Men Behaving Badly

Actually, I think many women behave worse.

But we are not the ones who sit with our legs spread as far apart as possible on the subway.

And I've given a few spreadeagled guys a hard time ("I'm sure your balls are huge, but do I really have to smell them??" Giggles from fellow passengers are usually enough to shame the guy into exercising his noodley inner-thighs).

But today, the problem wasn't a leg-spreader; it was a seat-stealer.

I had to take my cat to the vet this frigid morning. So I carried her in a bulky Sherpa shoulder bag, held close to my body -- a sweater around the cat inside, and a blanket draped over the outside.

And I had a heavy knapsack of stuff for the vet on my back.

So there I am, on the DeKalb platform, train pulling in.

I hobble onto the moderately crowded Q and head towards the remaining empty seat.

About two feet from my Formica Valhalla, a smirking twentysomething shoots me a look and dives into the seat.

I sidle up to the pole in front of him, positioning my foot near his, figuring a good jolt would give me the opportunity to crush his metatarsals.

But no -- too childish, I decide (actually, the train operator didn't drive like a cabbie, for a change... so no convenient jolts).

So I'm standing there wrestling with myself, wishing I'd said something when he first sat down.

But now that the moment is gone, what do I do? Seek petty, childish, eminently satisfying passive-aggressive revenge?

I glower down at him for the full seven minutes across the Manhattan Bridge. He notices this at first, but sniffs a little scoff of victory and feigns sleep behind his tinted glasses.

Canal Street comes and the person sitting next to him gets up.

I plop down next to him, cat carrier on my lap, and turn my head to face him full-on.

"You got a problem?" he sneers.

"Yeah." I sneer back, but still can't bring myself to speak directly.

All the way to Union Square, I turn the words over in my mind. I'm not going to be passive, I decide. He put me through discomfort, and I'll return the favor. And that will be that.

Finally, as we pull into 14th Street, I get up, face him, and say:

"You knew very well I needed this seat more than you did. But you went and plopped your fat, ugly, lazy ass in it anyway." (He actually wasn't fat, but that's always a useful ephithet -- even for men.)

"But what goes around comes around. And karma is a bitch, and so am I. And with the way you act, I won't be the last bitch who bitches at you. And you'll deserve every bitchy word, you selfish, pathetic douchebag."

I head towards the open door, but turn back one last time: "And Merry Christmas."

He scoffs again, turning to the woman sitting next to him as an ally against the crazy bitch yelling at him.

But she's seen the whole thing and turns away with a little scoff of her own.

And I scoff too ... and, finally, step off.