Gentleman

I stepped onto an uncrowded train today.  By uncrowded, I mean that all the seats were filled and only a handful of people needed to stand.  A man jumped up.  "Would you like a seat?" he asked.  "Oh, no, I'm all right, but that's very nice of you, thank you."  He remained standing.  "Please, take my seat," he offered gently again.

What's happening?  Where am I?  Is this Manhattan?

People here aren't typically generous with gestures of this sort.  We are entirely self-absorbed, consumed by our next professional deadline and the consequences of last night's terrible date, rarely about the standing girl on the train.  And even then, it is only because she just stepped on your foot and didn't bother to apologize.

But I had been careful not to step on anyone's feet.  I cautiously glanced at the newly vacated sliver of bench.  The cynic in me half expected to see spilled juice or sticky crumbs.  But no, it was clean.  I preferred to stand, but it would have been in poor taste to refuse at this point.  "Are you sure?" I asked.  He smiled.  "Yes.  Please sit."  So I did.

Even before both cheeks hit the bench, a brassy passenger declared, loudly enough for the entire car to look up and notice, "You are a TRUE, TRUE gentleman."  He screamed TRUE so it seems appropriate to write it out in caps.

As I sat, I remembered a friend from way back when.  For five years, every time we walked into a classroom, left the cafeteria, or got into his car, he always paused and held the door for me.  I was always first.  Always.  I don't have a friend that does that anymore, but gee, would it be nice if I did.  Because when a stranger offers his seat or waits for me to step off an elevator first, I'm reminded how the smallest of gestures can often be the kindest.

Thanks, stranger man, for standing all the way to 59th & Lex.  Your gesture was as warm as the view of yesterday's setting sun was spellbinding.

The view from the Met {+} rooftop.  NYC.
6:04 pm.  Yesterday.