Seats.

I ride public transportation to work. I prefer to give up my seat if someone else needs it, but I hate when I give up my seat expecting a lady or older person to get it, and then have it taken by someone even younger than me, usually wearing Puma track shoes and an I-Pod.

So sometimes I just stay seated, and then like Mersault in The Stranger, I feel as though I am on trial, and all the other passengers are judging me. "Why is that able bodied man sitting, when so many women are standing?" There are very few older people on the trolley I ride, so it is extremely rare that an older person would be left standing.

About a month ago two ladies who one suspected don't regulary commute got on the trolley. One got a seat, the other prefered to sit in the stairwell. They were experienced drinkers. An odor of stale cigarettes, liquor-permeated sweat, and desperation accompanied them. I would have happily given one of them my seat . One of them produced a bottle of vodka and in an Irish whisper said, "Remember back in the day when men would give up their seats for ladies? Man! And no one smiles!" Well, I thought, we don't smile on the 7:30 trolley because we are going to work, not to a government office to get an increase in whatever benefit program we are enrolled in.

This has nothing to do with being a lawyer, pissant or otherwise. It is, however, the only creative writing I will do today.