The kid directly in front of me in the turnstile line is already in rough shape. For some reason, this entrance to the Canal Street station is always less a line of people than a confused amoeba trying to navigate through a sieve. Even hardened commuters’ eyes get twitchy here. The kid looks like he’s trying to stay above it all, the way teenagers do, by looking mopey and sullen. I believe he’s stoned. In thirty seconds I will be sure of it.
It’s one of those moments when you just can’t believe you share a species with some of its members. The kid has a skateboard strapped horizontally across his backpack. Due to his slouching, he’s stopped by the waist high portion of the turnstile after he slides his card through the reader. He simply straightens his body, and, perhaps believing that the apparent similarity of width between the lower and upper portions of the entry is merely an optical illusion, walks forward and is again stopped when his skateboard hits the sides. He looks confused. I move on, wishing it was less crowded so I could see the fallout.
Nothing boggles my mind more than a human failing to understand object persistence. When I left, he was backing out and into the angry amoeba behind him. For the sake of the species, I hope he turned sideways, but I can picture him trying another turnstile.