It was quite a refreshing display of generosity on the 6:33 to Mt. Kisco yesterday.

The Missus was checking out the Arctic Monkeys in Central Park (if you’re over 40 and/or reside in a flyover state, you may think that has something to do with visiting a zoo), so she passed Little G off to me like a Cold War secret in Grand Central.

Little G enjoys visiting the city of his birth. It’s not hard to imagine why: in five minutes, he witnesses everything he’s seen in children’s books over the last year–screaming firetrucks and ambulances, trains, taxicabs, fuzzy rodents on the hunt for a tasty snack.

I took Llittle G over to Bryant Park, thinking we’d get a chance to play on the lawn. Alas, the tents were set up for Fashion Week. We scored a table along the walkway, and Little G enjoyed watching the models stroll by en route to the show.

We didn’t leave much time to make the 6:33, and boarded with about three minutes to spare. If it’s just me, that’s fine–find an aisle seat near the back of the train, drop myself into a fold-down seat, or even stand with the other stragglers/claustrophobes in the vestibule. But with a 20-month in tow, well, it’s a different story.

A lady at the edge of her five-seater sussed out our predicament and offered up her seat, indicating we could make do with it and the open one across the aisle. That seemed complicated as Little G was bolting down the aisle, so I politely declined.

Walking back toward the vestibule as the train took off, a man in another five-seater gave the universal hand signal for ‘take my seat.’ He had an end seat next to an open seat; it was perfect. I thanked him profusely as he set out to find another.

Alas, the predicament was only half-solved; one must also make peace with the fellow denizens of the five-seater, who would surely be kicked, slobbered upon, and generally driven nuts for the next 40-odd minutes.

They were two guys of around 40, wearing suits, vaguely Latino. They promptly diffused the awkwardness with smiles and waves and jokes about Little G being a future corporate guy riding the train. I told them I’d prefer him be a ballplayer, but would try to be supportive either way. 

Later, when Little G grew bored, we borrowed the Post belonging to the guy across the aisle, and killed a crucial five minutes with that.

Finally, the conductor came around, grab my monthly from Little G, pretended to stamp it, and gave him a ticket in return–all which went over really well.

Heckuva ride. I didn’t have an anxiety attack, Little G stored up a few more memories, everyone wins.  

Friday after work, and I’m enjoying a little life, liberty and pursuit of happiness on the 6:33. Guy next to me is young (28?) and nondescript. The second the train exits the tunnel, the guy whips out his cell phone.  

He dials.  

“What’s going on…” 

“I’m on the train. I’m bored…” 

“Forgot my book…” [Editor’s note: Yeah, right.] 

“KFC? Cool.” 

I tried to tune him out.   

“It barely snowed here. Remember when we were kids, wasn’t there like mountains of snow? Remember when we’d play King of the Hill and it was, like, 10 feet high?” 

The train progresses through the Bronx. I squeeze my Sam Adams a little harder.

“Did you download Lost yet?” 

“I haven’t seen any movies…” 

I turned the iPod up a little louder.

“I have Babel. It’s like Crash, seven storylines going at once…” 

I switched the iPod from Violent Femmes to System of a Down, acoustic punk for angry Armenian metal. No luck.

“I hate it when they try to push their political agenda…” 

“Yeah. Cool. Cool. Cool.”

And on. And on. And on.  

At least he was kind enough to get off inWhite Plains. 

Lordy, what an ordeal in catching the 6:33 yesterday. I left the office with 13 minutes to spare, two minutes less than I prefer. I got to the 28th Street station just as the 6 train was ready to depart. I ran to the turnstile. So did another guy, and we both paused in an awkward “Shall we dance?” moment, Metrocards at the ready. Eight seconds wasted. During our stalemate, some weasel departing the train seized the moment and exited the turnstile in question. Another five seconds wasted.  

Still, the (packed) 6 train sat there, beckoning. I finally got through the turnstile and ran the 35 feet to the train. “Hold the door!” I yelled to a tiny Mexican man on board as the doors began to shut. Within three feet of the train, the doors found each other. The Mexican man didn’t move. We stared at each other through the window. I mouthed something unkind.

I looked down the track. Nothing coming. I looked at my watch. 6:23, ten minutes until departure. If I missed it, Little G might be asleep when I got home. I decided to forego the subway.  

I looked for a cab, even though it was hard to justify eating $2 for the subway, then another $6 for the cab. Nothing was available. I looked at a gypsy cab…10 bucks? 20 bucks?

Nine minutes to go, 14 blocks to cover, plus the 1-plus block slalom through Grand Central.  Like O.J. in the old Hertz commercials, I took off.  

I huffed and puffed in the 17 degree night, Hush Puppies (or whatever they are) creaking under the strain. I bypassed a circuitous sidewalk detour at 36th, running in the street like the bulls of Pamplona were on my heels.

I got to Pershing Square at 6:31. This might just work, I thought as I waited for the light. 

I read the departure screen at full speed. Track 33. A break.  

I climbed aboard the 6:33 with about 20 seconds to spare.  

I’ve got to make things easier on myself.

SPRINT BY THE NUMBERS

Blocks covered: 15

Time elapsed: 9 minutes

Near fights: 5 (man at turnstile, other man at turnstile, man on train, man on street, woman on street)
Blisters: 2 (one bad)