If you’re generally a spaz, stay away from people with coffee cups on a moving train. Case in point:
This morning, my buddy was walking behind me as we trudged through several crowded cars looking for a seat. As we were passing through a particularly crowded vestibule, overstuffed with high school students on their way to Norwalk, the train lurched and wobbled as it so often does. I instinctively reached behind me to grab the pole I’d just passed and steady myself. True to form, my instincts were wrong. What happened next will forever live in infamy.
I essentially punched my pal’s coffee cup out of his hand. It dropped like a bomb. The spray was unavoidable. Nobody was safe. I think I heard one of the high school girls say that it got her in the eye. It was all down the front of my friend’s shirt; my right shoe and pant leg got a good splash; I think several other people were hit as well. It was hard to get a good read on the situation, especially as the coffee started to spread across the floor like Janet Leigh’s blood going down the bath drain. I tried to figure out how to clean it, but I had no paper products. I had no way to redeem myself. I waded through the spill and my ocean of regret to a rear car with plenty of seats. And here I sit, tapping on my little phone in shame.