So today I was on the TTC with Mr. F. Ing. Tool. You know him. The guy who simply HAS to get where he is going regardless of the hundreds of bodies in front of him. He usually has a backpack on, which just adds to his charm. He has inspired this open letter:
Dear Mr. F. Ing. Tool (hereafter known as Tool),
How are you, sir? How is your life going? And how quickly is it going? It must be going by very quickly indeed for you to have to shove 90 people out of your way to get out at a stop where we’re all getting off anyway.
I understand, Tool, really I do. Your job is super important and you must be super important there. I’m sure they don’t suck the soul out of you, along with exploiting your labour. I’m sure they value you as a human being and really appreciate the superlative effort you are making to get to their hallowed halls.
Or maybe you are rushing to a meeting. I understand that. Meetings. They can be important.
Not quite as important as the elderly lady you pushed onto another gentleman’s lap. Not quite as important as the chunk of my back that your backpack took with you. (By the way, if you have some time, could you drop that off for me? I might be able to get the doctors to sew it back in there.) And not quite as important as the little kids you shoved out of your way. You had a stellar morning, Tool. All you needed was a pregnant lady to knock down and you’d get a Tool award. Yes, an award named after you.
After I picked up the elderly lady and she kindly covered up the hole in my back, and after the father of the two kids wiped their tears away, we all shared a look, Tool. Do you know what look that is? It’s the “what an incredible ass that guy was” look.
Some of us shook our heads. Some of us hugged our kids. And some of us tried not to hear the whistling noise the wind made as it went through the hole in our back. But we shared the look. Thanks for giving us that communal moment, Tool. We owe it all to you.
The rest of the train.