Regurgitation and the 6 Train

Some people, at the sight of watching another person throw up, cannot then contain it themselves. Any symptoms of nausea can be absent in them, they can be completely sober, or can even be at the height of their health. No matter. Seeing someone else lose their indigestible matter will prompt their own outpouring.

Thankfully, I am not one of these people. I can hold hair back and watch it hit the toilet and everything.

I was minding my business this morning just after the 6 train left Union Square. Standing in front of the door, wanting nothing but the cup of coffee I'd been craving since I woke up, I was a little uncomfortable because it was on the warm side. New York weather has been a tad unpredictable this week and it was in the low 70s. Good thing it would be a short three-stop trip.

I soon noticed a slight commotion to my left, and of course I had to look. My timing, being perfect, made it so the first thing I saw was the thick, never-ending string of mucous hanging from her mouth. I continued to watch.

Her friend had her arm around her as she hurled into a McDonald's sack. I felt bad for her. Who wants to be in a situation like that? Puking on a train during morning rush hour. She had a bit of a reprieve and sat up, her chest heaving, a thin layer of perspiration covering her forehead. I continued to watch. Then she went down for more.

At 23rd Street now, a woman and her kid, about seven, got on. "Don't sit over there," I thought to myself. I wasn't sure where she ended up until another commotion erupted on the very same end of the train. Stressed out from the regurgitation, I finally looked away, only to turn around to look behind me at this kid who is lying on the floor. This would be the very same floor that people, who have stepped in all kinds of dried up shit, piss, urine, and, uh, vomit, have walked all over. His mother didn't seem to know what to do other than scream at him to get up off the floor.

So now there is the woman to my left who is puking, probably finding little comfort from her friend. And behind me there is a behaviorally challenged kid rolling around on the floor being screamed at by his parenting-challenged mother. Two more stops to go. Two more stops to go.

Now at 28th Street, the kid still on the floor, the puker still bent over her fast-food-breakfast snack, I considered getting off. It was only five blocks to my coffee. But I was a little short on time, so I had to stay. The doors opened and the mother was still screaming. She finally dragged him up off the floor and out of the train.

One more stop. It seemed she finally stopped throwing up. And I got to get off the train, completely stressed out as I was. I learned two lessons: don't eat fast food; don't have children.