I’m chugging big-time for the 6:10 last night, cutting it closer than I normally do.
I see the lights a-flashing as I make my way down the ramp; it’s not a case of Thinkablinkaphobia, it’s the real deal.
I get on, and the conductor operating the door button, head out the window like vertical Whack-A-Mole, gives me the look.
I head toward the back where the seats are and, lo and behold, the mother lode of the seating situations: An empty six-seater. The coup de grace!
I ease into the six-seater the way you ease into a hot tub.
The train starts moving. But it stops about 40 feet down the platform. One man is standing on the platform, praying for a reprieve.
“C’mon,” I see him mouth.
Ten seconds pass. Another man is on the platform, and another.
They try telekinesis to get the doors to open. People on board pick up on the drama; will the conductors let them on?
The train has been stopped for 40 seconds. There are five men on the platform, then six. Hope is in their eyes.
Me, I’m trying to see how many of my six seats I can use: Rear in one, knees against another, bag on one, Times on another. Two to share spare.
The doors fail to open and the train pulls away. Three of the men on the platform laugh. Two frown. One grimaces and shakes his head; his pain is palpable.
I make like the three men and laugh, and try to figure out how I can use my remaining two seats.