Several months ago I climbed into an ascending slow-motion urine oven, otherwise known as an MTA subway elevator. I had just pushed my 2-year-old's stroller onboard when a rather angry-looking male little person followed us on. As the broiling metal cage began its snail-like rise, the standard stench threatened to close my throat, and I noticed the man inching closer to my child - a menacing scowl on his face.
Trapped in a small space, unsure of what to do, I nervously began chattering to my toddler, and found myself saying, as I do 800 times a day to my son: "Hello little man! Who's the little man? Where's my little man?"
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