Would You Like My Seat?

Brooklyn-bound A-train, Wednesday evening. It's about 8:45, and a woman with a cane gets on the train at Columbus Circle. There are plenty of empty seats at this point, but she chooses to remain standing. At 42 St, a whole horde boards the train, and all empty seats are quickly filled. One man, after sitting down, notices the woman with the cane, who is still standing. He springs out of the seat, takes her elbow, and offers her his seat. She smiles and politely declines. He offers again. She thanks him again but tells him that she prefers to stand. He does not accept this, and continues to badger her to take his seat. She finally says, "I'll tell you what--if I change my mind, I'll ask you to get up."
"Well, would you rather I ask someone else to give up their seat?" he responds. Everyone within earshot starts laughing. We pull into 34th St, and he obviously decides that this is the best suggestion. He gets up again and stands in front of a triple-seat. "Alright," he says, "everybody up." So saying, he makes all three (oddly unprotesting) passengers stand up, then, with a flourish, directs the now-exhausted woman to the completely empty bench. She sits down with a smile and slight eyeroll. One of the displaced passengers sneaks around behind and snatches the man's former seat.
As we pull into 14th St, I stand to exit. The man takes my seat, saying loudly, "Whew! It's good to be able to sit down!"

The Beatbox Lumberjack

It was the day after Thanksgiving, and the Brooklyn-bound A-train was much less crowded than I would have expected, given all the Black Friday announcements during the weeks before. I was sitting at one end of an otherwise empty triple-seat, and across from me was a grizzled sixtyish man in a lumberjack jacket with a fur Cossack hat that was pulled down over his eyes. I thought that he was asleep, but as we pulled out of the next stop, he started to sing what I can only guess was a song that he was making up on the spot in a voice that sounded like it was seldom used for speech, let alone song. At the same time, a bickering couple had joined me on my bench. As he sang, the lumberjack's voice grew stronger, and he started to do NKOTB-style arm gestures to accompany his song. (Since he was holding a paper cup of coffee at the same, this was not only odd, but also messy.) One of the men in the couple beside me looked across the car and suddenly started beatboxing along with the ever louder song.
"What are you doing?" asked the other man in the couple.
The first man stopped his percussing. "You always say that I'm too introverted, so I'm expressing myself." He then resumed. I felt like I was stuck in the episode of Modern Family in which Mitchell joins a flashmob to impress Cameron. His partner looked shocked, but then smiled.
The lumberjack got off at the next stop, having fully roused himself at this point, and also having spilled all of the remaining coffee. He continued to sing as he left the train, and once he reached the stairs of the platform, he started dancing down them as though he were in a 1950s musical. The couple did not bicker for the rest of the ride.

The Peripatetic Christmas Tree

As I entered the station at 175th St last night, I heard a strange melody rising from its depths. Upon arriving on the platform, I saw an apparently homeless man, bundled in many layers, and pushing a shopping cart down the platform. His cart contained the usual assortment of black garbage bags and tattered blankets, but on top, perched somewhat precariously, was a miniature but fully decorated Christmas tree. The man was slurring his way through several somewhat jumbled Christmas carols, his mournful tone in direct contrast to both the joyful lyrics and the twinkling tree. When the train finally arrived, the man did not get on, but continued to pace the platform, singing to his little tree.