I was cutting it close, as I always do, as I headed toward Grand Central last night. I got jammed up at the 42nd Street light and was guilty of some serious Pershing Square Dancing as I waited for a green.

Once in GCT, I bolted for the track, and encountered a morass of humanity shuffling down the ramp, heading for the train across the platform. Things were getting dicey as I looked for a gap in the fleshy wall.

Just as I hit the platform, the doors of the [TIME REDACTED, SO I DON’T GET ANYONE FIRED] train shut.

*&$#*, I thought to myself. It had been a late eve at work to begin with, and The Missus would not be happy to hear I’d be 25 minutes later. Such a delay might even be the difference between seeing Little G and Little Miss C, and not seeing them at all.

The train ambled out of the station as I stood there contemplating my next move. It had left right on time, not the usual 30-40 seconds late that most trains do.

The caboose drew level to where I was standing, and stopped.

And stayed stopped for a moment.

On a whim, I knocked on the door. The conductor, a man whose description I will withhold so I don’t get him fired (let’s just say he was wearing powder-blue), looked at me, shrugged, and went back to punching tickets.

The train remained on the platform.

I knocked again. The conductor shrugged again, as if to say, you were late, it’s not my fault, get a Bud tall boy and wait for the next train, champ.

Then the clouds broke and sun poked through the gap.

The conductor pulled his Schneider-esque key ring from his pocket, slid the key into the door, and let me on.

schneider.jpg

“I…uh…I owe you BIG TIME!” was the best I could muster. He nodded blankly and I took a seat.

Thank you, [REDACTED] conductor on the [REDACTED] train out of Grand Central. You know who you are.