Metro Fight

Two weeks ago, I intentionally, ever so slightly, stepped on the back heel of my Metro nemesis’s tightly laced oxford. He is an angular faced man with distinct eyes and ramen-curly graying hair. He cuts off people in line for the escalator. He doesn’t make eye contact with the elderly or handicapped when he’s sitting in their reserved seats. He breaks every unspoken Metro riding norm with an obnoxious blend of selfish zeal and oblivion. As he dismounted the escalator, I felt rather proud of the grumbling he produced while scurrying aside to re-lace his shoe—now relegated to lose his self-imposed race to Metro exit stalls.

The people’s champion! Sweet retribution!

A few days later I found myself sprinting though the West Falls Church station to catch an oncoming train. Drawing near, I heard the familiar ding which signaled an imminent train departure and was faced with the split second decision of trying to Indiana Jones it through the closing doors or accept defeat and wait. My leap was jack rabbit swift but my elevation was ill judged and the top of my dome payed the excruciating price. The commotion and skull cracking thud startled my fellow morning commuters. One lady sympathetically cheered a little, which was nice, but as I lay on my backside gathering my wits (along with my hat and umbrella), a chortling man’s beady eyes under a mop of salt and pepper curls made one thing abundantly clear — karma is for real, yo.