The Escalation of Rage

It starts with minor annoyances at the office-a writer comes in with more changes to a story you've already edited. An interview you'd set up earlier is cancelled. You learn that your pre-cancerous mole will finally be removed a week from Monday--the only opening--at 1:50 in afternoon. Across town. Inconvenient, yes, but better than learning that your mole is cancerous (or, having to wait so long for an appointment that it becomes cancerous in the meantime). Though you're a bit disappointed to learn that this means you cannot have any alcohol or vitamins for the week before.
Then your husband calls to inform you that he's leaving work early (it is now 1:45 pm). He's kind enough to accompany you to pick up a sandwich for lunch before he takes off, and you joke about not going back to the office either. Just keep on walking and don't look back. For the first time in at least a week, the sun is shining and there are just a handful of clouds, and the temperature is in the upper-70s. You're actually warm in a sleeveless shirt and cotton jacket. And you are tempted to play hooky with him. But then you remember your purse upstairs, and the story that needs to be finished. And the phone calls and emails that need to be returned.
He kisses you goodbye at the entrance to your building. You head back upstairs to your office, and he heads down the street to the subway that will take him home. Then your friend emails to tell you she is leaving early. And another friend calls shortly after to tell you that she too has left work. And you are beginning to wonder if you and your colleagues (those that are still in the office) are the only people in Manhattan who are still working. You're getting voice mail messages when you return calls and automated "out of the office" email replies.
So you start thinking that maybe you'll be heading out soon too. You're hoping you'll get to enjoy at least a sliver of that sunshine before it slips beneath the horizon, or behind the clouds. Because there's no guarantee that it will make such a sustained appearance again this weekend. The weather reports are all predicting intermittent rain throughout the holiday weekend.
At the least, you think, you can leave by 5:30--late enough that you won't fear embarassment or reprimands. But at 5:30, as you're gathering your belongings, your editor calls to ask if you could pick up an assignment. A new hire has taken on too much and it's getting late and your editor wants to leave too. So you end up staying in your office for another hour and 15 minutes. And the sun is starting to slip in the sky. And the clouds are darkening when you finally shut down your computer and slip out of the office.
Now it's nearly 7pm. And you're carrying a double shopping bag heavy with books and a box of protein bars and a big bottle of lotion you picked up earlier. And it's still warm enough that your forehead breaks out in perspiration as you carry the bag down two sets of subway steps to the platform. You see subway lights and you hope that it's the express train you need (you can only take 2 out of 4 trains that stop here).
It is! You've parked yourself at the very front of the platform so that you'll be close to the stairway that takes you to the L-train when you exit a few stops away. But what's this? The lights are out in the front subway car--which is not unusual, just annoying since you'd hoped to finish the Esquire article on Ewan McGregor that you'd just started. But then the doors don't open either. And it takes you--and the dozen or so others who are waiting by the doors to the first car--a minute to realize that the other cars' doors are opening. So you bolt down the platform to the second car, your bag full of books banging against your leg (ouch). And just as you get to the first door to the second car, the conductor closes it. And the train sits there and you actully hear yourself say outloud, "C'mon! Open the doors!" (as you've heard many many other people yell at other times, but have never uttered yourself) and then, when the conductor doesn't, you mutter "asshole" loud enough that the woman next to you--who had also run from the first car--laughs. You can feel yourself blushing. But it's not clear whether it's from embarassment or anger. The train pulls away.
Time passes. Two more trains pull up: the B and the D. You need the A or the C. Finally--finally--a C local arrives. And as you're boarding the train, someone belatedly realizes this is her stop and nearly knocks you over trying to get off the train. More muttering (though softer this time).
It's 7:20 when you board the L train. You settle in with your magazine. You've managed to calm yourself a little with deep breathing. Also, you've been able to read more of the story, which is more about Ewan's large penis (and the author's fixation with his own shortcomings in this area and others) than the actor's personality or even his latest film (except for the occasional, and annoying, reversion to yoda speak). But before you can read any further, a woman holding a juice bottle with visibly shaking hands, starts in about how sorry she is for interrupting "all you kind people" but she just wants some money. Could you spare some? She parks herself directly in front of you and addresses the passengers. She's speaking loudly but all you can make out is "spare change" (the rest is intelligible). You feel a pang of guilt. But then you look at her. She's dressed well. She's holding a bag of food and a bottle of juice and, if she weren't asking for money, she'd look like any other commuter--but on drugs. Her voice is getting louder. And now you're just hoping she'll move to the next car, which she does eventually. But then she is immediately replaced by a woman who regularly begs for money on this train--and has yet to change her story (though she should really think about doing so). She lives in a shelter, she says, with her husband and young daughter (neither of whom could be here tonight--or any night that you've seen her). They have to leave each day to look for work. But now her husband's just gotten sick (again? you think) and they were kicked out of the shelter and she and her daughter (if she exists) must beg for food and money each day. Or some variation of the story. You've learned to tune it out--almost. You used to give her money, actually, until she kept coming back with the same story over and over again.
You pull into the station. It's 7:32. And as you step onto the stairs that will lead you above ground, steadying yourself and your bag, you realize it's just starting to rain. Shit. The umbrella is at the bottom of your bag and it requires shifting the heavy bag to your other arm and--well, it really isn't raining all that hard, you think. Now the wind picks up and it's blowing your hair in your face and there's no evidence at all that just 2 hours ago it was bright and sunny and warm.
You sigh and you start walking down the sidewalk when you spot the sign. Tied to the back of a bike that's leaning against a telephone pole is a hand-written sign on a piece of cardboard that reads: "Fueled by 100% pure, unfiltered, clean-burning rage."
You are tempted for a moment to get on that bike and see how far it can take you. But instead you laugh and you think about how close you are to your home and your husband--and the beginning of a 3-day weekend.