I woke up in a good mood today, I really did. Once the commuting started though, my day took a decided turn south. And — so far — I’ve had three Cranky Frankie moments today.
- Claustrophobia Express. Longtime followers of iFlipFlop (my pre-Frank days) will know that I once sat next to a guy who refused to let me up when the train stopped. He wanted to be the last off the train and kept me pinned in the seat even though I told him I wanted off. Back then, I stood up and shoved past him. He said something sarcastic like “Oh, I’ll bet you have a nice education.” Upon which I wheeled around as he was standing in the aisle and busted past him. Education my ass — I showed him a deuce and a half. Here’s a little little physics, asshole: Force equals mass times acceleration. Which leads me to today — that same guy plunked down next to me at Byrn Mawr. I swelled up like a puffer fish. I stared him down. And decided that I just didn’t feel like mussing his chrome-dome comb-over. I let him sit on the inside.
- Filthadelphia. I was walking behind Smokey Joan heading south on 17th Street. She fished out her last ciggie, crumpled up her Newport pack, and tossed it into a planter. Just like that. It’s bad enough that smokers toss cigarette butts everywhere, but how hard is it to toss things in the trash? Not in Filthadelphia, the dirtiest city in America.
- Going Postal. The buzzer at our building is broken. And since our office is on the first floor, we have the joy of hearing people knocking on the door. But not our postman. Today he practically pounded the door down. When I went out there he said, “You gotta get that buzzer fixed.” I said, “Yeah, we talked to the building owner.” Then he started winding up. And for the first time I got to say right to a postman’s face: “Don’t go postal, man.” He lost it. Said he wouldn’t deliver our mail. I said okay. I hope he doesn’t go postal. Really.
So, how’s that for a start to the day? I’m thinking I should remove myself from civil society for the day. Although maybe that’s it. I hope so. I don’t want to get a blow torch and a pair of pliers, then go all medieval on someone’s ass. (Okay, I never would, but I loved that line in Pulp Fiction.)
I think I’ll go out for a Happy Meal.
