Collarbone SMASH!!

Most of you have seen the pictures, but I don't think I've bothered to tell you all the story in detail, so here goes.

I fell!

Before moving to Nashville, I told people of my plan to be a bike commuter depending on where I ended up living and working. I was prepared to bike up to 30 miles a day. It would be great for my health, and I would save money. People's responses ranged from: "It's too hot, you'll die!" to "you'll die!" but I'd been off the training wheels for about 20 years, and had actually been bike commuting in NYC for awhile without incident, so I wasn't too worried.

Well everyone, you were right!

My job ended up being about a 9 mile commute each way. Nashville isn't the most bike friendly city, but in my defense there were bike lanes and wide shoulders most of the way, so for a couple months there were no issues except for three stupid flat tires. Apparently the "bent staples" truck had been through town and had dropped their inventory all along my route to work. No worries though, I just biked around with a pump, tubes, and a patch kit just in case. 

Anyway, there was one stretch on the ride to work, Bransford Avenue, that was a bit narrow. Here I'll show you!

"Ride on the sidewalk!" You just thought to yourself. NO THAT'S NOT FOR BIKES.

I stuck to the side of the road for this bit, and most motorists were pretty polite to keep their distance, since they only had to go under the speed limit for about 100 yards before it widened back out and they could pass me. "Not today!" thought some asshole.

I was nearing the end of the narrow stretch of road when this shithead in a pickup truck that probably not only listens to but respects Ted Nugent thought it was fine to just hover right up next to, and slightly behind me. Basically they hung out where my blind spot would be if I was driving a car.

I don't know where they were going in such a hurry. Probably on their way to pick up some drugs after abandoning their children.

So to avoid getting clipped, I had to keep an eye out over my left shoulder rather than look at the road ahead of me. This only lasted a couple of seconds, but that's all it took. I hit a manhole cover while looking over my shoulder, so I was completely taken off guard. Here I'll show you!

Hard to tell, but it sticks up from the road a couple inches.

The front tired buckled, and I slammed into the ground shoulder first, and then smacked my head (hooray for helmets!) and skidded along the road. Panic set in, since as you can see, I was in the middle of an intersection, so I leapt to my feet, picked up my bike, and carried it to the side of the road to that small patch of grass. Cars flew by, and nobody stopped to check to see if I was ok. I was incensed! They must've assumed I was fine since I had popped back up and jogged to the side of the road, but I needed to focus on hating them for a bit rather than on how injured I was.

I sat down and got my bearings, heart racing. I couldn't feel most of my left arm at this point, but could still move it. I then thought "hmm, how is my brain?" You see, when I was 11, there had been another bike accident where I'd smacked my head pretty hard (hooray for helmets!) and on that day, I had gotten some sort of temporary amnesia. It had been several weeks into my 6th grade school year and I couldn't remember who my teacher was, what the classroom looked like, who my classmates were etc..) so I tried to see if I still had my wits about me. I remembered things like my phone number, where I was going, who I worked with and all that, so relief started to set over me. I could move, I could think, I could walk. Aside from a front tire that now looked like a Salvador Dali painting

I guessed I'd be ok. Then I started checking for damage. Gash on my left hand, gash on my elbow, terrible road rash on my left shoulder. Scrapes on my knee, bruised hip, sore back. I rotated my left shoulder a bit and it felt a bit off, so I ran my fingers along my left collarbone. 

Hmm, doesn't feel quite right.

And just like that, my dreams of lifting weights that afternoon were dashed. It didn't hurt yet, so although somewhat panicked about just what the hell I was gonna do next, part of me was thinking "haha people that think broken bones hurt are pussies." 

So I just sat there dumbstruck for a minute. Seriously though what the hell was I gonna do next? 

Let's all go to the hospital!

I dialed 911, but before I could press send I saw a police car pull up to the intersection. I quickly tossed out all the drugs in my possession, then hobbled over. Maybe he could give me a ride to the hospital! At this point the the adrenaline was wearing off, so in the dozen or so steps over to his car I was all rgbhrhbgbhrhbbhggggaauuuuhhhh and the pain started to set in. Turns out immediately lifting a bike and carrying it across the road probably wasn't the best thing I could've done. I've actually since been told that may have been what caused the bone to become so dislodged. 

It became clear the only way I was getting to the hospital was in an ambulance. I told the cop what happened, so he called the ambulance for me, and actually called his police friends too because they were probably bored so hey, come check this shit out!

So picture the scene. I'm lying with my arm across my chest in a small patch of grass next to the road, in terrible pain, not sure how much worse the pain is going to get, and I'm surrounded by cops. 

Best day of my life.

The ambulance arrived after what felt like literally forever, and *huphuphuphup* the EMTs tumbled out, asked me what happened, where it hurt, and asked if I could stand because that would be you know, super helpful for them. I somehow managed to stand up and thought how funny it would be to say "lol just kidding!" and just leave.

Haha but seriously they put my neck in a brace and put me on a stretcher. Off we went! In the ambulance, each bump was the worst thing in my life up to that point. The EMT asked me if I'd hit my head. I said yes, so he started asking me things like my address, date of birth, maybe who the president was? I don't remember. We both quickly realized my head was fine, and that all of the awful was concentrated into my left collarbone, or should I say left collarbones, since I now had several. At this point since nobody had taken x-rays, and "trust me it's ruined" isn't good enough, they all kept saying things like "possible fractured clavicle" on their walkie talkies. I wanted to tell them if I wasn't god damned sure it was broken I would've left the bike, shaken it off and walked the rest of the way to work like this guy:

Coulda been me.

but I was too busy saying "hngggggggh". Then realized I was probably going to get pain drugs soon, and that was awesome.

My first ambulance ride! I always wondered under what circumstances that would take place, if any. Would I be accompanying someone I knew? Accompanying a stranger? Or would I be the star of the show? It's pretty wild to think the morning had started like any other, and in seconds, I was all busted up and going to the hospital. I had this vivid memory of pulling up to the intersection before turning onto the road where I fell. I was thirty seconds away from falling, and had no idea. If I'd just taken the sidewalk, I'd have been fine. I tried not to get stuck on that thought though, because what's done is done, but that feeling of "if I'd only JUST" etc.. was the main event in my head for sure. 

Off the stretcher, and into the hospital. After I was wheeled into a room, a barrage of doctors and nurses fluttered in and asked me the same questions as the cops, and EMTs. What happened? Where did it happen? Where does it hurt? Can you move? Did you hit your head? How bad is the pain? Tell us EVERYTHING.

What did you have for BREAKFAST?

They stuck me with an IV just in case they needed to run pain meds intravenously, fitted me with one of those blood oxygen saturation readers that goes over your finger, cut my shirt off with a pair of rusty scissors, all while sweating, with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths shouting LIVE DAMMIT, LIVE! No but really they did cut my shirt off with I assume sterile scissors.

Yuck.

After the flurry of doctors and nurses had assessed the situation, they noticed as long as I didn't do anything crazy like "move" I felt fine at this point, so they tragically decided not to dope me up too badly. Despite that, after cutting off my shirt and seeing my injury (and huge pecs) they all agreed my collarbone was certainly broken since they could see it was practically busting through my skin. The plan was to hang out until they got someone to do some x-rays. After those were done, they'd review them and tell me if I'd need surgery. Then it was just a matter of taking a few precautions, writing me a prescription for pain meds, and making sure I had a ride home.

So I just sat in relieving silence. No IV meds, but they did give me some pain pills, so I was pretty mellowed out. I texted everyone that needed to know what had just happened. Something along the lines of "Hi! I'm fine, but kinda in the hospital." Also told my boss I wouldn't be in that day or probably the next. 

Soon various nurses came in to have me sign paperwork.

If you'll just sign where it says "yes I agree to be charged a fuckload for this shit"

SUB-NARRATIVE!
The topic of health insurance came up, to which I replied "I think I have insurance through work, but I started a couple months ago so I gotta get the details." 

Let's jump ahead to the conversation I later had with HR about this.

Me: Hi there. I think we've met once, my name is Matt, and as you can see I got into an accident! I wanted to ask you about the company's health insurance.

HR: Do you have insurance?

Me: ...well, I guess that's what I came to ask. I started in July and--

HR: So you don't have insurance.

Me:...I see. Well when it kicks in is there such thing as filing a claim retroactively?

(I have since learned this was a very foolish question)

HR: *restraining laughter* no.

Me: So...I'm screwed? 

HR: *shrug/minimally sympathetic look*

So no. No insurance. I was still under the 90 day probationary period where they needed to see that I wasn't a flight risk before they start throwing benefits at me. Perfect! After being insured my whole life up until that previous June 1st, I had managed to have the most expensive accident, in fact the only accident in my life requiring hospitalization (aside from that time I cut my dick open by falling off the sink when I was 8, but that was minor) in those few months before the next insurance would kick in.

BACK TO MAIN NARRATIVE!

The eventual cost of everything wasn't really a concern to me at this point though. All I needed to know to feel comfortable was "will I eventually heal?" I hadn't taken x-rays yet, but the consensus seemed to be "yes" so at least I had that.

A short time passed, and the x-ray tech came in. I think he had dealt with a lot of broken collarbones at this point in his life, and most had probably been minor, because he seemed to think this was no big deal. After wheeling me into the x-ray room he just looked at me expectantly like "Ok! Hop up in front of this wall here!" I tried to tell him getting up was going to be difficult in my current state. Also it was probably about noon and I still hadn't had a substantial meal after biking about 7 of the 9 miles to work, so I was also feeling pretty faint. Nevertheless, I struggled out of the bed, and stood in front of the wall sheepishly. 

The best way to describe this feeling, is it was akin to waking up at 6 in the morning after a night of heavy drinking, and REALLY having to piss. You will finally, begrudgingly hoist yourself out of bed when this need to piss finally outweighs the overwhelming need to just lay there and recover from your transgressions. As you stumble to the bathroom, all you can think of is "man, I really need to lay back down." Then, some guys will make the terrible terrible mistake of standing up to piss before realizing just how bad of an idea standing is. This is what posing for that x-ray felt like. Holding still for even 30 seconds was so exhausting I almost vomited. After taking two or three, the ordeal mercifully ended, and I collapsed back onto the bed. 

The tech went to the back room to look at the results, and after a few seconds came back out, and with a sudden air of seriousness he paused and said 

"..yup, you definitely broke it." 

To which I replied 

"I know."

I went back to the room, and was told the docs would be along after awhile. My battery was dead at this point, so I couldn't entertain myself with my phone. Luckily there was a TV with some sort of pseudo on-demand service, so I put on "Captain Phillips." There wasn't much else to choose from. 

The climax of the movie was approaching, and then finally a couple of docs came in to give me the prognosis. I tried to pause the movie but apparently this stupid TV was on some sort of fucking lockdown, and I couldn't pause the damn thing. So I turned the volume all the way down so as not to be distracted, glancing back at the TV ever so often to try to grab enough bits of the plot to keep the narrative going. I eventually gave up.

After being told earlier that collarbone fractures almost never require surgery, I was now told in no uncertain terms that I would need surgery. They scheduled a followup appointment for a week later, and surgery would follow a few days after that. They told me since the bone was so displaced, I would probably get a titanium plate and screws put in. Images of terminator-dom danced through my head. I asked if I would eventually need this plate and screws removed. They said "if it ends up bothering you down the road you can elect to have it removed, but it's usually not necessary." 

So, I was going to have a titanium plate in my collarbone for the rest of my life.

Finally, some good news. 

To be continued...

Chasing Chase (Haha I'm So Clever)

People like to complain about banks. For awhile, I was not one of those people. Banks were a necessarily evil that I was only marginally involved with. They gave me a place to conveniently park my money, but it was never enough for them to do irresponsible things with, and I never took advantage of any of their rewards programs or credit cards or refinancing etc. They left me alone and I left them alone, so I didn't feel complicit in their shenanigans during the subprime mortgage crisis. But now, I've got something to fucking complain about, so I'm going to do it here. 

The target is Chase Bank.

http://outgoingsignals.com/

For years I used Chase since their banks were literally on every other street corner in the greater New York City area. Convenience is a big part of who I choose, so if it turns out a small bank helps out the little guy and funds oversees entrepreneurs, great! But if I have to travel more than a mile or so to visit a branch/ATM, and I can't take nifty pictures of checks and have them get deposited from my couch, then fuck it I'm not choosing them, and if that makes me an asshole then so be it. 

During my recent move, it came to my attention that Chase had no branches in the Nashville area. This would be a problem, so I made plans to find a new bank. This didn't bother me, because again, convenience is key, not any sort of brand loyalty. Ideally, I could've withdrawn all funds and closed the account in person before leaving, but I still had a direct deposit check coming through from my last days at work, and would need to square some bills in the coming weeks, and sending money directly via chase quickpay was the easiest way to do that. I figured it wouldn't be a problem to just close the account over the phone in the coming months. In retrospect I am the dumbest person on the earth.

Weeks passed, my funds dwindled since I was still using my debit card in Nashville, but then the time came to close the account, and for them to send me the not insignificant amount left in my checking account. I thought about having them wire it to my new account, but that would cost money, and I could stand to wait a couple of weeks for them to send the check in the mail. My security deposit from my Brooklyn apartment would keep me afloat for some time anyway. So I checked chase's website for details on how to close my account. Not easy to find as it turns out! Some deep digging led me to a "close account request form" that looked promising, but it seemed like something I'd have to deliver in person, which was impossible. So I begrudgingly called customer service and gave them the scoop. 

"Hi I need to close my account and have my remaining funds sent to my new address please." 

"Ok, well I can close your account, but I can't send the money to a different address afterwards."

"Ok, can youuuuu change my address, and then close my account?"

"No, address changes take 3-5 business days to reflect on the account."

"Ok, well I have this close account request form, and there's a space where I can specify where my remaining funds are sent, can I just scan that and email it to someone?" 

"Sure, but you actually have to send that via regular mail."

*sigh* "Ok, where do I send it?

*agent gives me the address*

"Ok I'll put it in the mail today, thanks!"


Sure, it seemed a silly roundabout way to close my account, but whatever, I'll wait however long it takes.

A couple weeks passed and I noticed that while I could still log on to online banking, my accounts had apparently been closed, so hey, it worked! Now to just wait for the check...except it never came!

3 weeks after my initial call, I called back and explained the situation again. 

"Hi, I closed my account by mailing this form to some place in Texas, and my accounts appear to have been closed, but I never got anything in the mail."

"Ok, I see you called on the 7th, so yes you definitely should have received something by now!"

"YES I AGREE."

"Ok, I can put a research out on this, and they'll put a stop payment on the check, wherever it is, and I'll have them send you a new one."

"Ok, remember, send it to my NEW address. This is the address I put on your form, but someone apparently ignored it, or it got lost in the mail or something."

"Yes yes, ok what's your new address?"

*give my address*

"Ok, thank you."

"Read that back to me please."

*reads it back correctly*

"Ok thanks. Now when can I expect this?"

"The research will take 3-5 business days, and then you'll get the check within 7-10 business days."

"Uh...was hoping to get it before the first of the month. That's why I called weeks ago. I didn't do anything wrong, and pretty soon I'll have to pay bills. Any way I can get it faster than that?"

"Uh uhh *struggling to pull head out from ass* 3-5 and 7-10 is the maximum, it will most likely come sooner than that!"

*sigh* "Ok, well I'm still not happy, but as long as I eventually get it I guess that's all I can do."


So despite having basically 0 headaches for years, apparently as soon as I needed anything beyond "withdraw/deposit money" several bureaucratic hoops were presented for me to gracefully jump through. The way I see it, there should be 3 steps.

1. Call and make request to close account and have funds mailed.

2. Prove that I am me, and not an impostor.

3. Get account closed, and have funds mailed.

But I guess their internal procedure includes a million little in-between steps performed by people with minimal training/reading competency, with no repercussions in the event they fuck something up.

So, 5 business days passed, then 10 more. This is the maximum amount of time (it will most likely come sooner than that!! HA HA) and I checked the mail. Nothing. He read my address back to me. I told him exactly what I needed, and where to send it. He seemed to understand. What the FUCK was the problem? This was such a simple request! Surely I am not the first to close an account and have funds mailed somewhere else! What part of this process was confusing to the people handling it? 

I've worked phone customer service before, so I try to be patient with these people, but after waiting for over a month, and having my budget stretched extremely thin through no fault of my own, my patience was gone. At this point, my first paycheck from my new job was only a few days away, so there was no more sense of urgency, although that money would've been really nice to have to hold me over!! 

I had periodically been logging into online banking to see if there was anything worth noting, and hadn't seen anything, but after the 15 business day window, I logged back on to see if maybe I could attack their customer service from another angle. But what's this? An alert, that they had mailed me something, and it had been returned to them? Oh look, they mailed it to my BROOKLYN ADDRESS. Despite me putting my Tennessee address on the form. Despite giving the guy on the phone my Tennessee address, and being explicit about the fact that I had moved, and to confirm he had my address correct. Nope, they STILL tried Brooklyn. I must've been talking to this guy:

So despite my accounts being closed, I was able to change my address to my new one online (if I had done that weeks ago, would this have all been avoided?) I then sent a message detailing this whole fiasco, while heroically STILL managing to avoid swearing. Multiple times throughout the message I gave them my Tennessee address, and mentioned that I. HAD. MOVED. And to please let me know what I could possibly do to get through to somebody that all I needed was my remaining balance mailed to me. 

I received a reply the next day, basically telling me exactly what the guy on the phone had told me before. Since that had gotten me nowhere, I replied immediately, saying "that action was already taken with no result. Can you confirm you have my new address, and can you confirm you will call me or email me?" I got another reply the next day, confirming they have started research on this issue and will get back to me. Their reply did not confirm my new address. Their reply did not confirm my email. Only that "they would contact me as soon as they can." It has been 4 days and still nothing. 

Time to start keeping my money under the fucking mattress.

Drumming: The Early Years

What goes through the head of an eight year old? That was a long time ago for me, so I can't remember a whole lot besides hot dogs, but one important thing I can tell you is that it was when I first became captivated by the drums. I also think eight years old is about the age when your dreams start the slow transition away from "some sort of laser space hero" to more attainable pursuits.

Now, I suppose I can't speak for everyone when I say that. It's possible some people entertained the idea of being a space marine well into high school or college, but for me, I was ever the skeptical one. Perhaps when I pitched my pie in the sky career aspirations to adults before this age, I saw the slight wincing. The patronizing gazes. I heard the dulcet tones hidden beneath their encouragement. "Yeah you can be an astronaut!" They'd say, failing to add "even though they will only accept perfect human specimens and you threw up from the tilt-a-whirl so maybe try something else."

So one day, I was sitting on the porch at my camp listening to some music, when someone put on "Black Dog" by Led Zeppelin. My ears perked up.

IS HOW AT WHAT MUSIC WHAT

"This fucking...somethings!!!" I thought. Later I would find out the word is "rocks". Before this time, I guess music had never really grabbed me. Maybe because it had always been something that was just on in the background. Or maybe attentively listening to music was on that long list of things that your parents did, and you were told "you'll do it too someday!" and you nodded while actually thinking "no that's something old people do, and I'll never be old, so..." Or maybe it was because I was fucking eight.

Whoever put on that Led Zeppelin album has no idea how much they changed my life. The guitars were all SQUEEEELAAAA and the vocals were all HRRMMAAADEEERRROOO but what REALLY got me was the BEAT. So POWERFUL. It hit me on a truly primal level. I'm not sure if it was a chance mix of circumstances that led to that event, or if it was bound to happen because it was just coded in my DNA or what. But that's when I made my decision. Drums for me! Nothing else for my whole life thanks!

--

So I'm dreaming of drums all the time at this point, just scheming how I could possibly get my hands on some. I knew it was more complicated than

Me: GIMME A DRUMSET.
Parents: Ok.

So I had to bide my time. What opportunities did I have to play? Let's see..I know! My second cousin had a drum set! He was several years older, and I heard he was super good. So, how to make this guy my new best friend and use him for his shit? Well luckily it never came to that, because I heard he would be bringing his equipment to our upcoming family reunion!!! The drums were so close I could TASTE THEM. They tasted like WOOD AND METAL SCREWS.

--

So there we were at the family reunion in a giant field by my Dad's cousin's house. The field was full of tents, a giant fire pit, and a small stage with the mighty drum set. I knew about five of the probably ten million people there. How many first cousins do you have reader? A few? More than ten? Well my Dad has about forty. FORTY. And they were mostly all there. And they all had kids. And they all brought friends.

So I was a shy kid, and I didn't really have the fortitude to stroll up to my older cousin amongst the hubub and say "Hi can I play your drums?" So what I'd do is walk near my parents and say something like "wow, look at those drums! Sure wish I could play 'em!" My parents were well aware of my percussive desires, and of my shyness, so they got the hint that they were gonna have to pull some strings. I distinctly remember my dad asking my cousin if he wouldn't mind letting me play the drums, while I was close by all fucking

And my cousin said something like "sure."

HOORAY

So now I just had to wait til the drums were available.

Well, I think the theme of this family reunion must've been "let's never stop playing music ever" so I had very few opportunities to actually try my hand. It was like sitting at a shitty concert with the promise of pie after the band is done, except the band never finishes and you start to convince yourself you don't like pie that much and you should just fucking leave.

When suddenly BAM! Opportunity! YES! But what's this? Who the fuck are you? This stupid little fat blonde kid hopped up onto the drums and just started smacking the shit out of them. I had never seen this kid before in my life but I knew immediately that I hated him. HOW LONG HAD YOU BEEN WAITING HUH FUCKFACE?! And he Just. Kept. Playing. He couldn't even play beats. He was just hitting random shit with the endurance of some sort of titanous beast. I stewed in my anger, along with several other kids that wanted him to shut the fuck up, when finally some other kid intervened. "Hey man, you've been playing forever, it's my turn." The stupid little fat kid said "NO! I need to JAM!"

Well so did WE. How about we START by jamming the sticks UP YOUR ASS. I wasn't sure if I was related to him, but I hoped not cause I'd be ashamed to share the same blood as this stupid pile of dog shit.

I think several other kids lost their gumption and just let this kid have at it for awhile, but I was determined to wait. Finally the kid left the seat.

Because the family was getting up to play some MORE MUSIC God DAMMIT.

So I waited and waited and waited some more, when finally my opportunity came. I found myself at the seat. Sticks in hand. Feet on pedals. Behind the instrument of my dreams. And..

Nothing.

Man, how the fuck do you play this thing?

This was hard.

I'd spent so much time lusting after this fine instrument, and hadn't really given a thought to what I'd do when I actually had the chance to play it. Sure the guitar was a mystery, the piano was a mystery, and horns and reed instruments were a mystery, but they all combined strange finger dexterity and knowledge of tones. But the drums? It looked like all you had to do was hit shit and coolness would just happen. But my every attempt to hit any of these drums resulted in a truly impotent bellow of insignificance. Also I don't think my feet touched the pedals.

My dreams were crushed. Did I cry? Probably. I had watched my cousin and various other mystery relatives play this thing with ease. What, I actually needed to PRACTICE? Pffffff. So fine. No shortcuts for me. What other choice did I have? Hmm, school percussion!

My brother had joined band the previous year, only he played a lame instrument, like the lameophone or something. I knew if I wanted to cultivate a knowledge of drums and percussion, the school music program would be a smart way to go.

Just one problem though. At this point I was 9, and I obviously wasn't the only nine year old that wanted to be a drummer, and to prevent a band comprised of one flute, three trumpets and eighty drummers, there was a stipulation. To join percussion, you need to have taken at least two years of piano lessons.

Fantastic.

Woulda been nice if they'd told us this shit when I was seven. I had of course taken zero years of piano lessons, and wondered how I was going to overcome this hurdle. Luckily my parents talked to the band director, who graciously made an exception, with the caveat that I start piano lessons now, and take them in tandem with music lessons through the school. I would later hear from the band director the conversation went something like this:

Band Director: To play percussion you need at least two years of piano under your belt.
Parents: Well, he hasn't taken any lessons, but he really wants to play drums.
Band Director: I know, a lot of kids want to play drums, but without the piano lessons, we can't do it.
Parents: You don't understand. He really wants to play drums.

I like to imagine my parents subtly sharpening a knife during that last bit.

So the band director relented, and I was in! And it was BOORRRINNNGG!! First, drums are loud and expensive and my parents sure as fuck weren't gonna drop hundreds of dollars on something I'd get sick of, so I'd have to struggle through years of piano and percussion lessons before having a drum set of my own.

Second, percussion lessons in school were very much not drums. It was all orchestra bells and practice pads. Orchestra bells look like this:

And if you're wondering how the general populace felt about this instrument, here is a 100% real transcription of a conversation I had with two guys at my bus stop:

Guy one: What are those?
Me: Bells.
Guy two: You play the bells?
Me: Yes.
Guy one: Bells are stupid!
Guy two: Bells are boring!

So there's that. 

Practice pads look like this:

If you're struggling to figure out exactly what you're looking at, just imagine a drum, minus everything fun. Using these helped us get our chops up, without the noise. The noise was like 90% of the reason I chose drums in the first place, so this was a fucking travesty. The fact that I put up with this shit for years shows you just how badly I needed to play drums to be happy with my life.

I was only so patient, and I think my parents sensed that, because a couple years after I started playing percussion, I got my very own snare drum. There was still no "full drum set" yet, but I at least got part of the real thing. The only thing was, when you hear a snare drum on a recording, you're hearing an amplified, EQ adjusted snare hit. When you play one of those babies in real life you get weird ass overtones and rings and buzzes and echoes. I was disenchanted, but persevered, figuring all I had to do to achieve that idealized sound was to buy a one million dollar snare drum at some point in the future. I'd already been patient, so what's a few extra years or decades? Incidentally, I later discovered you just needed quality drumheads, proper tuning and muffling pads.

A bit after the snare drum years, I became aware that Junior high Jazz Band was a thing. Ahh Junior high Jazz..let's take some of the most stylistically complicated music there is, and hear it played by a bunch of shitty kids. Gotta start somewhere though, so I stayed after school and got to fiddle around a bit a couple times a week. By now I was coordinated enough to play simple beats, though not well. There was also the problem of the other drummer.

He was better than me, because he had already been playing for a couple years at this point. This did wonders for my confidence, as any smidgen of improvement I felt I'd made was quickly overshadowed by his superior skill set. So I was relegated to conga drums, or what everyone else liked to call the bongos. Because to most people every hand drum is a fucking bongo drum. 

CONGAS. NOT BONGOS.

I think the band director saw me deflate when I got my new assignment, so he was very supportive and talked up the congas like they were some sort of backbone of the band. I think he even played a couple of tunes with congas in them for me. I feigned enthusiasm, cause I understood he was just trying to make me feel better about sucking, but really the congas were just a way to say "I've heard you play drums, and I think you'd be better suited to play far fewer of them. Also we're going to take away your sticks." But dammit I played the fuck out of those things to the point where my joints ached from slamming them incredibly hard with virtually zero proper technique. Still pretty sure nobody heard me. 

But it's ok. Soon I would get a drum set all my own.

To be continued. 

3 Random Memories

The other day a couple of random memories popped into my head. I suppose they are the type of memories that stick because when they happened, the experiences felt profound, even if in retrospect they seem trivial. For each memory I'm guessing I was between 4 and 6 years old. Now I'm going to fucking tell you all about them.

1. "It's No, Thank You."

A lot of the circumstances were foggy, but I'll try to set the stage. I was at my Uncle's house, and I guess it was some sort of family gathering. My Uncle was moving a lot at the time, so that gave us all the excuse to go "check out the new place" a few times over the years. Incidentally, even though the place kept changing, it always smelled the same.

There we were, lots of people milling about, eating and drinking etc.. and I'm fucking off like 5ish year olds are wont to do. I was a super picky eater, and I guess everyone somehow caught wind of that and felt they had a responsibility to correct this issue. As a result, people kept coming up to me saying something like "HEY WOULD YOU LIKE AN ORANGE?" And no, I didn't want an orange. They were gross and stringy and not pizza so I said "No" because you know, the answer was no. My Uncle overheard one of these interactions and suddenly became the rudeness police and somewhat firmly informed me "Matthew, when someone offers you something you don't want, you say 'no, thank you.'" I thought to myself "ok sure whatever that's two more words than is necessary but I'll nod in acknowledgement that you conveyed this information to me." I tossed out this new information pretty much immediately because as I just illustrated, what the hell were those two extra words for? It seemed syntactically uneconomical.

See, maybe if he'd said "being terse with someone like that can be construed as rude" (phrased for a 5ish year old of course) it would have made more sense at the time, but since all I was told was "It's no, thank you" I had to make a choice between adopting this new way of life on faith, or rejecting it outright. I of course, rejected it. Even at the tender age of 5ish, I had some ingrained problem with authority and wasn't about to alter my vocabulary. Not for him.

I think he suspected this may have been the case, because not long after his lesson, he tested me. He came up to me and offered me something he knew I wouldn't like. It may have even been another orange. It still wasn't pizza, so I reflexively said "no" again, quickly realizing my error. See, I had no plans assimilate "no, thank you" but still should've had the wherewithal to at least pretend I had if I was talking to him. The funny thing though, is he wasn't even smug about my slip-up. He wasn't condescending or demeaning. He was purely interested in me learning this polite gesture to make the world a better place, so his failure hurt that much more, and he got pretty upset. Upset enough for me to think "whoa, this guy is fucking serious." He held my arm, the universal gesture for "I would hit you if I could" and made me realize in no uncertain terms that it's fucking "No, thank you."

Pretty sure I still checked with my parents after though. They said "yeah, that's the more polite way to do it." Even without the ironclad conviction of my Uncle, this was enough for me to start using the phrase, since my parents were basically king and queen of the world at this point.

All these years later I can't even imagine how snotty it must sound for even a 5ish year old to dismissively say "no" so I'm glad I learned when I did. I hope I didn't raise too many eyebrows before that valuable lesson.

2. "HOW CAN YOU TELL PEOPLE APART?!"
Same age. Which is good, because if I was much older you'd probably think "wow he was a dumb kid." I mean I was, but you'd think "no this kid was really dumb."

So I'm not exactly sure what triggered this concern, but I remember thinking "wait just a god damn minute...we all have eyes, mouths, noses, ears...how can we tell people apart?!?"

No, seriously. I thought this.

I honestly could not fathom how, despite having all the same things on our head, we were able to tell people apart. I thought it must be a combination of height, hairstyle/color weight, etc.. because obviously a nose is a nose and eyes are eyes just like a circle is a circle and a square is a square. This couldn't be enough information to distinguish people from one another right?

This is the part where you may pause and think "nope, I definitely never thought that."

A lot of times when you're perplexed as a small child, what do you do? You ask your parents. But with this one, I didn't. There was apparently some evolutionary process firing in my brain that made me think "No man, not this time. Keep this one to yourself." Something told me this should NOT be a mystery to me and if I asked my parents they'd probably think something was wrong and then "accidentally" leave me at a gas station miles away or something and that would be that.

I don't know how long this inner turmoil fermented in my brain, but I do remember when it stopped. I was sitting in the living room. My parents had an impressive vinyl collection, and one of the albums that had been pulled from the shelves at the time was a Beatles album. Looking back at the album art, it must've been "Hard Day's Night". I was looking at all of their monochromatic faces and I thought to myself, "Wow, Ringo's eyes are a way different shape than John's.....wait a minute..."

Shapes...

Different...

DIFFERENT SHAPES!!

The elimination of color and texture from their faces was enough of a reduction to give me that eureka moment. I was so disproportionately proud of myself. I almost told my parents about my discovery. I would stroll in and be like "Hey Mom and Dad, so I was thinking the other day about why we can tell each other apart. I thought we all have the same things on our faces so it should be impossible right?" Here I would pause to smugly chuckle and add "luckily I'm really smart and I figured out how our facial features, though similar, are different shapes for different people, so, you know.."

But I thought even that would be pushing my luck. Best to just celebrate this one quietly and move on.

3. The Day I Smacked my Dad in the Face
This one is really fuzzy. I must've been really young. The fact that the memory is still with me speaks to how intense the experience must've been.

We were at the library. My parents were good parents, so we would frequent this place for everything it had to offer. At this point since I couldn't read, that was basically puppet shows, magic shows, and I guess looking at picture books. This day in particular my Dad brought me and my brother. I mean, I assume my brother was there I'm not sure. Whatever happened, it must've been super fun, but I don't really remember anything before...the incident. I only remember the moment where everything changed.

My Dad gathered us up, only I didn't want to leave, cause you know, libraries are gangster as fuck. I had no concept of "time" or "jobs" or "responsibility" or "other people" really so to me what reason did we have to leave? I was having fun, so fucking wait til I'm ready to leave, and then we can go. If I'm still having fun, what sense did it make to cut it off? So I evaded my Dad, who grew increasingly frustrated. Eventually he had to just pick me up and haul my ass out of there. I didn't like that very much, but couldn't exactly fight back. Or could I?

No...

Could I?

*SMACK*

.........Uh oh..

I can't quite tell you exactly what happened after that. I'm not sure if it's cause I blacked out or what. What I do remember...is silence. I remember no backlash. No reprimanding. No shouting. Only silence. This was strange and unfamiliar. I think I had braced myself for..something, so when it didn't come, I felt the psychological equivalent of stepping down that last stair when there are no more stairs and the floor greets your foot sooner than you expected and your equilibrium is jostled for a bit.

The leaves outside rustled in the breeze.

Life had now been divided into "Time before I smacked my Dad's face" and "Time after I smacked my Dad's face"

I wandered around confused in this state of condemned nothingness. I knew something bad had happened and the fact that there were no immediate repercussions must only have meant my Dad was plotting. Plotting what though?

We got home and my dad went to another room. There was no gathering where I was sat down and scolded. I was left to stew in my own guilt a little longer. Eventually my Mom approached me.

"Did you do something bad?"

"Did you?"

I must've been clearly struggling with my guilt. I was told to walk into my parents' room and...

Apologize. 

I was on fucking edge. I never went in my parents' room. Especially with nobody escorting me. Now I needed to walk in there alone like a fucking man and tell my Dad I was sorry for hitting him. I quietly entered. He sat on the bed, facing away from me. Dammit I didn't even have his attention yet. I had to earn it. I don't remember the exact exchange but it was probably something like, 

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"......I'm sorry"

This didn't need to be creative or heartfelt. This was clearly driven almost entirely by fear and shame. But I was forgiven. I exited, shaken. 

I have not hit him since. 

Being the Skinny Guy

I'm pretty sure the heaviest I've ever been was back in 2008. I was on vacation, staying at a friend's grandparents' house after hitchhiking with him across hundreds of miles in a few days. Needless to say, we were hungry. His Grandparents were very kind, rarely letting a few hours pass without saying "HEY! EAT! EAATTTTT!" 

EAAATTTTT!!!!!

I weighed myself after a week of eating prodigious amounts of food, during which I exercised an unremarkable amount (none). I tipped the scales at just above 160 pounds, but I think I was wearing boots. 

THE EARLY YEARS
When I was young, not only was I very skinny, I was very short. I remember being in first or second grade, and we were measuring everybody's height for some reason. I was the shortest in the class! I remember thinking, "What does this mean, is this good?" I guess at that age nobody really cared, and hey I was the most something-est! Then a few years later, in fifth grade or so, I started noticing that I was still shorter than basically everyone. But no matter, we started learning about puberty and all the wonderful height and weight gain it entailed, so naturally I assumed I'd get tall and fill out just like everybody else. Except I didn't! 

Pretty soon, everyone my age started to think "ok, let's develop into actual humans now" and I was left in the dust. I actually remember the moment I started thinking my shortness was really becoming a problem. There was an assembly at school one day, so the whole class crowded into the auditorium. At one point I was walking right in front of the girl I had a crush on, and she STEPPED ON ME BECAUSE SHE DIDN'T SEE ME BECAUSE I WAS SO SHORT. 

Haha, no but actually I had tiny legs and I guess I was moving too slow, because she yelled "move it short kid!" to the delight of her friends. A crushing moment for me to be sure. But, I wasn't doomed to be a modest pillar of ineffectiveness forever. I'd have to get taller at some point right? 

End of 9th grade. Hooray! By then I had shot up to about my current height, "tall-ish". So what if it was years later than everyone else? But a problem remained. I was still about the same weight. I had merely stretched. 

I was in denial for awhile. "I'm not that skinny" I thought to myself, somehow ignoring the fact that basically everybody my height seemed to weigh about 30 pounds more than me. I would look at someone that looked "skinny" to me, and then covertly compare something like forearm width and notice I always came up short. Eventually I thought, "Okay, enough of this shit, it's time to start working out." So in high school, I started going to the gym. The only thing was, I wasn't aware that to actually bulk up, you needed to lift more weight fewer times, and eat a fuckload. I didn't exactly eat a balanced diet, and my strategy involved lifting not very heavy shit the wrong amount of times, so despite a steady increase in the amount I could lift, I looked basically the same, whilst going from "able to beat 1% of the world in armwrestling" to "able to beat 2% of the world in armwrestling." I even remember senior year, thinking that although I was still pretty skinny, I'd put on a small amount of weight and was more normal sized, until one day after cross country practice, it was really hot, so I took my shirt off, and one of the guys on the team remarked "wow, I think you're about the skinniest person I know." Annnd defeat.


So you might be wondering. What are the advantages and disadvantages to being the skinny kid? 

Advantages:

Because I carry less weight, it's easier to lift myself, so I can appear tougher than I am if someone asks me to do chinups or pushups or something, which is basically never.

If I ever forget how many ribs I have I can just look down and count cause they're fucking right there. 

I can fit into small spaces. Crowded train? No problem. I can usually wedge in there. Only a tiny bit of space to sit on the bench on the subway? Also no problem. I can usually squeeze in, although I've noticed some plus sized people are entirely undeterred by the fact that they have no business trying to squeeze into a space previously occupied, snugly, by someone 1/5th of their size. 

The ability to turn sideways and become completely undetectable. 

Dressing up like a skeleton for halloween is way more realistic.

I only need a modest sized umbrella.

MUCH more stamina while masturbating.

I'm much more aerodynamic when flying through the air horizontally. This hasn't really been helpful to me yet but I'm thinking it will at some point.

Riding a large dog isn't totally out of the question.

If they ever run out of medium sized shirts, I can usually fit into a small shirt too, and hey maybe I'll even opt for that anyway cause it's less fabric and I can help save the earth.

Getting drunk is way cheaper.

If you ever need someone with skinny arms to reach into a gopher hole to pull out your wedding ring, I'm your man. 

I metabolize caffeine awfully quickly, so though I might not have a caffeine buzz for as long, the amount of time I do have it is fucking legendary.

The ability to spring up a flight of stairs with the grace of a forest nymph. 

Disadvantages:

Having to constantly field the question "How do you stay so thin?!" when someone observes me eating the one unhealthy snack or large meal I've eaten that week.

If I ever break the law and a cop tries to grab my wrist and says "come with me!" he'll be unprepared for just how thin my wrist is, and it will startle him, giving me a chance to get away. Hmm, I should be a felon.

A stiff breeze will frequently blow me into oncoming traffic.

If anyone asks me to lift a car off their baby, I'll probably only be able to lift if halfway and then I'll drop it again and oh god I've just made everything worse.

If I ever stumble into a protruding object, my bony frame offers absolutely no padding, and instead of a slight *thud* the impact will create a resounding *THWACK* which will draw all sorts of unwanted attention.

Every time I carry something remotely heavy looking, people panic and shout "OH GOD DO YOU NEED HELP?" No it's fine I just tripped over the ruffle in the carpet a bit, my body isn't collapsing beneath me.

If I ever have a bad day, I'd love to take out my aggression by "axe tossing" or "boulder rearranging" but it's just not realistic.

I get nervous if someone hands me too many helium balloons.

The only time I'm ever not the smallest person at the gym is if someone couldn't find a babysitter.

If I ever go skydiving above a forest and my chute fails to open, instead of the branches violently but slowly breaking my fall, my narrow frame will probably slip right through the branches and I'll slam into the ground. 

If I turn on a powerful hose I fucking go flying all over the place.

SERIOUS TIME.

I'd say being skinny when I was younger may have caused a bit of insecurity to bleed into my later adolescent life for awhile, but overall I feel fine about it now. And why shouldn't I? Basically, nobody cares. I don't think I've got any deep psychological scarring from it, and besides, literally everyone has their hangups about how they look, and coming to terms with how you look becomes easier once you realize that. 

Oh god I sound like the end of an episode of Family Matters.

Have a good day everyone.

What an Asshole.

Here is another chapter in the "things I've told some of you but will now flesh out for all the internet to see." This is a tale of a huge asshole.

It began last weekend, when after a couple days of rehearsing with the band, I needed to hop back on a Metro North train from New Haven, CT to take me home to Brooklyn. I had taken this trip several times before, and it's usually pretty uneventful. This time would be different! DUMDUMDUM... 

I arrived at the train station at about 6pm. I checked the schedule and saw the next train to Grand Central was at 6:27 on track 14. A slight wait, but no big deal. I headed through the tunnel, and up to track 14, whereupon I saw a train pulling into the station. "Awesome!" I thought, because although sometimes you get lucky like this, a lot of times the train doesn't arrive until a couple minutes before departure, so you're stuck standing on the platform for awhile in cold, or dark, or in this case heat. So yay! Now I could sit in an air conditioned car while I waited to leave. 

The train pulled in, paused for a beat, and then let all the passengers off. I like to sit near the front, so as I was moving up the platform, I did the awkward "try to walk past someone and pick the same side as them multiple times" dance at least 3 times before just standing the fuck still and waiting for the hordes to pass me by. Once the train was empty and the platform clear, I headed the rest of the way up towards the front, and hopped into the second car. As I strolled through the empty car to find my seat, the doors closed. "Hmm, weird" I thought. Then the doors opened back up. Was this to invite me back onto the platform? I paused, and listened for someone on the intercom to say "please step off the train", but didn't hear anything so I assumed the doors were staying open. It wasn't that long before departure I guess, so it made sense that they'd just let people board as they arrived. I walked up to the very front car, and had a seat. The doors closed again. Hmm. I remembered how sometimes the crew does this thing where they'll only open the cars in the middle, so I assumed because I'd gotten on the train fairly early that's what they were doing. The middle doors were probably still open. Secretly though, I was nervous that maybe all the doors were closed, and this train was going to leave. Maybe it had to pull onto a maintenance track, after having barely arrived in one piece. Maybe it was actually a different train that was slated to arrive a bit later that would actually be taking on passengers. But no! Nonsense! I thought. Nobody told me to get off. Every time I've ever stayed on a train when I wasn't supposed to, someone has made it very clear very quickly to get the hell off. That didn't didn't happen, and the train remained on the tracks for several more minutes, so I figured I was good to go. It was about 20 minutes to departure at this point, so I just pulled out my book and started reading, basking in the temporary capaciousness. 

I was a bit startled when the door opened up and a gentleman appeared. He locked the door behind him with a special key, so apparently he was the conductor or some other crew member. He walked to the front into the little conductor room, pulled a few switches or whatever it is these guys do, and walked back into the aisle, carrying himself with a bit of a surly disposition. I'm sitting maybe fifteen feet away from him, and despite him turning vaguely in my direction at some points, he didn't acknowledge me. I assumed he would and figured "good, if I shouldn't be here, he'll let me know." Sure enough, he spotted me with a very slight, but noticeable lurch to his step. His face was a mix of surprise, and angst, like he was about to drop trow and start jerking off or something, and he was imagining what would've happened if he'd gone through with his plan before he saw me. After staring at me like I was an alien for a bit, here is how our conversation went as closely as I can recall:

Him: They let you stay on the train?
Me: No, I'm actually on the next train out.
Him: And they let you stay on? 
Me: ...No..I just got on. 
Him: Oh..well you aren't supposed to be on the train if the conductor isn't on the train. 
Me: Oh sorry, I just got on when everyone else got off, and nobody said anything.

I looked at him expectantly. He said nothing. I think he had planned for his time in this car to be alone time. So since he was probably reluctant to even start a conversation, he certainly felt no obligation to end it with any sort of closure. A few seconds passed, and I shrugged.

And he went about his business. I watched him rhythmically move about the cabin with the poise of a man that had done this before and had only recently become aware that he was awfully tired of doing it. He made his adjustments to whatever, taking these big pieces of metal off the wall, fastening them back into place, and I wondered why he'd bothered to remove them in the first place. It was fairly silent, aside from his jingling keys, and his audible breathing. I took a moment to replay the conversation in my head, feeling vaguely unsettled by the way it ended. I scanned for incendiary undertones. Eh, he was a paltry fellow that seemed incapable of subterfuge. 

Anyway, the fact that he called what I was doing "staying on" suggested that this was indeed the next train out, and it wouldn't be pulling out of the station to be switched with the actual train or anything like that. If they had had plans to do that, surely he would've told me. I figured he must've realized me getting on the train early was an accident, and since this was the train that was going to be leaving anyway, no sense kicking me off. Besides, he was apparently one of the train crew, and now that he was on the train, I wasn't technically "on the train without the conductor" anymore was I? So I went back to reading my book. It was approaching 10 minutes before departure, and many passengers were accumulating out on the platform. I was surprised they hadn't let them on yet, and decided to crouch down in my seat a bit, lest they spot me and make a fuss. 

And then, the guy left the train. Hmm, guess he wasn't the conductor? Oh well, surely the real one would be arriving soon. 

Suddenly with just over 5 minutes to departure, my worst fear came true. I watched all of the passengers on the platform do an abrupt about face and walk to the other side. FUCK! They switched tracks on me! But WHY? There was a perfectly good train sitting on track 14! Just like the sign had said! "Oh well, guess I'll get off the train. There must be some button you can push to override the doors or something!" 

Nope!

I was puzzled. I looked around for that mysterious train crew guy, but he was nowhere in sight. I walked to the other train doors. All equally closed. I walked to the next car. Although they were also just as closed, they felt extra closed, like the rubber was being squeezed to it's limit. Feeling perplexed and a bit agitated since the real train was LEAVING IN 5 MINUTES, I hit the "emergency intercom" button to get someone to open the doors. 

The instructions read: Push button, and wait for solid red light, then speak. Good, those instructions are easy to follow even while panicking! So I pushed the button and it blinked red. I guess when it turns solid, someone has acknowledged the call. Here's my impression of that stupid button:

BLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINK INFINITY.

I hung around long enough to be fairly confident that nobody was there to answer my distress call and that I would probably die alone on this train car. So I'm thinking "FUCK I'M TRAPPED FOREVER!" And I started darting between cars as fast as I could, because the faster you panic, the better your chances of escape. All the doors were still closed. Also, in these particular trains, every 3 cars or so, the doors between the cars go from small sliding doors, to big ass locked doors, which is what I was now met with. So I ran back and hit a different emergency intercom button because I dunno maybe they were wired to different speakers or some shit. I was kind of running out of options. BLINKBLINKBLINK with no answer AGAIN. My head started spinning. They were probably slowly sucking oxygen out of this train car too.

I thought about dialing 411 and getting the phone number for union station, but the clock was ticking and I didn't have time to navigate a stupid automated phone system, especially in my current adrenalized state, so I walked up to the glass on the doors, and started banging on them. Passengers walking up the platform would hopefully spot me, and get someone to let me out. Pretty quickly someone did spot me. I mouthed the words "HELP?!" as if I needed to say anything. Obviously I was on the wrong train, and needed to get off. The girl looked at me kind of puzzled, and sheepishly pointed ahead of her, probably wondering if she had just aided the possible escape of a serial killer. So I ran up to the next car, thinking maybe someone had opened a door up there. Well they were all still closed, but there was the train crew guy! PHEW. I got behind the door closest to him and banged on the glass. He looked up at me while on his phone, and although I couldn't hear him, he distinctly mouthed these words:

"That's your problem now."

Now I've been angry in my life before, very much so in fact in this story, but usually the anger is at a combination of things, or circumstances. Never have I felt such rage directed at such a singular thing: This Fucking Asshole. 

After I shook off the shock of his douchiness, I snapped back into action. He strolled away from me on the platform, but I would not be ignored. I followed him. I went to the next car, and pounded on the glass there. He kept walking. I followed again, and pounded again. He turned back in the other direction. I doubled back, and pounded the glass even HARDER. I wanted him to remember these pounds for the rest of his life. My hand still hurts from it. I was ready to break the fucking glass and deflect the inevitable punishment onto this guy since if he'd let me out like a decent person, I never would've had to break the glass. Despite my pounding and pounding, he continued to ignore me. Maybe he couldn't hear me through the several layers of dumb that surrounded his brain.

So I reflected. Dozens of thoughts clustered into my head in a matter of seconds and I'm gonna do my best to string that cluster out into a coherent thread. 

First, this had to end one way or another, and when it did, how would I ruin this man?

Second, did I deserve this somehow? Should I really have known better? When those doors first closed, and then opened back up, should I have known that meant "get out?" Maybe. But the combined lack of announcement to exit, the fact that I was on the train on track 14 that was said to be leaving soon, and the train crew guy not telling me to get off, I think despite maybe thinking I had bent the rules a bit, staying on the train wasn't unreasonable.

And third, what was this guy's problem?! For him to trap me on this train, knowing full well he had the capability to let me out, means I must've done something to really piss him off. But during our brief conversation, he may have seemed a bit miffed, but I'd assumed that was because he hated his life or something. He didn't snap at me, didn't seem all that angry, and I stress once again, he did not tell me to get off the train. So why the total 180? Did I do something that didn't sit right with him, and after ruminating for a bit, only then did he realize how angry he was with me? What did I say? Just a few basic sentences that fairly clearly laid out how I ended up on the train, and then I sat there reading my book. Nothing objectively assholish about that I don't think. Did I make a face without realizing it? Did he not like my tone? My posture? No. I hadn't done anything wrong. Maybe this went deeper.

Maybe when I got on the train early, and got my pick of whatever seat I wanted before anyone else, he realized I'd cheated the system. Perhaps watching me do so brought on a flood of painful memories for him. He simultaneously remembered all of the times in his life he'd ever waited in line while other people got better seats than him. Dozens and dozens of bus stations. Train stations. Airports. Always getting the shitty seat. Maybe that's why he ended up working as a train crew member. Now he would always have a seat to himself on the train. But then I showed up, and despite having not payed my dues, having not gone to train school(?), and not working my way up the corporate ladder, I'd found a way to get a seat all to myself. The fact that I had found this shortcut made him furious. This workaround that had always been so elusive to him, and I had found it so easily. He thought of all his failures in life. I became the personal embodiment of anyone that had ever wronged him. He needed justice, so he trapped me on the train, with only minutes before departure. I would watch all the passengers climb in, the doors would close a mere fifteen feet from me, and I would watch it pull away, trapped behind the glass of the train that was not to be. 

So I yelled. I knew nobody was listening, and it was clear that these doors were quite soundproof. So I yelled and yelled and pounded the glass more and more. He continued to ignore me and ignore me and ignore me. I became a caged beast, reduced to only my primal urges. I took one final stroll to the front car of the train and threw my arms up in defeat. It was 6:25. The doors of the other train would be closing very soon. I put my hands on my hips, eyes wide, breaths heavy and deliberate. I was starting to fantasize about the terrible ways I would make this man's life terribly inconvenient for awhile. I turned..

And the guy was inside the train, one car up. He was going to let me out!? I guess he had the tiniest shred of decency in him, and realized "holy shit if I actually let the train leave without this guy I'm a much much much bigger asshole than I imagined him to be." After all, what if I had something extremely important to go to? For all he knew I was meeting someone in the hospital! 

I made eye contact with him, and he made a douchey face while yelling something. I was behind 2 soundproof doors, so obviously I couldn't hear him. I made a probably equally douchey face while making a flailing hand gesture that tried to communicate "I can't hear you idiot". I walked through the doors to the next car as he was in the middle of his shouty lesson:

MAYBE NOW YOU'LL DO WHAT YOU'RE TOLD!! MAYBE NOW WHEN SOMEONE SAYS NOT TO GET ON THE TRAIN YOU'LL--

But I was in no fucking mood. I stopped him right there. Foul language ahead:

NOBODY TOLD ME ANYTHING YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE. YOU DIDN'T TELL ME TO GET OFF THE FUCKING TRAIN. FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT.

I'm amazed I didn't try to break his face. I felt pretty self-righteous for a bit, thinking "what gives him the right to trap someone on the train like that? Who is HE to teach someone a lesson about proper rules of the train this way, when I didn't even realize I was breaking them? Nobody told me not to get on the train, and when he had a chance to inform me of the error politely, and ask me to leave the train,he did not." Instead he assumed I got on the train early to piss him off and took it personally. He made me think, up until the very last minute, that I would miss my train. How long had he planned this? Was he alerted via some secret earpiece (that he probably felt all smug about having) that the train was switching, and that's why he got off the train? Did he have a chance to warn me at that point and instead took it upon himself to enforce the rules in the very worst possible way?  

He continued his rant with NO! YOU WAS TOLD NOT TO GET ON THE TRAIN BLAH BLAH BLAH I'M A GIANT DUMBASS, and saying some more of the wrongest of things that are wronger than wrong. Why was he saying I was told that? Didn't he remember not telling me that? Didn't I tell him nobody said anything? Didn't he remember talking with me, letting me sit there for several minutes as he went about his business? Would I just sit there like that if he'd told me to get off the train? I briskly walked across the platform into the thankfully still open doors of the correct train. The doors closed fairly soon afterwards, and I gave the guy the finger all the way out of the station. 

People I ended up sitting near probably overheard a bit of the conversation, and I got a few perplexed looks, but I didn't share the story with anyone. I was too busy fuming. I was literally shaking with rage. It took me half the train ride to calm back down.

And then occurred a brilliant display of the universe balancing itself back out. 

Nobody came to collect my ticket. The tickets are good in either direction for two months, and I will certainly use the ticket soon.

I rode the train for free that day. 

Man, fuck that guy.