Yesterday I had a bizarre altercation on Boston’s Green Line. Given that they have no real standard for boarding people since introducing the CharlieCard two years ago, I walked in through one of the doors and selected a nice, sunsoaked seat in the rear of the train.
Of course, two minutes after all the doors closed the siren from Revere operating the train demanded that I come forward and tap my card to prove I’m an upstanding citizen, yada yada.
So I do this, leaving my leather messenger bag on the seat. I beam a tellingly apologetic smile at the conductor, who responds with a cough that sounds like motor oil mixed with Carlton 100s, and mosey on back to my warm spot in the sun.
Upon returning, I watch a girl my age throw my messenger back to the floor and plop down right where I was sitting. She gave me a look that said nothing and everything all at once: “What?,” simultaneously installing her headphones as I stood next to her, suited and lightly perspiring.
So the lesson here is: one idle messenger bag does not a person’s seat make, at least if you live along Beacon Street.
