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# 19: A Little Less Attitude
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By Maura Madden
Have you ever heard about the straw? You know, the straw that broke the camel's back? Sure you have. There was this camel, see, and the camel was full of water, I guess, and it was carrying a lot of things - a person or two, a few pieces of furniture, maybe a good-looking kilim rug. At any rate, this camel had a heavy burden, and it was hurting, but it kept on keeping-on. That is, until someone put a straw on top of the rug on top of the armoire on top of the dresser next to the man and woman riding side-saddle. When that straw landed, it was curtains for the camel. Back pain for the rest of its life.
These are some of the pieces of furniture that have been on my back recently: I am still a temp. I am still in debt. I am still not done with my taxes. It snowed on April 6th. I realize that, in the grand scheme of things, my problems are minor. But things just aren't quite right. My ducks are not in a row, the chips are not falling into place, and nothing seems to be coming up roses. I am a burdened beast of burden.
My straw landed on Friday, as I made my way home at the end of another shitake day at work. It was 4:45. I was trying to go home to Brooklyn, change my clothes, have something to eat and get to Soho by 6:30. It was not looking good.
I made my way to the entry turnstiles at Grand Central, moving quickly so as to make the approaching train and avoid prolonged exposure to the stench of urine. I got to the turnstile and rapidly swiped my 7-day Metrocard, now four days into its lifespan. The small digital screen flashed, "Please swipe again." I assumed that I had been too hasty so I ran it through once more, but this time, I was smooth and s-l-o-w. "Please swipe again," the screen repeated. So I did. But the turnstile was not having it. I ran it through again and again and again, always with the same result. "Please swipe again." "Please swipe again." "Please swipe again."
I'll give you something to swipe again.
I went to the token booth clerk and explained my dilemma. She instructed me to swipe the card at her card-swiping machine. You can guess what it said. She looked on her secret screen and told me that it really should be working. I told her it wasn't. She told me I could go through the service gate.
"But will it work at the next station?" I asked.
"I don't know," she replied. "Go through the gate."
Unwilling to argue with her at this point, despite the fact that I knew this was only a short-term solution to a long-term problem, I rushed to the gate, card in hand, and pushed through. I was making a beeline for the downtown staircase when suddenly, out of nowhere, a man in a Dallas Cowboys windbreaker approached me with a menacing look.
"Excuse me, Miss," he said, and flashing a police badge firmly lodged in the palm of his hand. He gave me that look. The look that tells you that you are in big trouble, Missy. I was aghast. First, swipe again, and now, now I am going to be arrested. I was not happy.
"That woman told me to go through the gate!" I huffed, motioning towards the token booth clerk, my voice thick with aggro bitchiness.
"A little less attitude," he snarled. This benign-looking would-be Cowboys fan was now making it clear that if I maintained or increased my current level of attitude, he was going to take me downtown.
"I'm sorry," I apologized, trying to regain composure. "I've had a really bad day, and my friggin' card wonÕt work, and every time I try to swipe it through it tells me to swipe again and so woman told me to come through the gate so that's why I did it!"
"A little less attitude," he repeated, this time with a dash of empathy. He touched his ear and listened. He was getting information. I held my breath. He nodded at the token booth clerk. "Okay, she said she told you to go through."
I enjoyed a brief sigh of relief. "Thank you!" I replied as I ran to make the next train. And I didn't look back. I was afraid he might change his mind and choose to retain me, keeping me in custody on the grounds that I was guilty of harboring a bad attitude. And I was afraid that when it went to trial, the judge would throw the book at me. |
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