The F Train Follies - Puking Edition

To borrow the opening line from one of my favorite books, tonight was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

I had a work function at Cipriani on 42nd Street. One of my brands was a sponsor of an annual modeling event. As my management and I chatted up a few of our favorite clients, an invitation was extended to be their guest at the annual 'to-do' in Switzerland in early April. I was in shock when they insisted I come as their guest as this is an invitation I'd been coveting for a couple of years now.

Giddy with excitement and pondering where I'd go shopping for a suitable cocktail dress for the high-end dinner that would be awaiting me in Geneva, I opted to take the subway home (and save a few precious pennies for said cocktail dress). Herewith ends the Best Of Times scenario, as most blog posts featuring the NYC Subway system do.

This time, though, I cannot entirely blame the MTA. True, something was a rye on the F line as I had to wait a half hour for a packed train to arrive at Broadway/Lafayette. No, our misery begins with the packed car stopping at Second Avenue upon which the masses squeezed thier way on. I was crammed near the left-hand mid-car door when a 20something girl in a fuchsia parka slithered her way to my immediate left.

By the time we crawled one stop closer to Brooklyn at Delancy Street, I noticed girlfriend wasn't at the top of her game. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her beginning to slouch, rest her head on her extended left arm. Yet, it was the sighs that really tipped me off.

As we approached East Broadway, only one thought crossed my mind: What would I do if this girl suddenly began to puke. And just then....she did.

All over me, the girl next to me, the girl sitting down in the seat we were pressed up against and on the girl to her immediate right. It was like one of those dancing fountains outside the Bellagio in Vegas. Unfortunately for her, the girl to my immediate right got the brunt of it. As she "Oyed!", I turned to the cause of our shock. Fuchsia Coat hadn't said a word. Her eyes were half closed. She just stood there. So I asked her, "Are you OK?" at which she did a little half turn and exited the car just as the doors closed at East Broadway.

A good Samaritan gave us all some Kleenex to dab away the damage. I pointed out to my fellow victims that it could have been a helluva lot worse - the evidence proved Fuchsia Coat didn't have much of a dinner. We all handled it as well as we could and bid each other good luck with our coats at Jay Street where a hoard of unsuspecting passengers separated us and the space we were quick to vanquish.

So, to Fuchsia Coat, I sincerely hope you made it home ok. And to my fellow victims, I hope you, too, have a great dry cleaner.