Rude Encounters: Don’t you hate it when…

To quote Linus Van Pelt from Peanuts: “I love humanity. It’s people I can’t stand.”

This morning, during my commute to work, I bear witness to four spectacularly rude events:

Numero Uno occurs even before I board the F train. Mid-way into my ten-block trek down 35th Ave. to the Roosevelt Ave./Jackson Heights station, this is what I see:

A vacant parking space. Vehicle A is “in position” for parallel parking — adjacent to the car in front of the spot, blinker on, ready to back in — when Vehicle B pulls in the space, nose-first.

The man in Vehicle A, to whom the space rightfully belongs — it’s an unspoken rule that if your car is in “parallel park mode,” then it’s yours — gets out of his car ready to stand up for his rights.

The obnoxious, loud-mouthed woman in Vehicle B, gets out of her SUV and starts verbally laying into the guy, non-stop. Screechy and abrasive, she does not shut up and just wears him down. She’s so f-ing crazy that the man from Vehicle A gets back in his car and drives off.

Bystanders on the sidewalk sneer at and grouse about Vehicle B — because the same thing has happened to all of us.

Numero dos happens five minutes later on the subway platform. Commuter etiquette dictates that, when an incoming train pulls into the station, those of us waiting on the platform stand clear of the doors so that passengers can get off.  After that, we board.

Not this morning. A poor, skinny, twenty-something guy plugged into his iPod is standing by the doors on the inside of the F train waiting for them to open. When they do, he is literally sacked by a monstrous linebacker of a woman who plows into him before he even has a chance to get out of her way.

The sick thing is, it’s a deja vu experience for me. I’d seen the same woman do the same thing on a different morning.

Numero tres occurs immediately after I get on the train. I notice a vacant seat next to the window and start walking towards it — not barreling my way through the bodies, mind you, as some other commuters like to do. When I’m almost at my destination, the guy in the adjoining seat sees me approaching and angles his legs to allow me leeway to sit down. A nanosecond later, this female bulldozer rushes me and slides into my seat, without a glance in my direction.

Here’s another rule — which has nothing to do with etiquette, but safety. Never argue with people on subway trains. You’re only asking for trouble. Big trouble. The odds are that they are nuts.

So I walk over to an open spot by the doors and grab onto a pole as the train pulled out of the station. I look over at the woman, who, like most brazenly pushy types, is a coward when it comes to personal confrontation. Her gaze is fixed on the unattractive bulge of her knees.

A guy seated adjacent to where I’m standing looks up at me and nods toward this subhuman who stole my seat.

“Do you believe that sh*t?” he says.

Not that I expect him to give me his seat  — are you kidding? That would violate another unspoken rule. After all, I’m not on crutches, past the age of 80 or extremely pregnant — not that any one of those conditions would get you a seat these days, whether you’re male or female.

Numero quatro, however, takes the prize.

The F train pulls into 57th Street. I climb the stairs to Sixth Ave. and decide to stop in a nearby deli to pick up a sandwich for lunch.

As I wait on line to pay, I barely notice the man ahead of me, except that he’s about about thirty-something and dressed in gym clothes. He pays and leaves.

I open my wallet, ready to pay. But before the cashier rings up my purchase, she nods toward to door and with a look of disgust on her face, says: “I give him change and he shows me his thing!

What a way to start the day.

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