Before I moved to New York, many people said I would feel right at home and my personality would fit right in.
I never knew whether to take that as a compliment.

A few nights ago I was coming home on the four train at about 2:30am. The only people in the car were a man who looked about 35, a lady who looked older than 65 and me.  As the train neared the 149th street stop, the man stood up and moved near the door to get off. He put his right elbow around the pole and put his hand in his pocket to balance. He looked down at the book he had been reading, which he was holding open with his left hand. As the train pulled into the station, he continued reading. The train braked somewhat roughly, harder than usual, and it made him swing around the pole by his elbow and fall on the floor. His hand was still in his pocket, but his book had been flung across the floor. He hurried to retrieve it and get out the door before it closed. As he was scrambling I looked over to the old lady, I guess to gauge her reaction. Her lips were stretched tightly as she tried to suppress her laughter and keep from smiling.

It was apparent then, that they were right about me.