Your bookcase

Ms. Swan

Stuffed on a subway in mid-September is a poor way to begin a story. I know, I know.
Yet here I am, surrounded by hobos who were too lazy to shave their face or put on somewhat pretty clothes, punks who have no idea how to paint their face, and platinum blondes with tits about the size of beach balls.
People have to learn how to act.
Take the family in the corner, for instance. Little brats sitting there faking smiles with their mother.
We all know you just want candy.
When the scouts enter the subway, dirty hands clutching boxes of cupcakes whom go to "charity", I take it for enough and leave the tram.
Before I leave, I catch a glimpse of the mother buying cupcakes with her children.
So they got their wish.
That mother doesn't know how to raise her children. They're going to be like that hobo.
People are disgusting.
And because people are disgusting, I step in a dog shit right outside the subway, fall in a puddle, and get to the usual cafe approximately fifteen minutes late.
And guess who has my table?
The family from the subway.
They probably don't even know that's my seat!
And when I complain to a worker, it goes to hell.
As usual.
"Why is my table taken?"
The waitress doesn't care. What kind of waitress doesn't care? It's my seat!
"Ms Swan," she begins, but I cut her off.
She's just a waitress. She shouldn't talk to a customer.
"Mrs Swan."
She sighs.
"Not anymore, ms Swan."
That. That was the line.
"I am reporting you. Make me my coffee. Extra-"
"Extra cinnamon. We know."
I sit down inside, next to the window. I want to be able to see if the family leaves.
The little girl is cuddling her mother.
I used to have a mother.
She was my mentor, who I looked up to, my everything.
Then she died.
She can't be my everything if she's dead.
"Here's the coffee, extra cinnamon."
The waitress, very rudely, interrupted my train of thought, and handed me a black drink.
Not enough cinnamon. I can see it from here.
She didn't really want to give me the drink. Or maybe she was waiting that I'd make space for it on the counter (which I will not, it's their job), but whatever. The customer is always right.
I decided, since the waitress obviously has no idea how to do her job, to pick the coffee up myself.
I might have pushed the cup a little bit, a waitress should know how to balance a cup better.
She didn't. As I repeat, she's crap at her job.
What happened next went fast. It doesn't matter how it happened, it was her fault, she's crap at her job and should get the sack, but I found myself soaked in coffee.
My red coat.
Soaked.
For some reason, after giving the waitress a piece of my mind, I was thrown out. Nobody has the right to do that! They're just workers! I am a customer!
I point my nose home, channeling my rage into thoughts.
Some sicko thing my therapist told me to do. It's a habit.
I guess I'm really supposed to think happy thoughts, like rainbows and unicorn shit and whatnot.
I don't have many happy thoughts. My brains strolls back to Dean.
Dean, my former husband, who one day had come into my room and declared he didn't love me anymore.
We didn't fight a lot or anything. He just "didn't love me".
When you get married, you exchange vows to always love each other.
But if a wow can be broken, just by walking into my room and speaking,
how can you ever love someone?
About four people crashed into me as I walked. People have to learn to look around.
A hobo walks up to me and asks me to join some cult or something. Something gross.
I don't listen. People like that shouldn't show themselves in public.
I walk on as a stream of people push past me and almost run me to the ground, push me on.
I see a group of people. Sounds such as kids crying, adults yelling, discussing.
I don't get it. I don't get what's going on.
I push past all the people, and the sight makes me bring my hands to my face.

A drunk driver, probably. A drunk driver had driven over someone, and they lay still and motionless on the pavement, eyes foggy, staring.
Dead.
"Someone call an ambulance! Do something!" I yell, stepping out to look at the people gathering.
Multiple people pick up their phones from their pockets, dialing. Yet the ambulance takes fifteen minutes to arrive.
When they finally do, they walk around asking what happened. I don't know what happened. I leave.
But someone stops me.
It's one of the police men- they must've came when the ambulance did- and he grabs my shoulder and turns me around. He's probably going to grill me with questions.
But he smiles at me, like a proud dad.
"You yelled for someone to do something, right? That's you?
"It's me." I turn around to face him completely.
His hair is curly. I like his hair.
"It was great. You saved a life today," -he widened his smile-"the doctor found out that the person wasn't dead, but in a coma. If you hadn't called out, she would be dead."
My shoulders sink.
I saved a life? Me? Miserable, broken, me?
"So because of me, a woman is going to get to live a full life?"
"She may end up in a wheelchair." He shifted his stance. "But she'll be fine."
He walked away, leaving me alone with my amazement.
I saved a life today.
When I turn and walk back, the hobo walked up to me again. This time, I listened to what he had to say.
"Would you like some tea? I'm making a new recipe," he said with a crotchety, scrawny voice, smiling up at me.
I nod and he runs into his tent to get a cup, walking back out with one of the metal cups you buy to bring with you to the gas station.
He stares at me in a way that's not creepy; it makes me happy that I'm holding a cup of his tea in my hands.
I take a sip while he watches me, eager with anticipation.
The taste of the tea spreads on my tongue, like wild flowers and grass and trees blooming high up to the sky, it's heavy branches lifting swings where kids play around while their caretakers sit on carpets filled with squares of all shapes and colors, drinking tea.
Drinking this tea.
I snap back into the real world, and I must've looked like I enjoyed it, because the man has straightened his back and is beaming at me.
"Did you like the tea?"
His voice is way more pulled together now.
"It was wonderful," I say, handing the cup back, but he makes a gesture and tells me to keep it.
So I walk on, cup in hand and smile on my face, down to the underground.
And sitting on the train, I spot a woman crammed on a seat between a hobo and a punk.
And I smile.