I was aiming for the 6:33 yesterday, not my usual 5:46.
Yanked from my typical routine, I didn’t execute my walk to GCT with its usual urgency.
Asleep at the switch as I ambled toward Grand Central, I checked the time at 42nd, across from the GCT entrance: 6:32 and a few seconds.
I contemplated some serious Perishing Square maneuvers, then waited for a break and bolted across 42nd. I checked the monitor as soon as I got inside: It said the 6:33 on Track 15 had, in fact, “DEPARTED.”
The next train was 26 minutes later. A huge deal, in the scope of things? Of course not. Get a beer and the Post, find a chair, take a breather.
A big deal at the time? F***, yeah. The Missus is probably ready to throttle Thing 1 and Thing 2 after a long day. I don’t get enough time with the kids to begin with. I had to make the 6:33.
Having learned not to believe everything I hear from the MTA, I pulled some serious LaTrainian Tomlinson toward Track 15, which is a bit of a hike from the Pershing Square Entrance. There was some physical contact in the jammed concourse; it was mostly my fault and I’m sorry.
As I approached the opening to the platform, I spied a woman sprinting toward the train from the opposite direction. From her vantage point, she could see down the platform; was the train still there?
Indeed, it was, I confirmed as I hit the ramp. The train’s lights were blinking–no, I’m positive they were–and the conductor’s rather large head was out window, shaking in disapproval.
I sprinted down the ramp. He tapped the side of the train impatiently. I made the doorway, the doors slammed shut, and we headed toward Harlem.
Departed, my ass.