It was like reverse karma.

I was hustling down the stairs at Grand Central to catch the 6 train this morning. A woman of undetermined nationality, subway map in hand, asked a woman in front of me for help. Fearing the subway was about to leave, the commuter brushed past the tourist without so much as a word. The tourist through her hands skyward in frustration upon this reaffirmation of the Ugly American stereotype.

I was right behind, so I offered up my help. The woman smiled and I hit Pause on my iPod (the Libertines’ debut album, if you’re scoring at home, before Pete Doherty became tabloid fodder). I helped her find the 4-5 to Bowling Green (”uh, it’s right there”) and we were on our way.

I hit the 6 platform and slid my finger into my pocket to un-Pause the iPod.

Nothing.

I tried it again.

Nothing.

Mind you, my iPod is my first line of defense in my daily commuter wars. It’s more important than good reading material like the Times, Nick Hornby’s latest, even AMNY. It’s more important than the Bose headphones. It’s the fountain from which all Metro-North relaxation flows (or at least trickles).

And now, my little lifeline-in-20 Megs was racing through tracks like an iPod shuffle after 841 Red Bulls: “The Man Who Would Be King,” “Music When the Lights Go Out,” “Narcissist.” Ripping through entire albums in, oh, six seconds, with nary a note reaching my ‘phones.

The 6 pulled up. I shut the thing off and turned it on, tried shuffle mode. “D is For Dangerous” by the Arctic Monkeys, a live “Love Over Gold” by Dire Straits, “Town With No Cheer” by Tom Waits.  

No cheer, indeed–it took all of 10 seconds to tear through 30 tracks. And still, not a peep of sound.

Good Lord.

Will tomorrow’s commute see me plug my cassette Walkman (a big, honkin’ Toshiba circa 1992) into my Bose cans? What ever would that sound like?

Who’s had this problem and can offer some sort of light in the proverbial tunnel? 

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.