The Mean Streets of Scarsdale

It was an exceedingly rare night out in the Big Town for TJ last night–a coworker’s 40th, and the whole crew tipping a few on a sticky summer night.

Festivities wound down around 9, so I commenced my schlep to Grand Central. I didn’t know the departing train times offhand, and couldn’t be bothered to access them on my Blackberry.

I was hungry. Sure, there was the nibbling of bar snacks, but those always take the back seat to a hearty pint of ale dripping with the condensation of a muggy New York night. (We were on the roof deck of a Park Ave South boite.)

I considered ducking in somewhere for a slice of pizza on the way to the station, grab a much needed bottle of water (if the bar nibbles take the back seat while imbibing goes down, the consumption of water is tossed in the trunk). But I figured I’d get to Grand Central first, see how much time I had until the next train, then sort out food and water, and perhaps a Post–which is best enjoyed with a few jars in you and the day’s Times already read.

I slipped through the Terminal’s front doors at 9:19, and the next Harlem Liner was off at 9:22. I had just enough time to get water and pretzels from the beer guy, and found a seat on the train.

Unlike the typical commuter trains during peak, the 9:22 clientele was young, dressed for summer, tipsy and a bit noisy. I slipped on the Bose cans, booted up Bob Dylan and, for the first time in my life, began reading the Home section of the Times.

All was well and good–in fact a fascinating article about the quirky homes in the Carriage Town section of Flint, MI–until we limped to a stop a few miles past the Bronx border. It was 9:45 when the conductor got on the loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there is police activity near Scarsdale,” the man said. (Surely there are lots of jokes about what constitutes police activity in Scarsdale–poodle poop on the lawn comes immediately to mind–but I’m a little too ragged today to figure one out.)

“We’ll be delayed 10-15 minutes,” he continued. “If we learn anything more, we’ll let you know.”

The train let out a collective sigh and people rang up their pick-up pals on their mobiles.

We sat still for several minutes. At 9:53, the PA system crackled to life.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re not quite sure what it is,” the man said. “But apparently they’re on the tracks.”

We sighed again, but starting moving a minute later.

The man came on the PA a moment later.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to move up to Tuckahoe and wait there for further instruction,” said the conductor.

So we did.

We sat for several minutes, examining the limitless limerick possibilities Tuckahoe presents.

The conductor broke the silence at 10:02–two minutes shy of when the train was supposed to pull into Hawthorne.

“Folks,” he said, dropping the ‘ladies and gentlemen’ bit. “There’s still police activity in Scarsdale.”

So we sat. Then the hunger really, truly announced itself in my belly. I’d consumed my pretzels quickly, and had dropped a pair of them on the floor, only to toss them into my bag to throw away later. I stared at the empty bag. “Utz” reminded me of Don Draper and Mad Men. “Extra Thin” made me think of my shrinking frame after skipping dinner.

I gritted my teeth and ate one of the dirty pretzels.

At 10:10, we started crawling. At least we were moving.

“Folks, we’re moving up to Crestwood,” Conductor Man said.

Then we were past crime-riddled Scarsdale, pulling into White Plains at 10:19.

Ten minutes later, we got into Hawthorne, an hour and seven minutes after we set out. I hopped on my bike and did a mental inventory of all the food–peanut butter, marshmallows, those unreal Oreo mini-cake things called Cakesters–awaiting me at home.