2003-01-25 - 1:05 p.m.

So with things kinda slow at work yesterday, I got permission to take a slightly extended lunch break so I could head down to Restoration Hardware (home of the $299.99 table fan) to pick up a record album frame to match the four I already have up in my room.

I decided to take the Orange from State to Back Bay rather than the Green from Government Center to Copley, even though the Orange never ever comes, and I made that decision based solely on the temperature--it was a frickin� cold day yesterday, and I wasn�t too keen on the walk through the City Hall wind tunnel.

But the train came right away, and it put me in a good mood--if I could get there and back fast enough, I�d still have time to pick up a good lunch.

I got a seat on the train, and waited for the doors to close for a good five minutes. Some kids standing by them started hanging outside, one of them said something happened.

The operator made an announcement--there was a medical emergency, and the train would be delayed. People started getting off--I remained on the train for a good five minutes more, and then got off, and, being a naturally inquisitive fellow, walked toward the medical emergency.

A drunk guy had walked into the side of the train as it was pulling into the platform. No, he hadn�t been hit by the train--he actually walked into it.

Yes, I�m sure he was drunk, and he lay sprawled out on the yellow safety line, slowly waving his arms like a stunned cockroach on its back.

Instead of feeling compassion, or concern, all I could muster was annoyance, incredulity, and an unhealthy, and in fact, downright morbid curiosity.

After being told to wait on the train, and then after being told to get off the train, us passengers just kinda stood there--kids were cracking jokes and mocking walking into a row of connected and moving subway cars.

They moved the train after a few, and the next one slowly crept in. I recognized a friend of mine and, taking a seat next to her, explained why her train was delayed before it pulled into State.

Oh my God, she said, was he OK? Was he hurt?

I told her I thought he was fine, jealous of her goodness.

When I finally got to Back Bay, I hit Restoration Hardware (home of the $11.99 half-pound bag of potting soil).

Yes, they still sold record album frames (I�m guessing that particular product is their cash cow), but they only had them in cheap chrome (which the clerk called �silver�), despite the two huge displays in different parts of the store--one on the second floor and one directly behind the clerk, both boasting quite a few black ones (to match the four on my wall). I pointed at the black frames, still shrink wrapped and probably SKU�d, arranged on the wall with Restoration Hardware-like precision, and asked if I could have one of those.

No.

I said please.

No.

I asked if they�d get a new shipment soon.

Friday.

I left the store frustrated and empty handed. And angry that (and this is true) I can never ever ever just do something. Every project, however simple seeming on paper, always requires about ten extra steps to complete. Signing a lease for the Cosby Brownstone. Getting my Christmas bookcase. Making my relationship with the Roommate official and legal (yes, it�s true--I can say it now).

I got a quick burger at Wendy�s and took the Green back to the Big Company. Only then did it occur to me to say a prayer for the drunk guy who had walked into the train.

I�m a bad person, and it bothers me. A good person wouldn�t have gotten annoyed at the drunk guy. A good person would have said a prayer right away. A good person wouldn�t have laughed quietly to himself when the kids on the platform started making fun of the drunk guy. A good person would have anonymously mailed a check to the Pine Street Inn. A good person wouldn't think of himself first, which is exactly what I did, and which is exactly what I'm doing right now.

But despite my tenderness and generosity and compassion for people I care about, despite my knack for not doing anything illegal or morally wrong, despite the fact that (between you and me) I cry at sad movies, I�m still not a good person, and this is kinda a theme in my life, I�m smart enough to realize the problem, but not smart enough, or perhaps I don�t care enough, to change.

I don�t really believe in God, and certainly not in a Catholic sense, but I still pray to Mary every now and then--she ruffles through the prayer mailbag and passes the good ones onto God. I kinda figure that if enough people believe in something, it�s kinda true, so when I pray, I�m really just tapping in to that collective thingie.

When I finished my prayer for the stupid drunk guy, I said one for myself too.