The Chicago Transit Authority School of Common Courtesy, Rule #1

Priority seating is intended for the elderly, women who are pregnant or nursing, and passengers with disabilities.  Your cooperation is requested.

Translation: Get your ass up out of your seat when old people, disabled people (or the beggar con-man who pretends to be blind) or knocked-up/leaking baby mammas get on a full train.  This is Rule Number One at the CTA School of Manners.

Moms with infants seem to avoid the train (which is smart) and disabled people are typically very grateful to be offered a seat.  But then you run into the age-old problem of Old People Not Realizing/Accepting that They’re Old, and Getting Bent Out of Shape When You Do Something Polite That Acknowledges Their Age.

Let me digress for a moment.  There was a time when people of a certain age complained that “Kids these days don’t have any manners!”  Now, this happens:

Me: (greeting an older male colleague in a professional setting)  “Good morning, sir.”

Man:  “Sir?  Ouch!  Oh, man, you’re killing me! How many times have I told you not to call me ‘sir’?  ‘Sir’ was my father, ‘sir’ makes me feel old.  Your father must’ve been a military man.”

Me:  “No, he was in business.  I’m sorry, it’s just habit and how I was raised.”

Man:  “Well, you need to loosen up a little and call me Craig like everyone else.”

I have truthfully lost track of how many times I’ve had this conversation in the last 5 years or so.  I should add that it happens mostly with men.  On most occasions, I find women are flattered to be called “ma’am” and take it in stride.

It’s as if the “Yes, sir/No sir”  habit is endearing when you’re a kid, but when you cross that line into womanhood (which was apparently discernible to everyone except me) and continue saying “sir” to any man over the age of 40, you’re verbally whittling away at his virility or something.

Although I admit, 40 is not old.   A better example if the Old People Not Realizing They’re Old conundrum is the situation that occurred on the Red Line a few weekends ago:

Notre Dame must’ve been playing Miami at Soldier Field.  I’m sportstarded, so don’t ask me why; I thought it was still baseball season.  But this means that there are out-of-town football fans EVERYWHERE.  I’m lucky enough to snag a seat on the train, when a whole noisy group of white sixty/seventy-somethings shoves into the car at State and Lake.

“Push!  You have to just shove ‘em!  We can all fit, come on!”  Best I can figure, they’re a tour group of about ten Fighting Irish alumni.

*Ding dong*  “Doors Closing” says the automated voice that is our Etiquette Teacher.

“Oh, move move, hurry up!  He says the doors are closing!”  (El regulars know that you have a good 5 to 7 seconds between that announcement and when the doors actually close.)

It’s the same in London, New York, and Paris:  When the train takes off is always when you can tell the tourists from the locals among the standing passengers.  Locals have already found a handhold, widened their stance and secured their purses and briefcases under their arms.  Tourists lurch backward and stumble all over each other, their shopping bags whacking seated people in the face.

This group in particular lurches and cries out in unison “Whoa!”  and then laugh at each other.  Some of the younger people on the train roll their eyes.

I’m about to open a mouth to offer my seat to one of the ladies standing next to me, when a voice comes from down the isle:  “Hey guys!  Did you see? This kid just gave up his seat for Frank because he’s such an OLD MAN!”

The ladies in front of me turn in Frank’s direction and hoot and holler with the rest of the group about this.  I decide they probably don’t want my seat that badly, they all seem fairly able-bodied anyhow.

I’m not kidding, they laughed and carried on about this for a good 4-5 minutes, all the way down to Roosevelt.  I wondered if the guy who gave up his seat was very embarrassed.  I stood up to get off (which means carefully squeezing past people toward the door while saying “Excuse me”), the doors open, and the Fighting Irish start getting out as well.  I accidentally step in front of one of the women, not realizing until then that she was trying to get through the door too.

“After you,” I say, once I realize my mistake.

“No, it’s fine, you go ahead,” she responds.  Then one of her companions, right next to me, says to her:

“For God’s sake, don’t stand there arguing with her, just GO!”

*Sigh* Whatever.  I made it to Pilsen to pick up a piece of artwork I bought myself for my birthday, and made it back without incident.  Another day, another etiquette lesson.