It’s a little before 6 p.m. Friday, and a train full of commuters trudge up the stairs at Hummerville station, weary from the recently wrapped work week.
A generic White Male shuffles down the stairs toward the platform, completely indiscreet except for a bright orange Syracuse sweatshirt.
Three steps behind him is a woman of about 45, lumpen and oafish and similarly generic. She too wears the bright orange Syracuse sweatshirt, en route to the city to watch the Orangemen do battle against West Virginia.
She’s giddy about the pending game, her peppy temperament a far cry from the commuters who were simply happy to mark another week of having a job amidst the Great Recession. Perhaps she had a few Bud Lights over at Gordo’s before showing up at the station.
She eyes the commuters and locks in one the guy in front of me, who’s wearing a vaguely orange baseball cap, like one you’d get at some beach club in Newport.
“GO ’CUSE!!!” she yells to the bunch of us, hoping for a “Whoo hoo,” a ”Yeeeahhh, boy!” a “That’s what I’m talking about!” Heck, she’d even settle for a mumbled “Boo-Ya.”
Alas, none of the above are forthcoming. She’s the lady at the rock concert, yelling “Cat Scratch Fever” in the moment of dead time, getting blank stares from everyone around her.
“I guess not,” she mumbles.
“Wrong crowd,” says her guy pal.
Their spirits properly muffled, they make their way to the downbound platform.
[image tracygreen.blogspot.com]