Entwined

On the uptown D (the original B express)

As the doors opened at 42nd St. and a girl jumped up and out, I allowed the seat below me to stay vacant for a more worthy occupant. But the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry. Just as a seat-hugry woman who looked to be in her sixties boarded and lit up with joy at my passive gentlemanship, an Indian slacker with a slicked indie-rock hairdo carrying a rolled-up poster made a beeline for the seat, displacing the poor lady right in front of her nose. As I contemplated intervening, the understandably captious lady made a sarcastic remark I couldn't hear over my new mp3 player.

The slacker glibly retorted: "Go fuck yourself, lady!"

As I considered the issue of justice and started making peace with my conscience, the lady, now making a deperate lunge for a cross-car seat, seemed to be pulling me with her. Then I realized she was, dragging me after the headphone cord wrapped around one of her coat buttons like a willful puppy. "Whoa, whoa there, lady!" I warned as the Indian let out another flurry of invective. And, with a nibmle move, I extricated myself from her woolen leash.