Nearly every morning, I see this guy on the train. He's one of those people that — just based purely and superficially on appearance — you know is an asshole. You know the type. I can't quite pinpoint what it is about him that assures me that he's an asshole, but I know that he is. It may be his default facial expression. It's sort of a haughty sneer; mouth turned down slightly at the corners, furrowed brow, heavy-lidded judgmental eyes. Maybe it's that fact that, despite numerous cautions and warnings from SEPTA, he still insists on placing his expensive-looking briefcase on the seat next to him. Perhaps it's the one time, on a particularly crowded train, the only available seat was the case-filled one next to him. When I asked to sit, he hesitated before he moved his bag and then refused to give up the full 50% of the seat. He encroached on my space for the entire journey to work, trying to edge me out onto the aisle. I think he even leisurely crossed his legs at one point, revealing a designer sock between a tooled-leather shoe and a hairy shin.
|Know your train.|
It was the asshole.
He fumbled from pocket to pocket in a mad search to locate his phone. All the while, the bright vocals of Lennon and McCartney soared loudly above George Harrison's jangly guitar, filling the train car.
"Wow!" I thought, "Maybe I had this guy all wrong. No asshole could possibly have a peppy, cheerful song like 'She Loves You' as their ringtone!" I looked up from my book, cocked my head, and silently pondered this guy again, reconsidering my earlier stance.
Then he stepped out into the aisle, blatantly cutting in front of a woman trying to exit the train. He had that regular scowl on his face.
Looks like I was right all along.