A Metro First

after nearly ten years of using the train to commute to work, this morning marked the first time i was struck by a subway car door. the feeling of having the hard rubber molding crash against my left shoulder was as electrifying as it was embarrassing.

it all happened at Metro Center as i was transferring from the Blue to the Red Line. i took the escalator to the upper level and, to my surprise, noticed that a Red Line train had just unloaded passengers. normally, i'm just in time to dodge the trampling herd and get within feet of the door before it closes. being the cool guy i am, however, i save myself the potential shame by choosing to wait for the next train, rather than charging towards closing doors. anyway, this morning, i got very close to the doors and hadn't heard the conductor sound the chime. immediately, my mind split in two -- one side urging me to dive into the car, the other saying that the next train was only minutes away. i chose to taken on the challenge, but decided to be more covert in my approach. i stepped gingerly towards into the car and the doors caved in on me like the Red Sea. i let out a grunt and my hat fell to the left side of my face, giving me a "neighborhood watch" emblem appearance.

i think only a few people noticed what had happened, but things could have been much worse in the evening. i mean, i've seen D.C. middle and high school students let commuters have it for getting knocked aside by the train doors. i won't chance it anymore. waiting a few more minutes for the next train isn't so bad.

sometimes, when i'm taking a shit at work . . .

i get deeply involved in a game of solitaire on my phone and lose track of time. i forget my courtesy flushes and the pungent odors hover 'round me and cause me to hallucinate.

i look down to see my wingtips disappear and, suddenly, i'm barefoot w/ my toes resting in the fibers of my plush bathroom rug. the buzzing light above my head turns into a small fan. the tan stall walls turn into a bathroom sink and a striped shower curtain. i'm alone and relaxed in my oasis of a domain.

23 minutes later, the company CEO enters the restroom, Wall Street Journal in hand, and i realize that the afternoon is still young.

the battle against Greenpeace

yesterday, as i was walking to the subway from work, i noticed a cluster of Greenpeace reps. on the corner of 19th and L. my first instinct was to take a detour, since i'm not quite adept at avoiding the hippie magnetism of stringy-haird, oily faced environmentalists. one guy locked his attention in on an older black woman and i slid past him, whistling like a man at a urinal. however, in attempting to cross the street, i heard a mechanical clicking sound behind me. it was a female Greenpeace rep. and she was on crutches, trying desperately to stop me.

"Excuse me, sir! Sir!"

i looked back and made eye contact with her. her left leg was bent at a sharp right ankle and she was wearing a bulky fur hat to protect her auburn hair from the wind.

"You're an environmentalist, right?"

"Ugh, not really" i replied.

at that moment, i'd thrown her for a loop. i'd closed the lone entry point for her spiel and, in turn, forced her to dig deep for a means of holding a conversation with me.

"Well, um, have you ever heard of Greenpeace?"

by this time, i was nearly across the intersection. i'd begun to weaken, however, and contemplated stopping to listen to what she had to share. then, i remembered the fictional child, Ronnie Lobo, that i was supporting in South American and vowed to leave Ol' Gimpy behind.

as she started to request 30 seconds of my time, i picked up my walking pace from "stroll" to "brisk trot". if she really wanted to gain more volunteers for Greenpeace, i thought, she'd have to work harder. she hobbled after me on the crutches for 17 more blocks before collapsing on the glass doors of a hotel. i destroyed my new shoes in the run, but i know i taught her a valuable lesson: never take to the streets with a handicap.

i just ripped a hole in my shirt

i was walking into the restroom and rounded the corner when a nail that was jutting from the wall took a piece of my sleeve.

i see what's going on. God is sending a message to me, saying that man should be judged only on his intrinsic value. to that end, he's gradually destroying the fabrics that cover my body -- first shoes, now clothes. i expect my pants to go next, perhaps as i'm giving a presentation to one of my clients in the company conference room. the incident will cause me to run in shame through the office corridors, weeping as i watch my clothes fall to the floor.

and when i reach my office, i'll fall on my knees, sobbing, for the power of almighty God would have left me as naked as a baby.

i have holes in the bottom of my left shoe

i noticed it yesterday when my sock became extremely damp after i stepped in a puddle on the way to work. when i got into my office took a look at the sole, i noticed two quarter-sized holes. (my left shoe also has a sole in its sole, but i'm walking gingerly on it . . . kind of a limping motion.)

this is my own fault. i knew my wingtips were taking a beating ever since i started my new job last July. at my old job, my shoes never touched anything other than office carpet. i'd even take them off to drive home since my nearly two hour commute would hurt my heels. now, i scurry through the Metro corridors like an industrious rat and trudge along the busy Washington, D.C. streets. the combination of the surfaces has destroyed my precious Bostonian shoes and put me in a realm of danger.

what if i see someone i know on the way home from work? maybe it wouldn't be that big of a deal. i mean, sure, i'm walking differently, but they may think i had one of my periodic weightlifting accidents.

"Are you okay, Jamal? Why are you limping?"

"I, uh, pulled my, uh . . . lateral groin."

shit, man, what if i pass out in the street?! THEN, not only will i look foolish in front of strangers, but the aforementioned person i know will bash me when she gets back to our friends.

"Girl, guess what! I saw Jamal passed out in front of Perfect Pita! Girl, he had holes in his shoes! He was probably too broke to eat!"

indeed, the thought of it all is daunting, but i think i'm going to ride this holey shoe thing out. of my thousands of readers, i'm certain i won't encounter any of you during my commutes. furthermore, i think i'll use my shoddy footwear as an instrument of inspiration this new year. and one day they'll rip clean off my feet in the middle of a busy sidewalk . . . and i'll continue walking like nothing happened, while onlookers, aghast, will remark on the marvel that was the man who was so powerful, so determined, that his wingtips couldn't contain him.

Gwynn Park Alum Caught Making Love to Instrument

By Harmon Garfield
Thursday, January 4, 2007; Page C01

Malk, a 1998 graduate of Gwynn Park High School in Brandywine, MD, was arrested last night on the school campus on allegations of breaking and entering, as well as making love to a brass instrument. Police arrived on the scene at 6:32 AM following calls from the school's janitorial staff, which reported strange sounds coming from the band room's locker area.

"I was vacuuming when I heard sum'in like 'fnnt fnnt'," said Jasper McDonald, the school's head janitor. "It ain't sound too right -- all that bumpin'."

Police covened at the door and gave repeated requests for Malk to leave the premises, but he vehemently refused, stating that if he were to comply, he'd face a much greater shame. Police, therefore, were forced to barge into the locker room area, where they discovered Malk, naked with his penis resting in the bell of an old trombone. After separating Malk from the instrument, he reportedly began yelling obscenities and attempted to clasp onto tuba cases.

"We're thinking this is some sort of odd, dormant separation anxiety," said Charles Taylor, Chief of Southern Maryland Police. "On the way out, he was mumbling something about a 'final concert' -- one that would make flowers in the Garden of Eden kowtow."

Malk was covered with a blanket and taken into police custody, but not before being paraded in front of hundreds of curious students. The aforementioned trombone has been taken by police to a crime lab for further investigation of suspicious markings.

Wall to Wall Jamal