Sir,
I hadn’t noticed you until I heard the clink of beer bottles stemming from your seat. You were pouring a full bottle of Corona into an empty bottle of Corona. I couldn’t figure out why, until I saw the wedge of lime in the bottom of the empty bottle. You like the citrus flavor in your beer.
You, sir, had knocked off that second Corona before we’d even pulled out of the tunnel around 100th Street, and were on to your next quarry, a Heineken tall boy.
But that’s not why I write. You, sir, are a model of booze-consuming behavior. Because, as the train pulled into White Plains, you rounded up each and every of your empties, even bending to pick up a scrap of paper you’d left behind.
When your seat failed to flip up (it was one of those spring-action folding ones near the door), you balanced on one foot–despite the 40 ounces of bland lager coursing through your bloodstream–and raised the seat with your toe.
As you departed, there was nary a sign that a person had inhabited the seat. I assume the gap between the train and the platform was a non-issue for you, because the train was off in a matter of seconds.
Sir, as the MTA frets about the behavior of those consuming a drink or two on the train, I consider you a shining example of one who can enjoy an adult beverage–or three–while still being a discreet and fully functional member of Metro-North society.
Bravo.
–Trainjotting
PS: We’re a little concerned about all the drinking though.