Friday night I was taking an uptown 6 train to Grand Central at around 11 PM. I was tired, and not looking forward to the non-express train which would get me in after midnight.

A hispanic gentleman facing me gestured to look to my right urgently. I looked, and sitting on the seat next to me, facing forward and coyly acting like ‘just another passenger, was your typical subway cockroach.

I stood up, and it scurried near the gap between the seat and the wall at the end of the car. My stop was coming up anyway.

Shortly, two girls approached to sit in my seat, and I graciously pointed out the cockroach to them.

One responded:

“Oh great, there is a cockroach, and no one wants to sit there, and no one wants to kill it”

This was obviously a crack at me - inferring - ‘you’re a guy, why don’t you kill it?’

Why? Because I am getting off at the next stop, and the cockroach has strategically positioned itself in the crack, so trying to get a swat at it is going to be a fruitless pain in the ass. This is also the one day of the month when I am not wearing a t-shirt and sneakers, and have no intention of plastering dead cockroach all over my Bruno Maglis.

But most importantly, in very typical NYC straphanger fashion, I don’t give a shit.