We had all waited the better part of an eternity for a train to show up, so by the time the doors opened, everyone crushed inside. But in a precise and practiced order: As always, the quick-steppers are first. Usually iPod-listening men in their 20s or 30s, they come from somewhere in the back in the pack, far enough away that they get a running start. With speed and a steely determination, they blow right past the ledge-waiters. Often short, older women or anyone who came without reading material, ledge-waiters claim their territory with a wide stance and cold stare. They plant themselves close enough to the edge of the platform that no one dares step in front of them. No one except the quick-steppers, who do so with a screw-you-all purpose. The ledge-waiters, once passed by like a wilted kale garnish on the fried-seafood platter of life, scowl and mutter and try to muscle their way through the doorway, as though terrified that they won't get on. Or just steamed that their first-in-lineness was so blatantly scorned.
And yet, despite the pushing and shoving, everyone fits in. We all do. Almost all of the time, people. Or is that not the point?
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