The 8:43 approached the station. They were two blonde girls and a guy, each about23–too young to be commuters, too old to be Grand Central Verminal.

One blonde, sporting more cleavage than the entire train she was about to board, peered inside the window as the train came to a stop.

“Woowwww!” she exclaimed.

They boarded and grabbed a three-seater. After much debate, they figured out their seating order.

“This is great!” she said. “I’ve never seen a three-seater before!”

The threesome chatted over egg sandwiches. I tried hard not to listen, turning up the volume higher on Gnarls Barkley on the iPod. But, by the next stop, the vapidity of the conversation was more entertaining than annoying. To wit (though “wit” might be a bit of a stretch):

“My uncle, like, had a pool party, and, like, he’s really cool, and he was, like, wrestling with this kid, and it was, like, right where, ya know, like, the grass hits the cement, and, like, my uncle hit his head and was, like, bleeding all over the place.”