The letter came on crisp Metro-North Railroad stationery yesterday, informing me that the railroad had approved my damaged-property claim stemming from the train armrest tearing my pants on April 17. A check for $15 was enclosed to cover “Misc/Damage to Personal Property.”

I must say, much as I was skeptical that Metro-North would uphold their end of the bargain, the whole experience was ruthlessly efficient. I contacted Metro-North April 17, the same day their train ripped my decade-old Gap khakis. I was told to write a letter, which I did, then received a call on April 29 instructing me to email a digital photo of my train pass and the torn pants.

I did that late on April 29, the check was issued May 1, and arrived May 7–”representing full and final settlement of the aforementioned matter.”

If only Metro-North’s trains were as prompt.

Well, it’s been almost two weeks since I sent a letter to Metro-North to inform them that my Gap chinos were torn by one of their armrests, and wouldn’t you know it, I got a call back from the railroad’s claims department this afternoon.

I couldn’t quite make out the woman’s name, but it sounded like “Pommell.” Pommell had a pleasant disposition as we discussed my now-worthless pants. She asked me what I thought Gap chinos sold for new, and I told her about $40. Pommell said she’d been to the Gap website and figured they were closer to $34.99.

Obviously I was in for a tussle.

She told me to send a receipt, and I told her the pants were probably 10 years old, and the receipt was surely sitting on the bottom of some Staten Island landfill. Pommell thought about this for a bit, then said my poor trousers had “practically no value.”

It hurt a little.

She then added that, if I were to send a digital picture of the tear along with a copy of my monthly commuter pass, she’d issue suitable payment.

“For something this old with no receipt,” she said, “we can extend you a…$15 offer.”

I actually thought that was really fair for a pair of pants that were, so to speak, on their last legs.

And this made my day. As Pommell and I bid farewell, she added, “I apologize for the inconvenience.”

My faith in Metro-North’s customer service was thusly restored. This almost made up for the railroad hiking up booze prices.

I’d heard Metro-North reimburses the poor suckers who’ve had their pants ripped on those ill-tempered M7 armrests, so I figured I’d look into it.

Mind you, as I mentioned, it’s a 10-year-old pair of chinos–hardly my good suit or even my pretty good suit.

I called the general information number on the MTA Website and things start off encouragingly enough. A cheery woman with an accent answered and I told her what happened.

“Uh oh, so sorry,” she said, with an actual note of sincerity to her tone. “I hope it didn’t expose you too much!”

It’s actually not a bad line, all things considered.

She then connected me to community relations. “Jeff” heard my sad tale and asked a few perfunctory questions: Was it an M7 car? Was it the armrest? He told me Metro-North was looking into redesigning the cars for that reason, and then gave me the number for the claims department.

On I went to the claims department, where a lady told me I had to send a letter to a claims agent, along with a note from my tailor saying how much the damage set me back. I told her the pants were old and probably weren’t worth tailoring, and asked if that meant I was out of luck. She said to put it all in the letter to the claims agent, a gentleman named Dean LoGiudice, and then someone would get back to me in 2-3 weeks.

So, after three phone calls–one cheerful, two indifferent–I have to put pen to paper and describe my situation, whereupon Mr. LoGiudice will decide if I’m worthy of compensation for my humiliation (OK, it wasn’t really that bad) on the 8:16 this morning.

I’ll let you know what happens with the letter.

[image: NY Times]

“It’s been nearly four months of commuting now,” we said in February 2007, “and we haven’t seen a soul rip his pants on the train. In fact, we can’t even picture it happening. If you knew the armrests were known for this–and if you read the papers and watch the news, it’s hard not to know about it–how dopey do you have to be for this to happen?”

Well, the joke is on us, isn’t it?

It was the 8:16 this morning. I stood next to a seat in the middle of the car, then decided I might find something near the rear. The choice seats were taken so I opted for the aisle seat in a six-seater, hoping no one would take the seat across from me. (I’d flown Delta earlier in the week. I’d had enough squeezed legroom for the month.)

I dropped my rear into the seat, and heard a horrific krrrrrrppp, like an ogre sticking his hand through your chest and ripping your heart from its aortic valve (I have no idea if that’s anatomically accurate.)

I looked down at the damage: an inch-long gash where the top of the pocket hits the pants, a half-inch rip at the bottom of the pocket. My head swerved around to see who witnessed my folly–how could they miss it?–but no one looked up.

Mercifully, they’re ancient chinos–if I had to pick one pair to sacrifice on the 8:16 this morning, it’d be these. The bottom of the right pocket has had a hole in it for so long that every time I get change back from making a purchase, I have to repeat the mantra “leftpocketleftpocketleftpocket” until I’ve successfully retired the coinage to the working pocket.

So it’s no great loss. But boy, did I overestimate my intelligence.

It’s sort of like Bigfoot or something–until you actually see the dreaded beast, you can’t say for sure it actually exists. That was my take on the much-ballyhooed pants-ripping armrests on the new M7 cars.

Well, I saw Bigfoot on Friday. It was a nice looking couple–he a tidily attired i-banker type, she a blonde who looked like she’d be in love with an i-banker. They were sitting across the aisle when the guy suddenly started crumpling his newspaper up in an animated way, as if to mimic a truly frantic person.

I looked over the lip of my Sam Adams and smiled.

As his companion laughed, he looked back at my and said, “My freakin’ pants ripped!”

Sure enough, a half-inch swatch of white peeked through dark suit pants. Which was odd, because he hadn’t either sat or risen–the likely situations for pants-ripping–in several minutes.  

I told him the MTA would reimburse him, to which he replied, “It’s an $8,000 suit.”

His companion stopped laughing and said, “It ISN’T!”

We’re hearing a lot about the armrests on the new M7 cars, and the rip job they do on unsuspecting commuters’ trousers. The NY Times Westchester section had an editorial wondering if it was fiscally wise to spend $5.7 million to replace them, pointing out that it would take to the year 2294 to reimburse riders for $5.7 million worth of wrecked pants.

A few days before, a Times article broke the story of the replacement project, quoting one man who’d fallen victim to this grip-and-rip two or three times. “Much better,” said David Chan, a business analyst who lives in Croton-on-Hudson, who said he had ripped two or three pairs of pants on the old armrests.”

Just a few weeks ago, we wrote about this phenomenon too, calling the armrests ”a starved pit bull from the projects along Avenue D.”  

But we have to wonder….It’s been nearly four months of commuting now, and we haven’t seen a soul rip his pants on the train. In fact, we can’t even picture it happening. If you knew the armrests were known for this–and if you read the papers and watch the news, it’s hard not to know about it–how dopey do you have to be for this to happen? And for this to happen two or three times, Mr. Chan?

 Just wondering.

Sprinted to catch the 7:52 after a long day at work. The train was jammed, and I eyed a two-seater occupied by a large man in the window seat. He gave me the look: Don’t do it. I did it, my side scraping along the armrest as I sat, before the hard rubber found a spot between my ribs.

Was he going to slide over and give me an inch or two? Was he too big to do so? Maybe so–his knees brushed against the seat in front of us, his wrists poked out of the fake wool trim at the end of his sleeves. I’m 6’ 2” and I barely fit in the seat. A bigger guy wouldn’t have much—any?–room to spare.

He didn’t budge. I tried to peer at his ticket, resting against a book with “Murder” in the title, to see how long we’d be sharing for. Couldn’t get a clear look.

As we pulled out of 125^th he called his wife.

“White Plains is the next stop,” he said. My hopes picked up. He was getting off in 20 minutes.

“Then North White Plains,” he added. Four extra minutes.

He told his wife to leave the door unlocked. He asked about his sons; I despised him less.

The conductor came around for tickets. I nearly had to molest the guy to get my wallet out of my back pocket.

Time passed. It always does. The man began his exit after
White Plains. He stood to his full length. 6’ 2”. Same as me.

Fucker.