Two days ago, I was on the green line express to Grand Central on my way home from work, leaning against the doorway as I meticulously typed a blog post about my newfound (and belated) love for Band of Horses on my BlackBerry, when a woman a foot away from me screamed, "Oh, my god!" and pushed everyone around her back toward the opposite end of the car. I looked up from my writing to see that the man sitting on the seat closest to me was vomiting all over the train floor, quietly but forcefully.
It was translucent pink liquid, and it was mere millimeters from my new red plaid flannel shoes. As the train rolled forward, the puke rolled backward, closer and closer to all of the other passengers. Everyone across from the man quickly stood up and moved to where the screaming lady was standing, and I slunk farther against the door on my tiptoes, but the man sitting directly next to the vomiting guy stayed sitting, almost as if he was unaware that anything was happening, though it was pretty clear from the trajectory of the puke that his coat had to be covered in it.
I heard a kid in a group of teenagers say, "Homey just juiced on the floor!", but the rest of us were just watching him silently as he leaned over his legs, still looking queasy. Even though the screaming woman had been thrown up on, she immediately started asking the guy if he was okay. He didn't answer at first, and I wondered if he just couldn't hear her with his iPod earbuds still in, but after repeated askings, he finally nodded slowly, said he was okay, and apologized softly several times. The woman said, "It's okay. I'm sure you feel worse than we do."
At Grand Central, the woman convinced him to get off the train and wait until he felt better, and everyone politely allowed him to get off first. Mostly because no one wanted to get near him, but still. I appreciated that the woman could be so kind in light of her vomit-covered pants, but any sort of pay-it-forward lesson that could be learned was obviously entirely lost on me, because my favourite part of the situation was watching people rush onto the train excitedly to grab the empty seats and realize they were walking through puke.
Comments
You are obviously not a real new yorker if you call it "the green line." Absolutely no one from New York calls it that- we refer to it as the "4-5-6" train, or by it's individual number, as in "You take the 6 train to 33rd Street."
Go back to Jersey, or wherever you came from.
Oh, screw off Ms. "The Green Line?". I've worked with this girl for quite some time--she calls it the 4/5 in real life, too, just like everyone else. Which, if you were a real New Yorker, you'd know it's *not* really the 4/5/6 but is actually the IRT Lex line. Guess you must be a transplant, too.
I'm definitely not a New Yorker, no, but I'm well aware of how people love to call other people out for using the color names. I did it because I didn't know whether I was on the 4 or 5, and I'm not embarrassed. I appreciate the Jersey hate, though.
God, puking on public transportation would be so incredibly mortifying. I'm surprised his puking didn't start the chain reaction of everyone else puking like it does in the movies.
How's that for irony? Within 10 minutes of posting a story about the kindness of New Yorkers to strangers you get a comment that reveals the churlishness of New Yorkers to strangers.
But your story is so similar to an experience I had in Brooklyn! http ://blog.thickcrust.com/2008/09/delightful-night-in-er.html
I just read this. This is so fun to read even though it is about throwing up on the train there in New York. I could just picture it.
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