30 min at superheated subway station with 8 trains going by not stopping and no announcements, 3 bags and an increasingly restless little L strapped to me.
A seething sweaty man in a wrinkled suit with hair like Bernie Sanders screaming at station agent, “mta, the worst agency in the world”, and that “trump is going to fix everything, right?”, and I’m not sure he’s being sarcastic.
Because I have L who is now red, taking Lyft home, and for some reason it’s a Lexus, with a kindly man with central-Asian or Chechen sounding name and Russian accent getting us home in ten minutes, cocooned in air conditioning and black leather, once again proving how some small miseries can so easily be made disappear by throwing small amounts of money at them, and thanking relative luck for having that occasional option.