I got home late last night due to company softball (you just can’t turn down those rare Central Park games). Little G and Little Miss C were ready for bed and, after 12 hours alone with the kids, The Missus was too.
So I decided to take the later train, the slacker-esque 8:43, and spend an extra 27 minutes with the fam.
That particular train always seems to be early, so I climbed on my bike with time to spare, and patted myself on the back as I hit the overpass stairs at 8:40.
Alas, the train came jugging down the tracks within seconds. I bolted up the stairs and heard multiple voices behind me yelling “hold the train!”, including one Weeble-esque woman who wasn’t going to make it if sprinting was required.
Once again, I thought, the 8:43 is early. As I climbed on board, I saw a ruddy faced conductor sticking his head out the window.
“A couple stragglers behind me,” I said.
I went to hold the door, but a few guys were already doing so. All the stragglers made it, and the train was off.
The five-seater in front of me featured a family of four: Mom, Dad, two little blonde kids. The girl had a front tooth that was hanging on for dear life; a stiff breeze could spell a visit from the Tooth Fairy tonight.
Moments later, the conductor came to check my ticket. He had a red beard to match his red face.
“Why is this train always early?” I asked. (Hey–someone‘s got to speak up for us commuters.) “It’s only 8:41.”
I showed him my watch, which was just turning to 8:42.
His face lit up.
“Actually, with the new schedules, it’s an 8:41!” he said smugly. “The schedule changed. We’re not early, we’re on time!”
He was kind enough to not say the rest: “And you’re not!”
He punched my ticket and sauntered on to encounter the rest of the breathless Hawthorne riders.
How did I miss that, I wondered. I actually read the new Mileposts every month, and the Metro-North press release emails too. They’re about the M-8 cars that never seem to arrive for the beleaguered New Haven lin riders, right? That one escaped me.
I turned to my Blackberry, and then to the Times, and then to the girl with the hanging-on-for-dear-life tooth in front of me.
Would the thing stay attached until North White Plains?