credits: Runs with Scissors

No other city in the world could have produced Seinfeld.

Interesting situation on the B train from Brooklyn this morning:

I was standing in the doorway listening to my iPod very loud. I do this so I hear ABSOLUTELY NOTHING BUT WHAT I WANT TO HEAR.

The train was moving along at a nice clip when I felt a tug on the back of my jeans, about calf-high. I turned around and saw a man looking up at me, pointing to a torn magazine page on the floor by my feet. He says something I can’t hear, pointing at the paper.

“It’s not mine,” I said.

His eyes narrowed; he kept pointing, mouthing something. I noticed his lap was full of files, folders, assorted loose papers: he wanted me to pick it up. I stared at him for a moment, bent down, and handed him the paper. He tucked it into his pile and blew air out of his mouth in a way that suggested he was irritated with me.

Now.

The loose page WAS far enough away from him that he would have had to shuffle his files in order to reach over the side of the the bench and grab it. The loose page WAS NOT so far away from him that he would have had to get up.

Now.

Was I the bottom in this situation?

My back was to him and I was holding my iPod in my hand, CLEARLY listening to music - did this guy figure, hey, let’s see if I can get this kid to pick up my trash?

Or am I over-reacting, and was the man just trying to avoid spilling his legal briefs all over the train?

NOTE: I would never ask someone to pick up something for me. On the train, on the street, anywhere. Never.