Filthy Mark is a friend from high school, given the nickname thanks to his formerly Falstaffian appetite for certain vices. When Filthy Mark joined the NYPD about a decade ago, the moniker was tweaked to Filthy Narc. That made us laugh, but didn’t ultimately catch on.

Filthy Mark and I have been playing phone tag, for lack of a better term, for several days, trying to get our families together (he lives in Copland up in Putnam Co.). He was on my mind as I hustled to the 5:27 last night. As I stepped onto the platform with about a minute to spare, a cop jumped in front of me. He looked for all the world like Filthy Mark.

I had my iPod cranking, was focused on getting my ass onto the train, and wasn’t quite thinking clearly.

“Excuse me, sir, I’ll need to check your bag,” he said.

Was Filthy Mark f***ing with me, I thought for a split second. Upon further inspection, it was not, in fact, Mark. It was a cop named Prieto, and he needed to search my bag.

Had I been put on a watch list for disparaging Metro-North on this blog, for listening for a little too much revolutionary music like the Clash’s first album, for attending that lone Amnesty International meeting in college (it was just to impress a girl! i swear!)? More pressing, the Missus and Little G were counting on me to be on that 5:27 so we could check out that great Jack O’Lantern blaze up in Croton. If I miss the train, we miss the pumpkin blaze, and I’m sleeping in the minivan.

“It’ll just take a minute,” said Fake Filthy Mark with what actually might be classified as a smile.

I told him I’d confused him for a second with a friend from high school as another cop–a dark, giant fellow who, making things even more confusing, looked like another cop friend (McDowell) from high school–slid a white ticket the size of a stamp into a machine.

“That’s it, you’re done,” said Fake Filthy Mark.

The whole thing took 40 seconds. I made the 5:27 with half a minute to spare.