It was not merely sitting on the train. It was sitting amid the train. A volcano of human flesh looming over all who dwelled in its shadow. It did not even appear to be sitting on the seat but rather as though it was poured into the space it occupied, and then oozing into open spaces its expansion was halted by cooling temperatures. It vaguely resembled a beanbag stuffed between a sofa and coffee table, but with eyes. It was eating Pop Tarts for its morning repast. Given the behemoth cared not about its appearance or even basic manners it chewed it’s cud with jowls wide open. This resulted in a thick layer of Pop Tart crumbs resting on its massive tit shelf. As a result the tit shelf looked like the floor beneath a just-completed drywall project. The eyes had the dull color of bovine curiosity mingled with fat aggression.
The legs, which resembled the bags of fresh cheese one might see suspended from the ceiling of a small food counter in a Little Italy neighborhood somewhere, were of a circumference too large to fit in between it’s own seat and the back of the one in front. Thus these soft redwoods had to be dangled in the aisle between rows of seats for those forced to stand to contend with. They tried their best but on occasion, whether from being accustomed to not encountering giant buoys in the narrow aisle channel or due to abrupt train starts and stops, one of these poor unfortunate souls would collide with its elephantine legs. It would respond with a glare so intense and full of pure unadulterated malice it could stop a charging rhino dead in its tracks. You see, everything is hers. The two-person seat row she occupies by herself, is hers. The Pop Tarts are hers. All the Sunkist Orange Soda in the land is hers. The potato chip aisle at Jewel is hers. The pizza arriving at the door, though meant for three, is hers. An inordinate amount of oxygen is hers. The box of donuts a thoughtful coworker brought into the office this morning, is hers. And you’d better fucking well believe that the common space betwixt rows of seats, is HERS. You dare impede upon it? Her hate of those who try to claim some small piece of what is hers respects no borders and knows no bounds. Her hate burns holes into the backs of her transgressors. What is hers is hers and what is yours is hers, and don’t you fucking forget it.
One brave soul dared challenge her alpha status within our train car and asked that she move her feet. She shook like the proverbial bowl full of Jello and responded “Rruhh hruahh wahh huhh rah hahr!” (“Bring me Solo and the Wookie!”). Her dominance asserted, she slowly but deliberately opened a new package of Pop Tarts.