I stepped into the 2 express train on a mission to meet Ben in Times Square, and was surprised to find the subway car empty during the 5pm Friday night rush. Well, almost empty, with the exception of three strange men.
I selected a seat near their group. As I hovered above the seat and started to sit down, eyes averted from the male passengers, one of them shouted.
“Watch out! That guy has cooties!”
I froze, stood upright, and stepped back. My response sent the men into fits of laughter.
“You hesitated! She hesitated, Vern. We got her!”
Of course, I HESITATED. I want to live a healthy, long life. To not have people question the cause of my death, with someone having to say, “Oh, it’s really too bad. The cooties got her.”
At home, cooties are harmless and contracted from cute, little boys on playgrounds that chase even cuter, little girls. But, not here, not in New York City, hundreds of feet underground in a dimly lit subway car where a strange man in his mid-forties has cooties, which only means a number of things to a small town girl. None of which are pleasant. At best, some untreatable disease transmitted by a sneeze, cough, or slight brush of the hand.
I summoned my best southern manners, smiled weakly, and gracefully sat down on the orange plastic seat.
“Don’t worry. He doesn’t have cooties. We were just kidding.”
Really, oh, thank God. Somehow I missed the humor in that joke. I rubbed my insurance card between my fingers, wondered what battery of tests a hospital uses to check for cooties, and mapped out the quickest route to the nearest clinic.
I stood when my destination arrived. The men waved goodbye; one winked and shot me a thumbs up sign. I walked onto the platform, thankful to see Ben’s smiling face, knowing I married someone cootie-free.
I selected a seat near their group. As I hovered above the seat and started to sit down, eyes averted from the male passengers, one of them shouted.
“Watch out! That guy has cooties!”
I froze, stood upright, and stepped back. My response sent the men into fits of laughter.
“You hesitated! She hesitated, Vern. We got her!”
Of course, I HESITATED. I want to live a healthy, long life. To not have people question the cause of my death, with someone having to say, “Oh, it’s really too bad. The cooties got her.”
At home, cooties are harmless and contracted from cute, little boys on playgrounds that chase even cuter, little girls. But, not here, not in New York City, hundreds of feet underground in a dimly lit subway car where a strange man in his mid-forties has cooties, which only means a number of things to a small town girl. None of which are pleasant. At best, some untreatable disease transmitted by a sneeze, cough, or slight brush of the hand.
I summoned my best southern manners, smiled weakly, and gracefully sat down on the orange plastic seat.
“Don’t worry. He doesn’t have cooties. We were just kidding.”
Really, oh, thank God. Somehow I missed the humor in that joke. I rubbed my insurance card between my fingers, wondered what battery of tests a hospital uses to check for cooties, and mapped out the quickest route to the nearest clinic.
I stood when my destination arrived. The men waved goodbye; one winked and shot me a thumbs up sign. I walked onto the platform, thankful to see Ben’s smiling face, knowing I married someone cootie-free.
1 comment:
I am relieved that you didn't catch cooties today. What a close call! I really love reading your blog... I usually read it to my roommate too because I'm laughing so hard. haha You have two blog fans in room 249! Good Luck with your new job!
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