As I gas on about every time I come back from vacation, there always seems to be havoc awaiting on the first ride into the city after an extended time away.
This morning I actually caught a break. The downpour held off just long enough to allow me to speedwalk to the train station without getting completely drenched. (I wasn’t about to leave The Missus’s shiny, unrusty bike out in the rain all day, and get her Strawberry Shortcake spoke-cards all wet.)
I hopped on the 8:16 and found a seat. I recognized the man that took the seat in front of me from my stop. He’s a normal looking guy, but seems sort of nervous on the train–even more nervous than me. A few times, I’ve seen him pick a seat, drop all his gear off on the rack, then stand up in the vestibule, presumably scanning the vista for a better seat, pacing the aisles, and ultimately moving. Not real sure what that’s about.
So anyway, the antsy guy sits in front of me. And sneezes–a huge, hearty, get-the-hell-out-of-my-way kind of sneeze, one that makes others in a six-foot radius wince, recoil, or both. Then he sneezes again, and again.
The guy is facing away from me, so it wouldn’t seem like a big deal. But he’s sneezing into his folded up AM New York, and there’s a window in the middle of his seat back, giving the cooties a wide, inviting tunnel through which to pass en route to my nasal cavity.
And to boot, Little Miss C was off her game all weekend with a fever and ear infection.
One more sneeze and I’m leaving, I think to myself. We’re hardly out of Hawthorne and Valhalla is a few minutes away–plenty of time to switch seats.
He sneezes.
This time I mean it, I say to myself. One more sneeze, I’m leaving.
He sneezes.
I’m temporarily paralyzed with indecision as “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” runs through my brain. I actually consider the people around me–the Bill Clinton lookalike in the Det. Sipowicz short-sleeve dress shirt to my left, the heavy-set woman buried in the Journal News sitting cattycorner to me. What will they think if I up and leave?
I think of Mr. Sneeze as well–is it insulting to vacate one’s seat when the reason for such departure is the actions of a fellow rider? I picture a tense, awkward exchange between us:
“What, afraid of a little sneezing?”
“I…uh…my daughter has a fever. It’s not you, it’s me.”
“So, like, my germs are gonna fly behind me, cling on to you, stick with you all day, and jump onto your precious daughter tonight?”
“Uh, well, yes, that’s what I was thinking. I know, it’s silly,” I say, trying to diffuse the situation with good natured bonhomie. “I guess being a parent makes you kind of crazy.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ll say,” he says, then sneezes, not using his AM New York for cover.
Now I’m annoyed.
“Why can’t you just stay home for the day?” I say. “I mean, you’re SOOOO important at work–they simply can’t miss you for one day, right.”
He snarls. Then sneezes. A conductor separates us.
Back in the real world, the man sneezes again. That’s seven, by my count. With, say. 1.6 million germs per sneeze, that’s 11.2 million germs. I gather my bag, my raincoat, myself, and head to the next car.
Sneezy doesn’t say anything. I actually stumble on a precious 1-3/4 seater, which you’d simply kill for on a rainy day–room to hang your wet coat, your umbrella, even your dress shirt if you’re that kind of person.
I started thinking about how Metro-North actually let me off easy on this, my first day back from a break. Then the train crawled through the tunnel, and docked at Track 36 four minutes late.
Still, not too bad, I thought.
Then I got jammed up in an awful–and getting worse–pedestrian traffic situation at the Grand Central stairs heading down to the subway. The up escalator has been on the fritz for several days, meaning the stairwell that’s usually dominated by those descending to the subways has to be shared with the ascenders–causing massive gridlock at the top of the stairs. Come to think of it, there’s been trouble with that escalator–and that stairwell–off and on for several months.
The descenders were routed to the far left staircase, and the up-goers headed up the near-left stairs. We stood for several minutes at the top of the stairs, a few hundred of us waiting to make our descent. Mockingly, a sign on the busted escalator said it would not be fixed until July 31.
A man in a red MTA vest whose sole purpose appeared to be standing there in a red vest stood in between the two lines, staring at the ground and shaking his head.
It was the traffic jam we did not get heading back from the Delaware beaches yesterday, I thought as I inched forward.
At last, Metro-North claimed its pound of flesh from my sunburned ass.