Back when I was commuting I had a travel mug that developed a leak. I first noticed it when I took the mug out of my backpack and saw a wet spot on my newspaper. I wiped the dripping mug down with some tissues and finished my tea.
The following day, while getting ready for work I realized I forgot to buy a new one so I placed the leaky travel mug inside a Ziploc bag then carefully put it in my backpack so it wouldn’t drip on anything. I figured I’d throw it out in Manhattan and buy a new one when I went out for lunch.
I took my seat in Oakdale Station, opened my paper- nice and dry, put the backpack on the floor, and read my way into Manhattan.
When I got to Jamaica Station, as usual, it was time for tea.
I reached into my backpack and felt a red-hot filled bladder bag.
I slowly lifted it. The travel mug completely emptied its contents and was submerged.
I held the bag up in front of me and the mug slowly laid to its side at the bottom like a dying whale.
I put the it on my lap and gently pulled the top of the Ziploc open.
I retrieved the mug. Burning my hand in the red hot tea, I dropped it. This made a small wet spot by my zipper. In my frantic attempt to wipe that dry, my hand slapped the bag and a boiling wave gushed out of the top and crashed on my genitals. My mouth hung open and my head vibrated in a silent scream.
I looked down at an oolong tea-hued wet spot on my Dockers the size of Lake Huron with my zipper at its epicenter.
I turned my head to look out the window. The train had gone into a tunnel so the in-car lighting against the blackness outside made my reflection starkly vivid. I could see how my eyes were still watering from the scalding. My two-dimensional self and I stared at each other. I slowly raised the bag of tea almost wanting to ask my reflection what to do with it. I saw it glisten and slosh in the window.
I then saw the reflection of a man across the aisle from me. Raising the bag got his attention. He drew back his head with a grimace.
I wanted to tell him it wasn’t pee but my pants told a different story.
He buried his head back in his book.
We pulled in to Penn. People stood, collected their stuff, and migrated toward the doors.
I deftly carried the backpack in front of my crotch and held the Ziploc bag behind my back.
A smartly dressed woman stood near me with a coffee in one hand with a few fingers clawed around a small office binder. With her other hand she held snugly her small son’s hand. I imagined it was “bring your kid to work day.”
Hearing people scuttling behind me, I repositioned the hot bag to my side. This caught the kid’s eye. Mom noticed nothing.
He looked at the bag, then at me; the bag, then me, bag, me…
Fate can suck. When it finally steps in, it isn’t until it’s done its homework on you and planned how to uniquely screw you.
Fate loosened her grip and she dropped the binder out of her hand.
On impulse, I put my back pack down and got it for her.
That’s when the kid saw Lake Huron.
His bottom lip started quivering. (Shit, I’ve seen this before, I thought.) Then he made the familiar sound like an old time siren revving up on a cop car. He didn’t full-out cry but it was that beginning of one we’ve all heard. He maintained only that.
There was something wrong with that kid.
His mom immediately looked down and saw everything: the kid, the bag, the lake.
“EWW!!” she blared with a mean accusatory sneer.
The doors opened and she yanked at her son’s arm like she was starting a lawn mower. His feet left the ground. She couldn’t get him away from me fast enough.
I got on the platform amidst hundreds of bustling workers.
NO garbage cans.
This being not long after 9/11, all the waste cans throughout Penn Station were removed. They were later replaced with bomb-proof ones that are still there today.
I gave in and relaxed my arms letting them hang at my side, backpack hanging from one hand, a bag of tea from the other, and a distinct badge of shame in the middle.
You won, Fate.
So if any of you saw me riding up the multiple escalators and walking out of Penn Station that day, it was tea in that bag and that stain wasn’t what you thought it was.
Oh, and pointing doesn’t help anything, by the way.