The train was more crowded than usual at Hawthorne. Instead of my typical 10 minutes of blissful not-having-to-share solitude, I joined another guy in a three-seater.
At North White Plains, the announcement came on: “Ladies and gentlemen, as you’re well aware, we’re short two cars today,” the conductor said, before explaining that, at some point this morning, the third rail went kaput somewhere, a train was stuck, we had to lend ‘em a few cars, something like that. “It’s going to be extremely crowded, so please make all seats available,” he continued. “Thank you for your patience.”
The faces of the new arrivals at
White Plains shifted from blank (commuter default) to concern (am I getting a seat?) to anger (I’m not getting a seat). A man gestured about the availability of our middle seat (in car parlance, “sitting bitch”). I got up to let him in.
The man opened a copy of Nature Magazine. He started to read something on the brain, which was illustrated with graphics that looked straight out of CSI. He grew bored and started reading my Times from my right flank. It was about Oscar nominations. It had pictures of pretty women. Better than the brain.
Rough start, but an otherwise smooth ride.