Wing Man.
I’ve written about you before.
Typically, you board the train at Grand Central in your gym clothes, dinner from Zaro’s in hand. Typically, it is buffalo wings. Sauce-bathed, messy-ass wings with get-all-over-everything blue cheese. You leave the sticky carnage in the bag, on the seat, for the “help” to pick up when you exit at Hawthorne.
I’ve seen you do this a half-dozen times.
I boarded the 5:46 yesterday uncharacteristically with about four minutes to spare–a product of my workplace moving two block–and thus, two minutes–closer to Grand Central. It makes a difference.
I headed toward the back of the train, which had been the front of the train only hours ago. It’s where the seats are.
Owing to my early arrival, I saw a handful of decent seats as soon as I boarded. There was a perfect option–aisle seat, near the door–until I saw you were across the aisle. You were on the window in a five-seater, your smorgasbord spread out on the seat in front of you.
Today it was salad, though it was smothered in your beloved blue cheese dressing, and didn’t look all that healthy, despite its leafy green base.
I declined the seat across the aisle from you, because it makes me angry to see you leave your landfill on the seat, and I’m fearful of speaking out about it one of these days, and one should not speak out against people who use the same station stop as you. (To paraphrase a popular expression, I don’t sit where you eat.)
I opted for another seat that was far less optimum–folding seat in the caboose, in fact.
But as we approached Hawthorne and I hustled toward the middle of the train, I noticed your filthy mess was not sitting upon the seat.
And as we stepped upon the platform, I saw you, Wing Man. As usual, you sported the latest in ’70s gymwear. As usual, you discussed your fantasy sports team loudly on your cellphone. A regular Brian Clashman.
You deposited your trash in the blue receptacle on the platform, Sir.
Clearly you’ve turned over a new leaf. You had salad for dinner. You actually discussed fantasy football–I heard something about a receiver who caught a lot of passes despite his small size…I thought Wayne Chrebet retired?–instead of your usual fantasy baseball.
And, most notably, you threw your trash away.
Glad to see my dirty looks made an impression.
More warmly than before,
Trainjotting
[image: billivorylarson.com]