That knack for when to hold out for the choice seat and when to promptly dump oneself into lesser real estater that I’d bragged about failed me this morning. I passed up on some decent ones–aisles, middle of the car–while walking toward the front in search of a winner (aisle, no one behind me, or the coup de grace–the 1-3/4 seater).
With each step down the aisle, it dawned on me that I was essentially walking the plank, and finally dropped my dejected ass into a handicapped folding seat.
So jammed is the front of the train that not only did a guy take the folding seat across from me at Valhalla (unspoken words to the dude seated six inches away: “uh…how ya doin’?), but another guy took the available eight inches on my folding seat at North White. I spent the rest of the trip folded up like Flat Stanley being mailed to his friends in an envelope.
To make matters worse, I had the whole trip to lament the (hopefully temporary) loss of my new bike light, a sweet $25 piece of hardware that flew off its handlebar mooring somewhere along Elwood Avenue. I didn’t notice it falling off, per se, but did note a fleeting awareness of having run over some piece of debris, perhaps a soda can. If I don’t find it today or tomorrow and the bike shop in Chelsea gives me a hard time about replacing it, expect to read said bike shop’s name next to unflattering adjectives for days on end. I’ve had the thing for all of two weeks.
I guess my morning could’ve been worse–I could’ve been on an LIRR train that crashed at Jamaica.