The kid was wearing a tight white United Way t-shirt, and he had the charity thing down to a science. He was maybe 17, in long denim shirts, his attention focused on a P2P video game in which shooting people appeared to be the goal. It was the 7:22 to Southeast, and he had an off-peak ticket for White Plains.
The conductor, a tall no-nonsense woman in schoolmarm glasses, happened by. The kid offered his ticket. “That’ll be $2.50,” she said, the add-on for a peak train.
As visions of “My Dog Ate My Ticket” flashed through my brain, the kid fished through his pockets.
“I only have a dollar,” he said.
The conductor fumed.
“You didn’t hear the 19 announcements I made?” she asked.
The kid shrugged.
Scam #1 was done. On to Scam #2.
Twenty-five minutes later, the train ambled into White Plains. Seated on the aisle, I got my stuff together to get up and let the kid out. We stopped. He kept shooting at the bad guys on his P2P. Do I say something, like, “Hey, buddy, it’s White Plains”? I did not.
As the train left White Plains, I expected the kid to leap to his feet upon realizing he’d missed his stop. He did not.
I got off three stops later, and the kid was still on.
A $6.25 ride to Mt. Kisco, or Brewster, or Southeast. Well played, son.