the sandbox

I used to think I was a man of few peeves. Very little that bugged me, icked me, ticked me the wrong way. My gears never ground. 

Yeah. Turns out that’s not true. Recently, quite recently, I learned I do in fact have these peeves I pet. 

That’s slippery hands on the subway pole.

Why are all these hands slipping and sliding? People letting their hands sink so low as to rest upon MINE? No. No! Did I sign up to catch their hands? To bear that extra weight? To make brief awkward sweaty contact? No I did not! SO. How come every fifteen seconds, every goddamn fifteen seconds, these, these, these, these..

What’s the heck is that part on the hand called? The part on the side of your palm which rides up the pinky. The part that lefty’s always dirty and stain with their ink, or if they’re adolescents (or adolescent like) magic marker—because we cross over our own handwriting, smudging, making a complete disaster of a letter to a friend which you hoped would look cute! Ulnar.

It’s called the ulnar side. All these ulnars are falling on my thumb. My perfectly still thumb. And I don’t be knowing these ulnars like that. These stranger ulnars—to let them rest, if just for a second, on my dainty thumb. You see, my ulnar’s not slipping. My hand’s not sliding. My hand’s still. My hand’s STRONG. It’s fixed. I’m in position. My hand stays in its place right there where I declared my grip. But not these people. Not their ulnars. Nooo. These people don’t give a grip. They wouldn’t know the first thing about it. 

I watch. 

I can see it coming. These palms surrendering to the pull of gravity. it’s pathetic. They slide their hands back up. I’m not even sure they know they do it. Only to slide them back down again. They always slide back down; And up again, and down again. and Up and down and oh my god—They repeat this madness. They do. Unending. Again and again until God willing they get off the train. Or maybe these poor bastards even get a seat. As if. 

But I’ll tell you what they oughta get: 

Gloves. Slip-resistant. Maybe the ones that cut off mid fingeys to let ‘em breathe. I don’t care. 

Some might ask, “why not I just get some balance?” And let the pole go? Who? Me? I’ve chosen. I do not choose to balance. My legs don’t want to do that work. Hence I hold. But I don’t fucking slip. I. do. not. slide. 

Not my ulnar. 

For all of you who say to hold the pole higher. Nah-ah! My hand goes numb, and I hate the tingleys. 

So no. I hold. You hold. And none of slip. no ulnar’s touch. 

I’m also peeved by the man who clips his nails on the 7 but that’s between me and him.