Friday evening on the 5:27 out of Gotham.
Normal looking dude standing and reading the New Yorker in the vestibule. Neat gray hair the color of iron, tweed blazer, khaki slacks, glasses. The word professorial comes to mind.
The conductor comes around to check tickets. I’m not paying attention until there’s some friction between the Professor and the Conductor. It appeas the conductor has tried to give the Professor that stamped stub that would typically go on the back of your seat, if you had one.
The Professor makes some irate hand gestures along the lines of “What the f*** do you expect me to do with this thing?” His reaction seems way out of line, given the situation.
The conductor raises his hands and steps away, the way you would when you’ve raised the attention of an angry Rottweiler. The conductor gingerly steps toward the man and sticks the stub in the poster ad next to him. It’s an ad for Smart Water.
As the conductor walks away, the Professor shakes his head vigorously to show his displeasure.
He keeps shaking his head from Fordham to Mount Vernon West. It’s uncanny. I start to think maybe the guy is unwell–failed to take his meds and minor things like this just set him off.
Finally, past Mount Vernon, his head-shakes slow and blend into the normal rattle and roll of the train.
Fifteen minutes later, near North White Plains, the Professor shifts his body, turning sideways against the Smart Water ad. He spies the ticket stub and the head-shaking recommences. His mumbles to himself in disgust at the conductor’s actions.
What a tool, I think as I shift one row up to an empty three-seater.
At Valhalla, the same Conductor comes by. He stops next to me and says something. He asks for my ticket. I tell him I just moved up a seat — same as I do just about every ride home. He testily grabs my ticket stub from the seat behind me and places it one seat up.
“You gotta bring this wichoo!” he says curtly. “It’s yours!”
OK, maybe the Professor and the Conductor are both tools.