Whiteface

Far be it from Bohemigrant to ask the good people of New York City for any favors, but hell hath no fury like an immigrant scorned. Subway protocol dictates that we each entrench ourselves in a corner and hold on to our belongings like we do our militia muskets. No looking, no talking, and certainly no touching. And truthfully, on the morning commute, this minimalist approach often makes the maximal sense.

There is one component of this mass-transit reticence, though, that this blog would soon see quashed. Oftentimes, Bohemigrant, in his haste and morning-time sloth, is sloppy brushing his teeth. And on those days, it is not until he walks in the bathroom at work, sometimes as late as noon, that he discovers a huge white spot on his left cheeck. We admit, there is no easy way to engage a man on a train with such a matter without incurring the reputation of a Buttinski and the general scorn of your train-mates.

But come on, you stupid drones—there’s gotta be a way! There’s a huge chalk-white spot on my fucking face, forchrissake! Do you think I might not want it there? What, do you comfort yourself with the thought that I like to show off my Rembrandt whitening gel? Or that I’m careless enough not to wipe down after sucking down on a big one? At least laugh at me, something! Anything! Don’t ask don’t tell is for them soldier boys! We’s civilians, so let’s be civil!