The Lord of the Flies

As a youngster I remember going to the grocery store one day and while waiting in line at the checkout, noticed that the man behind us had yellow shorts peeping out the front of his pants.  Cheeky by nature, I blurted out loudly to my mother (while pointing at the object of my attention) that a banana was sticking out of the man’s pants.  Many things happened simultaneously and in slow motion.  Both my mother and the man turned bright red.  Everyone in line, including my mother and the man looked at the “banana.”  The man zipped his pants so quickly; he didn’t get a chance to stuff all of his shorts inside.  My mother turned back to me and gave me the “You are going to get it” look.  The other people in line were trying to look away or hide their smiles.  The man took his basket and went to another checkout counter farthest away from us.  I will spare you the details of our ride home, but suffice it to say, I have been careful about my “banana” incidents since.

This morning on the Metro I was lucky enough to get a seat near the door.  A couple of guys came in, both metrosexuals from the look of them.  They both sat down behind me.  The manly man next to them gave them a once over.  I can imagine from the look he gave them that he was a little jealous because they looked like GQ covers.  But the quick dismissal he made next looked like he decided they were probably gay.  The 20 something with the short skirt taking up the whole priority seating with her person and her purse, while applying make-up also sized the guys up and gave an eyebrow arching thumbs up.  Then she gave them another look as if making up her mind that they would be too high maintenance, i.e., she would have to be on a constant look out for other predators.  She adjusted the big rock on her fingers instead, as if feeling content with what she had.

Well, that would have been an ordinary scene in the Metro if I didn’t happen to spot one of the guys with his fly open.  That one sat on the inside of the seat.  One would think that the other young man would have spotted the faux pas and said something as they both sat down.  But alas, he just proceeded to read his Wall Street Journal and the other one dozed off, leaning onto the window pane.

I spent the next 10 minutes trying to catch glimpses of corrective action from the reflection of my own window and listening to a heads up.  Yikes!  Nothing!  Four, three, two stops!  What to do?  The railcar is crowded.  Should I turn around and say something loud enough to overcome the din?  Do I employ the simultaneous eyebrow and head nodding signal?  Or should I just let it be and have the schmo go through a few more hundred encounters from strangers who don’t end up saying anything to him?  Eventually when he goes to the bathroom or puts his feet up in his office, or admires his profile while passing a full on mirror he will discover his Joe Boxer’s are peeking out, right? 

Okay, one more stop left.  The guy next to him got off at the last station.  I get up myself preparing to detrain.  I still don’t know what move I was going to make until I made it.  I folded my newspaper, turned around and dropped it on the guy’s lap as my station was pulling in.  He woke up and looked at me.  I smiled.  I told him, check out what’s underneath the paper.