I'm sorry you had such a bad day...channeling Watzlawick?

What do two Englishmen do when they first meet?

They form a queue (that's "a line" for you Americans).*

Though not as universally true any more as only decades ago, there is something to be marveled at when you see spontaneous line formation in action.

Other nations view spontaneous line formation with the same attitude as spontaneous combustion: first they doubt it exists at all, then if they witness it they still won't believe it.

Always willing to help, the American approach is to provide nice, wide yellow lines setting limits and green squares to show places where you may stand. Sometimes, they have footprints in the green squares indicating the direction of movement.

We have yet to see a complaint about these footprints being clearly male prints made by regular shoes. No pointy cowboy boots, no high heel deals, no miniature child footprints and no barefoot prints either.

Anyway, as I stood in a malformed line on the platform for the evening commute out of money town, a long haired male was about to channel Paul Watzlawick. I think.

The malformed line is a clump, a loose cluster of tired workers.

The train creeps into the station, drowning out the PA system asking passengers to stand behind the yellow line. The doors open, a couple of people, the night shift of ACME or Starbucks, leave, and two people swoop into the car, cutting in in front of a non-descript woman.

She takes a deep breath, puffing up and hollers: Can't you see? You're supposed to stand in line here, you can't cut in like this, you hear me! I hate you people who...

The long haired male emerges into my field of vision. He says to the woman in a very calm voice: I'm sorry you had such a bad day.

She stops, throws a glance sideways and instantaneously deflates.

She enters the car in silence, as do the other passengers in the clump, myself included.

The long haired male moves down the aisle without a stop, without anything like a victory pause, without even acknowledging the interaction, and soon disappears behind a couple of large suits and big rack or two.

This occurred years ago, so long ago that half the passengers are probably retired by now, or dead.

Yet, even today, when I find myself in a malformed line, well, yeah, a clusterfuck, this scene is always on my mind.

* And they say Thank you.