I had my first taste of New York rage a few days ago. I’d just spent forty-five minutes on the subway to Bay Ridge to look at apartments, now ascending the stairs to the surface in the middle of rush hour. The foot traffic on the stairs was shoulder-to-shoulder, every step at full occupancy. At the very top of the stairs and leaning against the last bit of hand rail was a dude, just standing there leaning, looking at his phone, leaning, standing, against the hand rail, standing, a dude, leaning, a five-foot-eight abandoned sack of laundry. His existence at the top of the stairs against the hand rail created just enough of a choke point to throw the entire flow of the more than two hundred exiting subway passengers into disarray.