As holiday train shows go down at Grand Central and the New York Botanical Gardens, I find myself calling up one of the finest train-related holiday memories in my vast reserve. It was Christmas eve, around 1995. I’d spent the last two weeks indulging friends who were in New York for a few days, and wanted to see the clock strike 4 a.m. from the floor of some divey East Village pub, such as Phebe’s.

Anxiety was running high, and only ran higher as an absolute crush of humanity descended on the Long Island Railroad train to Huntington. So jammed was this train that we could not find a few square feet to squeeze our aching carcasses into.

So we waited for the next one, caught a tip as to which platform it would be on, and were among the first to board.

Over the course of the next 20 minutes, the train went from full to packed to unbelievably freaking crowded. The train staff attempted to close the doors, which struck would-be riders each time they tried to shut. This went on for several attempts.

Finally, a fat older man in a white beard, stuck half on and half off the train, muttered something along the lines of, “C’mon folks, make room for one more.”

To which an unidentified young man on board, speaking in the finest of Queens English, snapped back, “Shut the f*** up, Santa!”

Let’s hope for that man’s sake, the real Santa was in the can at that moment and not watching his naughty/nice monitor.