Survival of the Quickest
Made the train by the by the hair on my chinny chin chin this morn. Got the adrenalyn a-rushin, heart a-pumpin, head a-thumpin. Welcome to the week.
I needed to re-up the monthly pass and there was a few people in line in front of me at the the olde platform kiosk. We only have one machine. It’s the size of a refrigerator and it’s twice as slow.
Us poor folk got the commuter rookie in front of us who couldn’t make heads or tails of this hunk o technology. He felt the pressure, and, with sphincter clinched, he fumbled and bumbled unable to answer simple questions like “one way” or “round trip.” He froze like a racoon in a flashlight.
It’s a touch screen. This takes a few seconds to register. His index finger hunting for something to touch. He started pecking at the poor machine with wild abandon. The coundown in all our heads running—tick tock, amigo.
He’s a tall, handsome guy with nice dark skin, like he’s from India or something. He dressed up in a pressed shirt and pants and looks like he knows what he’s doing. Non. Just another well groomed dummy.
So there he is mulling and poring over each instruction as if his precious life hung in the balance. As if his hair gel would be confiscated, or his Dockers pleats released. When a decision is finally reached, he then very deliberately pushes (instead of touches) the screen. This reading and pushing goes on as the minutes escape.
We all look at our watches, hoping time will freeze long enough for us to get our pass.
Finally, it’s time for the credit card. Those of us who aren’t geometrically-inclined will inevitably insert our card the wrong way, upside down or, on really bad day, both. This clown went through every wrong combination twice. Then after 2 solid minutes of head scratching and touch screen punching, and card fip flopping, he gives up.
He looks back at the line and muttered, “It won’t take my card.”
Nobody said a thing. Not even a doe-eyed look of sympathy. Now Mr. Genius will have to pony up the on-board fare, which is frighteningly expensive.
Good.
I needed to re-up the monthly pass and there was a few people in line in front of me at the the olde platform kiosk. We only have one machine. It’s the size of a refrigerator and it’s twice as slow.
Us poor folk got the commuter rookie in front of us who couldn’t make heads or tails of this hunk o technology. He felt the pressure, and, with sphincter clinched, he fumbled and bumbled unable to answer simple questions like “one way” or “round trip.” He froze like a racoon in a flashlight.
It’s a touch screen. This takes a few seconds to register. His index finger hunting for something to touch. He started pecking at the poor machine with wild abandon. The coundown in all our heads running—tick tock, amigo.
He’s a tall, handsome guy with nice dark skin, like he’s from India or something. He dressed up in a pressed shirt and pants and looks like he knows what he’s doing. Non. Just another well groomed dummy.
So there he is mulling and poring over each instruction as if his precious life hung in the balance. As if his hair gel would be confiscated, or his Dockers pleats released. When a decision is finally reached, he then very deliberately pushes (instead of touches) the screen. This reading and pushing goes on as the minutes escape.
We all look at our watches, hoping time will freeze long enough for us to get our pass.
Finally, it’s time for the credit card. Those of us who aren’t geometrically-inclined will inevitably insert our card the wrong way, upside down or, on really bad day, both. This clown went through every wrong combination twice. Then after 2 solid minutes of head scratching and touch screen punching, and card fip flopping, he gives up.
He looks back at the line and muttered, “It won’t take my card.”
Nobody said a thing. Not even a doe-eyed look of sympathy. Now Mr. Genius will have to pony up the on-board fare, which is frighteningly expensive.
Good.
posted by Greg Monaco at 9:50 AM
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