The sign reads: PRIORITY SEATING. It’s hard not to see it — anything set in 48-point Helvetica Bold can’t be missed. Massimo Vignelli once said you can say anything with Helvetica, and if you’ve ever ventured into the bowels of New York City’s transit system, you’ve been sanctified by its grace.

The sign is a stark contrast to the orange-skinned twenty-something juice monkey occupying the seat. His mouth is open and relaxed, and he looks sedated from the protein shake consumed for breakfast. He stares blankly . . . no book, magazine or iPod — simply contemplating what brand of energy bar produces the most pleasant bouquet. Farting is inevitable during a strenuous workout.

The car isn’t full, but all the seats are occupied. I’m standing, minding my own business, as the train pulls into a station. The doors open and the automated voice chimes: “This is a . . . Pelham Park . . . Bound . . . Six . . . Local train . . . The next stop is . . . 42nd Street . . . Grand Central. Standclearoftheclosingdoorsplease.”

An elderly couple steps into the car just as the doors slam shut and the train shunts forward — accelerating quickly to speed — merciless and unforgiving to anyone caught off guard. In a caring and protective voice, the husband says to his wife, “We’ll try to find you a seat, dear.” His voice is at a level clearly audible to every passenger. Take a damn hint!

Satisfied that the situation will be resolved, I slip into a daydream and whisper “Engage!” as I become Patrick Stewart giving the command for warp speed. My fantasy is cut short when I notice the elderly couple are still standing — struggling to keep vertical. I stare helplessly from the other end of the car, and panic slightly upon seeing that nobody has given them a seat. We’re quickly approaching the Neutral Zone, and this ship isn’t outfitted with artificial gravity.

The juice monkey continues to stare blankly. By this point the elderly couple have braced themselves over the priority seat which he’s been keeping warm with his protein-enhanced digestive tract. To my astonishment, he continues to sit and stare — oblivious to the great-grandmother struggling to stand at his feet. The couple eye him with sharp knives, but decide to uphold their dignity and refuse to implicitly ask him to GET THE FUCK UP! Obviously they are of the Church of Helvetica, and put all faith in the perfectly kerned letters reading PRIORITY SEATING. “Massimo, where are you now?” I whisper in prayer.

I stare at Arnold’s fake tan, unbalanced muscle structure and barbed-wire tattoo. I wonder if his testicles are the same size as his beady little eyes. I begin to pity his illiteracy, confident that the English language — when set in Swiss modernist type — is discernible to anyone who can read. Give up your fucking seat!

Three stops pass before Rambo finally gets up to leave the train. The woman — dear to me as a grandmother at this point — sits down with a sigh of relief. The husband whispers “Assho—” but is cut short by the automated voice: “This is a . . . Pelham Park . . . Bound . . . Six . . . Local train . . . The next stop is . . . 68th Street . . . Hunter College. Standclearoftheclosingdoorsplease.” And with that, life goes on . . .

. . . Engage!