Dear Diary:
Heading to work, I changed trains at the 96th Street station for one more stop to 103rd Street. As I waited for the No. 1 train, passengers from four express trains disgorged their passengers onto an overloaded platform. When the No. 1 train finally arrived I pushed and squeezed my lean, slim body into the last remaining space on that overcrowded car, just before the doors closed, making me the last man on.
Then I realized that my rather loose-fitting shirt was caught in the door and I was being held captive.
Being a cool, calm and collected New Yorker, I remained in place, not wanting to extract myself by tugging and possibly ripping a shirt that I really liked and not wanting to draw any attention to my amusing predicament.
So, there I stood, patiently, waiting for the next stop, knowing that the doors would open and I would soon be set free. But open they did not. Not at the 103rd Street station, or the 110th Street station รข€¦ not for 15 more stops. At each and every stop I watched the doors open, on the opposite side of the car, as it emptied and I stood in place, as if this were my preferred place to stand on the No. 1 train.
I was finally released at the 242nd Street station, when the doors opened on my side of the platform, and I walked away cool, calm and collected, with my shirt intact, the last man off.
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