June Pass Works…Again

Thanks to some sound advice from reader “Steve” yesterday, I left a few minutes early yesterday evening to buy a one-way ticket in case my June monthly was shot down by the conductor, and I was forced to pay the $6.50 un-fare on the train.

Forgetting my July pass at home yesterday, I’d successfully used the June monthly to get to the city yesterday morning, and hoped my luck would hold up again on the p.m. journey.

I stashed the new $11 ducat in my wallet and prepared for the conductor’s arrival. (As I did yesterday, I’ll obscure my name, train and destination so I don’t get any men in blue in trouble. My nom du jour is Luigi and I was on the 6:34 to Waccabuc. Waccabuc is a stop, isn’t it?)

The woman next to me seemed as though she might arouse some interest with her ticket, a wrinkly thing with some one-way holes punched in it that she slid into the ticket holder in the seat back in front of her. I thought of our Stamford correspondent, Connectic Energy, witnessing a well-dressed woman pull off some ticket scam on the New Haven Line last year. [See the comments for a conductor's take on how she worked the ruse.]

The conductor approached me. I showed him June.

“Just got back from vacation last night,” I said. “My July pass is at home.”

He sized me up, and saw a regular commuter in a clean-ish shirt who is probably unlikely to work scams.

He offered the slightest hint of a nod and was on to the next row.

Score!

Alas, my luck changed as we pulled into Hawthorne Waccabuc. It was about 99 degrees yesterday evening, and I noticed the usual shuffle of 80 or so commuters heading toward the overpass stairs had slowed to a crawl. As I’ve seen a few times before, multiple young people were sitting on the stairs, seeking shelter from the sun.

So what’s a slow crawl anyway–dozens of commuters merging into essentially two people-lanes at the stairs–was even slower, with essentially one of the lanes closed, thanks to the people sitting on the stairs. A one-minute exercise had turned to two or three, as the sun blazed down mercilessly.

Hot, sweaty, cranky and very definitely keyed up, and itching for the cool comfort of the car’s A.C., the commuters stared at the human roadblocks in disgust. The stairs-sitters–late-teens, early 20s daytrippers–were oblivious to the swarms inching past. One guy chatted in Spanish with a gal pal seated on the stairs.

Oh well, I guess I got what I paid for.