Dear girl on the subway,

dearmeat:

Sorry about shouldering you out of my way when I got on the train. I was the guy in the pinstripe suit on Downtown Crossing. When you’re in a rush you tend to forget your manners. Well, that’s the bullshit I tell myself so I don’t have to deal with people in public. Not that I was in much shape to be dealing with people. I had a glass (two bottles) of chardonnay to get myself to sleep the previous night. I had put a shot (three of them) of Remy Martin (VS, I save the XO for celebrations) in my coffee to take the edge off.

Ironically, I was on my way to meet with a customer. You know that process where you kiss some stranger’s feet and spew lies so they’ll buy your database software? I hope you don’t, because it’s pretty degrading. For him, I mean. I get a gauge on his confidence by shaking his hand. (Sweaty palms, poor guy.) When I’m adjusting my chair, I’m actually checking which way his feet are pointing. (Right at me with a little jerk in his knees. Perfect.) Sure I complimented his watch, but the fact that he’s scratching the back of his hand is much more important. (I didn’t know my persuasiveness made you allergic to the wristband.) I made the sale, by the way. Celebration’s tonight. (Just like every night.)

You were on the phone at the time. You were probably relieved that I shook you like that. Whoever it was on the other end wasn’t making your life any better. I didn’t bother listening to your words; I just heard your voice barely above the hum of the rails. Deadbeat roommate who needs to borrow money for the rent again? (Nah, you don’t twirl your hair like that over a crappy friend.) Cheating boyfriend who came home last night with lipstick on his collar? (No, you don’t sigh and roll your eyes at that kind of scumbag.) Overbearing bitch of a mother who keeps asking when you’re going to start pumping out babies? (Nobody chews gums over the phone with mom.)

Every few seconds you’d pull the phone from your face and check the screen, like something on it mattered. Your fingers drummed against the seat and your nose twitched every time before you spoke. By the time I was halfway to my stop, you couldn’t stop staring at your feet. It couldn’t be depression. (That’s far too plain for a girl with flaxen hair.) General anxiety disorder is in vogue right now, but really needs something extra to keep it fresh. How about something from the second axis, like histrionic personality disorder? And maybe a psychosomatic rash on the back of your shoulder for garnish. That sounds about right. (What, nobody ever told you every failed psychiatrist goes into sales?)

And then you hung up and flashed a smile at me.

It’s hard to forget that I wake up every morning and face a soul sucking job. That my boss abuses me because he knows every commission is the difference between Christian Brothers and Remy Martin and I keep my shit just together enough because I’ll die without my cognac. That I’m a med school dropout who burns his money at the liquor store instead of paying back that pesky debt. But you left your baggage behind for a minute, and I had to do the same.

I should have said hello and commented on what a hell of a phone call that was. It’s easy to tell when people need to vent, and you were first in line. Should have told you about how Debussy could have curbed your woes, because it’s always worked for me. Instead I gave you a shitty smile back and looked at my feet.

Sorry about that.

Yours,

A functioning alcoholic