laporcupina:

(The MTA deities are Elder Gods: elemental, ruthless, demanding, and vain. MTA is a syncretic religion; it is an occasionally ill-fitting combination of three smaller pantheons: the IRT, BMT, and IND. As a result, the MTA gods are jealous gods and fights between them are frequent and frequently legendary. New Yorkers are never sure if a subway problem is the result of the gods being unhappy with their supplicants or simply squabbling among themselves, although it’s generally assumed that the century-long delay in consecrating the first of the subterranean shrines along Second Avenue after removing the sky-based temples is the reason that the locals and expresses never have their doors open at the station at the same time so you can switch.)

The scene: a crowded evening rush-hour train, two women sitting next to each other on the bench, nowhere to stand. The lady next to me, twice my size, asks me to move the straps on my backpack because they are touching her. I comply, then go back to my doze. A stop later, she’s at it again, complaining that they are still touching her. The only strap in her general vicinity is the one still on my arm and I don’t feel the contact, but I pull my elbow in a little for show – there’s nowhere for my arms to go, either. It’s not enough. She complains a third time, elevating her voice along with her indignation. I suggest that she should lower her personal space expectations during rush hour, which is not what she wants to hear, but she’s not interested in escalating it to physical confrontation and goes back to watching something on her phone. I go back to my doze again, but first silently wishing her a lifetime of sitting next to small, loud, hyperactive children on every ride.

The MTA gods are capricious and capable of great kindness and great cruelty, sometimes both at once. They love blood sacrifice and whimsy in equal measure. And so on a day when they rattled their immortal chains with some fury, I had my plea answered favorably.

At the next stop, even more people get on and I first hear and then see a little boy, maybe six years old, board with his harried mother. He’s bouncing all around in his three inches of allotted space and I smile and thank the MTA gods for their boon. I then offer the mother my seat – she accepts very gratefully. A moment later, I see why: the boy is one of two. There is a little brother, maybe three.

“Good luck,” I tell the lady next to me as I get up, all virtue and NYC solicitousness, as the two overstimulated kiddies climb up into the space that had once been occupied by a snack-sized adult dozer. The look on her face as she realizes what I’ve done warms the dark cockles of my soul.