The morning commute on CalTrain is a drab one. Lots of meek button-ups, lots of gray-green fleece, lots of graphic t’s printed with uneventful startup logos. Some occasional sojourns by nerds into edgy territory: a Mohawk on one, sleazebag sunglasses on another. Little dead-end adventures that usually settle themselves out into brown leather shoes with a sporty comfort sole.
Here is a thing of commuter trains that pass through affluent areas: there are besuited and groomed men who not only commit the sin of hogging the outside seat, they also slop the inside seat with their bag, their briefcase, their repellant backpack. They then insert headphones so that you must ask them to remove their headphones in order to then ask them if you might take that seat that their accessories are currently occupying. Men of less careful habit, who are suitless and of ordinary grooming, find themselves intimidated to ask this series of questions, and so they stuff themselves standing into the vestibules at the end of the carriage.
Men who hog seats are no men at all. They are babies who swapped their onesies for threesies, brats whose brattishness has no doubt benefitted them in business. They are jerks whose livelihood is making pushy yakkity-yak. Why do our businesses continue to pay for the bluster of assholes? When will us wussies claim our rightful seats?