Pardon My Zinger…

I’m not a creep. I’m most certainly not a pervert. But the other day, I somehow convinced a total stranger on the PATH train that I was both.

The morning started off terribly, which is always a good sign that something is going to happen that will have you wanting to wish for a quick and painless death by the end of the day. At least, that’s how it goes for me. Firstly, I was late getting to the main train that takes me into Hoboken everyday. I was only a minute late, but in train time that’s unforgivable. I arrived at the platform as the train was pulling up, but I still needed to pay off my parking spot. There was no feasible way I could pay for the spot on those cracker jack machines they have and get on the train too. There wasn’t nearly enough time. This inconvenience left me frozen. Why didn’t I just not pay for the spot you ask? Because, you see, the police that enforce that parking lot are borderline Nazis, and if I left a car in a spot without paying for it, they will either slap you with a ridiculous fine or remove your reproductive organs (I believe that’s the standard penalty). So, with about just enough time to scratch my balls, I began to walk away, defeated. Just then, a train attendant called out to me. Alas! They were going to wait for me! A train, wait for muah? How could this be possible? Seizing this rare opportunity, I hurried to the first parking ticket machine; “out of order”. I ran to the second one; “coins only”. You see, the only thing the parking Nazis work harder at more than giving out tickets, is making it impossible for you not to get a ticket. So, I gave up and ran onto the train. I found an empty seat and spent the whole rest of the ride saying goodbye to my nuts.

For some reason, however, I put my car keys in my front pants pocket. Usually I just toss them into my bag seeing as how I have no need for them all day. Another reason I choose to put them in my bag (and probably the more paranoid of the two) is because I’m always afraid I will stab myself where it counts. It’s not too likely, but when it comes to sharp objects and my privates, if there’s even a one percent chance of incident, they are going to be separated.

I arrived in Hoboken and quickly bolted down to the PATH train. I got on and miraculously found a seat (almost impossible on the PATH at 830am). Now, when it comes to subway passengers, very rarely do I find gorgeous women to stare at. I wish and hope and pray that there will be one positioned right in front of me, but there never is. They always somehow find the seats that are far away from me. Instead I’m always next to (or across from) the smelly, schizophrenic, malnourished, balding weirdos. I’m talking real X-Men mutant status. So imagine my surprise when an attractive girl actually sat in my vicinity that morning. She was very cute, in that wholesome, quirky way (I hate that word quirky, but I’m too fried to think of a better adjective). She was on the shorter side with nice, dark, flowing hair. I took an immediate liking to her.

The train began to move and over the course of the train ride we continued to catch each other’s glances. It seemed relatively innocent, but I started to wonder that maybe, just maybe, she was thinking the same things about me. Maybe she was actually trying to get my attention. I tend not to entertain these thoughts because it’s usually a guaranteed path to emotional distress, but I continued to cross eye sites with her. It was at this point that I noticed her glancing down at my crotch. She could have just been looking at my feet, but I was pretty sure it was right on the money. There is no way that just happened, I thought. Were my most perverted fantasies of an early morning, anonymous sexual dalliance about to come true? But then she countered that initial glance with a facial expression that seemed to be a combination of fear and concern. Confused, I looked down to see my car keys, poking into my jeans and forming a forged erection. My key chain is kind of bunched together so it appeared as one solid object. I realized the horrible illusion, and I tried to reach into my pocket and flatten the keys. It was too late, she had already stood up to walk out of the train at her stop. I wanted so desperately to stop her and explain, but it never happened. I was pretty embarrassed, but I felt even worse when I began to think about the size of the phony phallic symbol. In the words of George Costanza, “If she thinks that that was me, she is under a complete misapprehension. That was not me, Jerry, that was not me.” It was a weird moment in my life and I wish I could find that girl and apologize. Maybe I should do what this guy did.

Earlier that morning I was awarded something that comes along only once in a lifetime when it comes to public transportation: a second chance. That train attendant, for whatever reason, decided that I was a person that deserved to be given that second chance. That, perhaps, my catching that train would help better our society. And all I was able to do with that opportunity was freak a girl out with a fake boner.