Rock n’ Roll Lies

I was riding an extremely packed subway when a dry contact lens popped out of my left eye. This provided the perfect environment to display my single impressive talent. I dug into my wallet to pull out a secret, emergency contact lens. In one graceful motion, the fresh contact lens made its way into my eye. I blinked in private triumph. However, this triumph would be short-lived. As two subway customers re-adjusted their position, the space between them opened to reveal the view of a subway seat. I was forced to witness a most repulsive action. Manspreading. The gentleman manspreader was guilty of a 145-degree manspread. His legs were spread open uncomfortably wide and taking up perhaps three and one-quarter feet of spread. There was a time when manspreading was my thing. I thought I was one of the few who obsessed about it and fought the good fight against male crotch entitlement. Now everyone talks about manspreading. It's become way too commercial. Manspreaders read the plot summary of Infinite Jest on Wikipedia and then talk about David Foster Wallace at rooftop barbecues. Manspreaders graffiti "Kale Chips" all over Brooklyn. Manspreading has sold out to the general public. And I. I have been betrayed. But that feeling of dismay would soon change drastically. I was about to meet her for the first time. I knew I had seen her before, but could not place it. We did not lock eyes at that very moment, however we shared the following series of events that would solidify our bond forever. My mouth was opening. I planned to express my discontent to the manspreader, using choice profanity if necessary. However, she stepped in. A heroine for this fine metropolis. "Sir," she said. "I respectfully request that you close your legs immediately." The manspreader slowly craned his neck in her direction. His lips began to purse. He remained silent. His manspread maintained its three and one-quarter foot spread. "Sir, it is your responsibility as a citizen to close your legs." "Lady, can you mind your own business?" He pulled out a container of orange Tics Tacs and downed so many it looked as if he were trying to o.d. And then she said the words that made me begin to fall for her. "Up Yours, Manspreader. The subway isn't all about you. You live in a metropolis. There are other citizens." The Manspreader's legs began to slowly close shut until there were only 5 degrees of manspread - which could barely be referred to as manspread. She had triumphed. While it is not customary for me to speak with strangers on public transportation, it was necessary that I approach this woman. "I'm sorry to interrupt you on your journey," I said, "but I must tell you that what you did just now was nothing less than heroic." "Thank you for the complement." Her eyes were beautiful and huge. "I know this sounds awkward, but could we have coffee together? I understand you are heading to your destination, so perhaps I can provide you with my phone number." She responded almost immediately. "That was a terrible pick up line." I was mortified. "I sincerely apologize." "Please don't. It was so bad it's good. You clearly have no idea how to pick someone up. Which, to me, is an important quality. You are too honest to be a douchebag." I didn't know how to respond to that. Luckily, she continued. "I think we should have a drink. It's too late for coffee." We were soon at Quarter Bar on 5th. It was quiet. We drank Power's. "Now this is good Irish Whiskey," Gloria said. I don't think I had ever met a Gloria. She made the name seem divine. She sipped her neat pour carefully. "It is,” I agreed. "I'm surprised you're not drinking Russki Standart, Stan. That's what you were drinking at the Yo La Tengo show until that ‘Big Bruh’ knocked it to the ground.” She was the Pabst Blue Ribbon girl at the concert. "Yes, I remember," I remembered. "How do you know my name?' "That's pretty easy, Stan. You were wearing an ironic bowling shirt with your name on it." "Oh, it's not ironic at all. I really do bowl," I protested. "As do I. Are you any good?" I was pretty sure I was about to impress her. "My high score is 261." I tried not to grin. I am very proud of my 261. "Not bad." She got up and assumed a graceful bowling stance. She threw an imaginary ball down an imaginary alley. Her left leg pivoted with the grace of a gazelle if said gazelle was a bowler. Then she whipped her neck around and grinned. "261, huh?" "Yup." "My high score is 262." Man, did I dig her. My whiskey was empty but I pretended to sip it. I just had to do something.