The perfect job

I find that whenever it finally occurs to me what job would be perfect for me, it’s quickly followed by the realization that that job doesn’t actually exist.

Case in point: The Subway Biotch.

Late last week, I was waiting for the subway home from work. The platform was especially crowded and it was rush hour, so I was getting a little anxious about whether or not I would be able to get on the train. I noticed another woman about my size but ten years older than me standing near me, but I didn’t really think anything of it.

When the train finally pulled up, it was predictably packed. The crowd of waiting commuters quickly surrounded the doors, and as soon as they opened, everyone started filing in.

The problem? For whatever reason, people only went as far as two feet inside the door and then stopped. The doorway quickly became jammed and it appeared there was no more room, but a quick glance over everyone’s shoulders to the center of the car made it clear there was plenty of space.

Enter the SB.

Suddenly the woman I had noticed before (who had managed to squeeze herself just inside the doorway), came to life. She started berating everyone for not taking full advantage of the car, ordering them to move in because “there are still like five people behind me!”

At one point she actually turned around, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “I’m trying, sorry!” She rolled her eyes when she said it as if to say, “But people are idiots, right?”

Well, eventually she woke everyone up enough to shuffle inward, and I was able to squeeze on.

The rest of the ride, I was fascinated by her. I mean, it wasn’t the first time I had seen people scream at fellow commuters to move in (seriously, what is the standing by the door obsession? Do they think thy won’t be able to get off the subway at their stop? I have never seen someone get trapped behind other people and miss their stop. Ever.), but it was that first time I had seen someone do it for a total stranger.

She was like a super hero, fighting the empty-headed masses for her fellow commuter. Or something.

The point is, it made me think: What if there was a job where you just went around pointing out when people were being inconsiderate commuters and correcting the error of their ways?

Think about it: You could yell at the lazy business men who never offer their seats to pregnant women or the elderly. You could silence undisciplined children, or shoo away panhandlers.

Heck, forget commuting; I think this job could expand into a universal market. Are you being a rude idiot? Allow us to correct the issue.

It course, this will never be a real job. Instead, the people who try to correct these kinds of problems will just get called names and shot bitter looks.

But it’s fun to dream.