The Night Kramer Punched Me
I was now only a nose length away from smelling his chest--much more intimate than I'd like to be with someone that I even already know.
I was on the way home from watching _Spring Awakening_ during my freshman year at New York University. I was waiting for the N Train. At the time, a lot of construction was being done, and trains were constantly full and consistently few and far between (not that it's so different now).
When the train finally made its appearance, it was unexpectedly pretty empty. My friends and I waltzed into the closest car, and as the doors were about to shut and the next stop was announced, a tall, gangly looking guy with wild hair peeking out from his forest green beanie squeezed in with a contrasting bright-eyed blonde.
Standing next to the doors of the car at the Times Square stop a herd of passengers wanted on. The man with the beanie and his female companion moved toward me as the new travelers on the car shuffled us around, separating me from my friends. My five-foot, seven-inch frame now stood at chest level to the tall man, who had lost his friend as well, as we were both smashed to the car doors.
No one seemingly wanted off this train, and as we hit the next few stops, only more people kept piling in, further pressing me and the man against the doors. I was now only a nose length away from smelling his chest--much more intimate than I'd like to be with someone that I even already know.
We traveled like this for a while until our train stalled. The conductor said that trains in front of us were running late and that we'd be stuck for about ten minutes. I poked my head up to scan the passengers for my friends, and all I got were looks toward me and the tall man. I then saw my friend, who was drilling me with an intense gaze and motioning me to look up. I raised my head.
Oh, my god. It was Kramer from _Seinfeld._ Right as I realized this and our eyes met, the car jolted forward, and Michael Richards lost his balance and punched me in the arm. Hard. I winced.
"Sorry there, buddy. Didn't mean to slug ya in the arm," he said.
I only smiled, thinking about what my next Facebook status was going to be: "Patrick Wong is sore from getting punched by Michael Richards."