Today was one of my most annoying journeys on BART. To begin with, this “gentleman,” or so I thought, sits on the aisle seat of a full train, leaving the window seat next to his, empty. I spot the empty seat on my preliminary 180 degree retinal scan of the coach, wonder if it’s one of those seats with a inexplicable stain on it that nobody wants to test out and then walk up to do my seat inspection. It looked fine to me. So then, I do the “ I dare you” act. For BART rookies, this is the part where you stare with authority at the passenger (let’s call him Mr. X), don’t say a word, and watch him concede by moving over to the window seat reluctantly or getting up to let you in. I always like to give the person the benefit of the doubt and wonder for a second if he needs to get off in the next station or two. But Mr. X moves over to the window erasing any questions in my mind. I nestle myself comfortably into the seat cushion, get my wonderfully absorbing book out of my bag, and begin to read.

A few minutes into the reading and I hear a very familiar clinking tone emanating from Mr. X. I have heard that clinking tone from seats behind me for a long time now on BART and did recognize the sound to be that of a nail cutter but always dismissed the idea of someone actually preening their nails on a train! I try not to look and focus on my paragraph when the missile launch starts. The calcium missiles land on my book, my jacket and my hair! Oh my God! I get up, dust myself and give Mr. X the “what the ****” look. He returns a poker face with no apology and progresses in his “manic-ural” procedure to a nail file. Still standing, I look around, exchange glances with a standing passenger whose empathizing look I appreciate, and make a judgment call- I either respect my disgust, continue to stand next to an empty seat and spend the next thirty plus minutes spewing disgusted looks at Mr. X. Or, I could continue to sit, read my book and spew disgusted looks at Mr. X, say every five minutes. He was down to the filing process anyway; there might be no flying missile concerns anymore. I decide to go with option B. Mr. X gets done with the filing and puts the cutter into his pocket. I heave a sigh of relief, audible by design and try to focus once more on my book.

Five minutes into my book and I feel a jab in my waist. I nearly jump up and look at Mr. X. He’s obviously bored with no more nails to boomerang and decides to put both his hands into his pockets and sit akimbo, jabbing his elbows in my waist in the process. I decided the dense Mr. X needed more than a glare this time around and mouth, “excuse me” audibly and point to his stick-out elbow bothering me. He responds amicably, pulls his elbow away from my waist and starts plowing through his bag looking for something. Aah, the MP3 player makes its appearance and I hope he’ll be occupied enough to stop vexing my nerves soon. I continue to read on. Five more peaceful minutes and I hear him singing “raaka” or whatever else it was every 10 seconds very rhythmically. I quit; I can’t read anymore. I look out of the window; my station is next. I decide to add to those annoying people who get up a good few seconds sooner than required and start “excusing” people as they tunnel their way through the crowd to the train door. It’s not even 8:30 AM yet and I have a story to tell.