough to join the crush before the bus gets truly packed, it would take nothing short of an act of god to prevent every square inch of the bus from cramming with groggy passenger-zombies within a few stops of my entrance. Which miraculously doesn’t stop people from plopping down in aisle seats and unpacking the full contents of their purses and briefcases into the empty seat next to them in the mad attempt to score a full double to themselves.

Heck, a few weeks ago I saw a dude spread out a linen handkerchief on said unoccupied seat and spread out an honest-to-pete PICNIC on the seat next to him. Complete with friggin’ soup, the least appropriate bus food since lighter-broiled s’mores.

Usually I sleepwalk past the seathogs, assuming someone else will put them in their place. But for one week, walked up, looked those dudes straight in the eye and told them to shove it. Specifically, to shove it over so we could be busride bffs.

Monday: Businessman sprawled in the outside seat, briefcase full of papers precariously teetering on the inside seat. The bus is half-full; regardless, I stand next to him and clear my throat. There’s an empty seat over there, he nods, and I tell him I’m aware but do not move. Well, it’s going to take me a minute to gather my papers. That’s okay, sir. I’ll wait. By the time he finally gathers his goods, we’ve hit the next stop and all of the other seats do legitimate fill up. Which doesn’t stop him from passive-aggressively elbowing my ribs every time he turns a page.

Tuesday and Wednesday: Young professional women, both days, perched in the outside seat with their bags resting non-aggressively on the inside seat. Can I sit there? Much rolling of eyes and exasperated sighing, but I am allowed to pass and sit unmolested.

Thursday: A brah, sprawling across both seats, taking up more physical space than seems possible for his hipster-emaciated frame. He is bobbing slightly to the music on his skull-eating ’80s headphones. I stand in front of him, gesturing, then verbally asking him to move — growing more polite as my voice raises. Maybe he’s playing with the volume on his iPod or maybe he doesn’t hear me. Just as I’m about to concede the stand-off, he makes the fatal mistake of glancing up and catching my eye. Sir. Seriously. Move. He does, then avoids looking at me for the rest of the ride, even when he passes two inches in front of my face to be let out for his stop. “Stupid bitch,” I can hear him thinking and, yeah, I guess that’s one way of looking at it.

Friday: A day so wet and unpleasant the whole world smells like a dog-grooming parlor. Already, the bus is crowded, and yet a bottle-blonde undergrad with her hair pulled into a messy finals-week chignon sits in the outer seat with an overflowing summer tote spilling on the seat next to her.

TKOG: Excuse me, can I sit in the seat next to you?
Blondie: There’s another seat right over there.
TKOG: This bus is going to fill up in like five minutes and you’ll need to move your stuff anyway.
Blondie: Yeah, but there’s a seat right over there.
TKOG: And there’s one next to you. Seriously.

Blondie exhaled a double-lung of disgust and, as she stood, picked up her drenched umbrella from the ground of the bus and put it on my seat, where it lay dripping for thirty seconds while she arranged her bag. “Ooooh, I’m so sorry,” she smirked, straight out of Gossip Girl, “Now the seat’s all wet! You probably don’t want to sit there!”

Hey, whatever, I told her. I was going to wash this skirt tonight anyway. Shot her a grotesquely sweet smile until she rolled her eyes away. Dude, there is no escaping the vigilante bustice.

The Verdict: Funny thing about people: for some reason, calling them out on their bad behavior always seems to make them anxious to behave even more atrociously, as though it in some way validates the decision. Whatever, guys! I can play this game all day long!

That said, I don’t think I will. Vigilante justice just isn’t viable for the non-caped set. If you call people out directly and verbally on bad behavior, maybe one in a thousand people will think to themselves, “Huh, that was a fair point.” And once you take direct reproach out of the equation, the odds get even lower. Providing gentle nudges against bad behavior is highly unlikely to make people realize exactly how they’ve been behaving badly. More than likely, I just gave a few people an excuse to bitch to their c-workers about the crazy jackass that may or may not have been coming onto them on the bus.

Tagged as: also not allowed: smelly foods on the bus. you can keep your hard-boiled eggs to yourself or die trying., boston, bus, hey dudes in cambridge come check me out at mortified today!, i blame not the blonde because finals week makes us all do terrible things, i've seen people eat soup twice on a bus. both times i was on tilt for WEEKS afterwards., in which nobody gets stabbed with a fork, it's been a while since i've done something that made someone want to punch me on the bus, t-bags