I THINK PEOPLE TEND TO HAVE SHORT MEMORIES. I was on the B-train this morning, heading into Manhattan. The time was about 8:15 a.m. This took place during the morning rush hour, so the car was full. I was standing right behind one of those metal vertical poles, underneath the little speaker that occasionally emits a piercing hum that sounds like a mosquito behind a megaphone. Did I mention the car was crowded?

So I was standing there reading the morning paper, when suddenly, a pale, chubby, liver-spotted hand darted over my shoulder to grab the pole. I turned around out of reflex. The hand belonged to an old, yellowish-white haired, heavy-set Russian woman. Or possibly German. At any rate, she was trapped in what I consider the rush hour quicksand pit of every subway car, sandwiched on all four sides by the backs of riders who, unlike her, have something they can hold onto.

The lady was flouncing around pretty desperately. It occured to me that I could either: (A) Ignore her, since she was old and would die soon anyway, or (B) Scoot aside just a little bit so she could get a firmer grip on the metal pole and save her own life. I chose (B.) I gave a few inches, and the old woman scuttled over, smiled and thanked me, then nearly hugged the pole out of appreciation for its being there.

Now, I was feeling pretty good about myself for having performed this altruistic deed. As I continued reading my paper, the train made a few more stops, and the rush hour proceeded as it usually does.

But somewhere around Atlantic Avenue, this old Chinese woman got on board. And she gets stuck in that same rush hour quicksand trap that the Russian or German lady got caught in. By now, a sliver of open space was available between myself and the formerly quicksand-bound frau. But since there were other dudes standing around the space, the old Chinese woman couldn’t get to it. It was clear that if the frau would only move aside a few inches--just as I did--then the old Chinese woman could take her place. Then everyone would have a handhold, and everything would be okay.

However, the old cow did everything in her power not to perform such a kind and simple gesture. And this wasn’t a case of her not seeing the old Chinese woman. At one point, old Chinese woman extended one of her sinewy talons over Frau Heffer's shoulder to try and grab the pole. Comrade Bovine actually slapped the talon away with her chunky shoulder, a gesture that probably resembled smashing a fly with the swinging door of a car--that is, a swinging door composed entirely of custard and pig fat, and with enough sagging skin to resemble the recent sales figures of Hustler magazine.

Luckily, before someone got hurt, the train stopped at Dekalb, someone got off, and old Chinese woman found somewhere to stand and not get flung about like a pinball. As the trains started up again, I turned to Frau Heffer and said,

“You know, you could have just moved over to that empty space. (Indicating with hand.)”

She turned her face up to me--a face which God clearly intended for grazing--and snapped back: “Why should I move?! She should move!”

I briefly tried to explain how old Chinese woman wouldn’t have been able to leapfrog the gal who was standing between her and the space. But the intractable old cow would have none of it.
“She can stand there! (Indicating empty spot.) She can stand over there! (Indicating spot at other side of car.) Why should I have to move?!”

I don’t know why her attitude was bothering me. I mean, of course “Pay it forward” isn’t set in stone. There is no rule, except possibly in the annals of social etiquette, that says, ‘If someone shows you a kindness, you should do a similar kindness--within reason--for somebody else.” But I guess I just assumed that, since I sauntered myself over a little to make her subway commute easier, she would do the same for another. Naïve, I know. Or maybe I just didn’t like her bitchy attitude.

“Uh, excuse me,” I said. “But aren’t you the same swollen cow I generously slid over for just a few minutes ago? Didn’t I give a little ground so you didn’t have to flail all over the subway car?”
And Mercedes Butt responded, “Right. So YOU move!!!”

Thank God I don’t carry concealed weapons with me when I go to work. I would have been severely tempted to make hamburger out of that 280 pounds of USDA Choice crap. Instead, I just shrugged, smiled, and said, “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

“No! Whatever YOU say!” the overstuffed brockwurst replied. She added, “See? I can argue, too!”

I don’t think countering every argument I make by repeating my exact words back to me counts as a legitimate arguing style, except maybe on the playground in 3rd grade. Still, while I was starting to simmer, I knew that she wasn’t worth getting ugly over. The old cow got off at the next stop. I assume she spent the rest of her day bragging to her fellow workers, at that place where they put puppies to death, about how she outfoxed a rude young man on the B train. Ah, well. F*ck the overflowing bag of crap.

There’s a point to the story I just told, but I don’t remember it anymore. Something about how people tend to have short memories, how we tend to forget the kindnesses other people show us. Maybe it’s because we don’t like to admit, even to ourselves, that we actually needed assistance. Yeah, I include myself in that list of perpetual ingrates. I remember plenty of times when I could have brought chocolates, cookies, or other wonderful goodies to my friends’ places. I mean, they did provide me with a free meal more times than I can remember. Eh, screw ‘em. They can get their own goodies! Why should I have to share goodies with them?!

Moo.