On the train to the city this morning, I look out my window and see a young woman, barefoot in a revealing minidress, carrying gold high heels, weaving on the edge of the platform. Walk of shame? Call girl with a hangover? Ah, it's so hard to tell these days. Suddenly she climbs down and wanders up the tracks unsteadily. Whoa, situation upgraded to Drug Overdose or Suicide Pact. I mean, she's half-dressed and barefoot, and it's winter, y'know? Alarmed, I call 911. As I calmly give the description of the girl, some dude near the front of the train stands up, stares at me, and clears his throat cinematically. (Cuz I'm in the quiet car, don't you know.) I calmly hang up and announce, "I just want the throat clearer and all of you to know that was a 911 call to report someone drunk on the tracks." My seatmates are incredulous. You try to help and this is what you get! I replied that had I been on Amtrak, I would have been tackled like a terrorist.
We get to the station and the throat-clearing dude comes up to me and says, "Miss, I'm very, very sorry. I was wrong." I told him it was all right, that I understood (and I resisted the urge to tell him to take up yoga.)
I tried to remember the last time someone ten years younger than me called me 'miss.' Or the last time a man told me he was not only sorry, but wrong.
Karma nicely corrected, don't you think? Then the conductor called and verified that the girl had been crossing the tracks, and had made it to the other side.
Now let's hope she also got some coffee and a jacket.