The 8:22 to Mt. Kisco. It’s been a long day, feeling even longer after the flood debacle the previous day. People are tired.

Not so tired is a nattering six-pack of 14-year-old girls returning home after a day in the city, chatting about music, mom’s Larchmont train pass, and boys–particularly one young male who’d recently confessed his desire to “get with” one of the girls on board.

The train ambles out of Grand Central and pulls into 125th ten minutes later. One of the teens leaps to her feet.

“It’s White Plains!!!” she howls.

Yes, the ten-minute express, Grand Central to White Plains. I’ve had dreams about that.

The girls bolt from the train, asking anyone within shouting distance if they are, indeed, in White Plains. Assured by all that they’re in fact in Harlem, they retreat to their prior seats.

The nattering continues for the next 22 minutes, until the train eases into White Plains. The girls prepare to disembark. Then confusion ensues. As they step off the train, two black males get on.

“We’re in Harlem!” one yells, and they all scramble back onto the train.

Repeatedly assured they’re not, in fact, in Harlem, the girls exit the train again, to the profound relief of everyone left on the 8:22.  

I’d never seen this before. The 7:22’s about to leave. A guy—Lennon specs, preppy, clean cut–asks another guy—rumpled beige suit, loosened tie, tired, resembling Robin Williams when he has a beard–to let him in for the window seat. Robin Williams obliges.  

The train takes off. Clean Cut makes a joke. Robin Williams, munching a bag of nuts and quaffing a Sam Adams, offers a perfunctory laugh.  

A conversation ensues. Clean Cut, drinking a plastic cup of cola that is or is not augmented with alcohol, is clearly the aggressor; when he speaks, he turns towards Robin Williams. Williams, meanwhile, is playing defense; short retorts to Clean Cut’s questions, looking straight ahead.  

Mind you, they’ve already broken the most hallowed of commuter rules, the same golden rule you learned when you were six and your friends were turning up on milk cartons: don’t talk to strangers. Blame the drinks. The one convo I’ve had in my four months on the train, my seat-mate wished me a happy holiday, and I responded “You as well.” He then asked me what I did for work, intrigued because I’d said “You as well” and not “You too.” Honest. That’s what he told me.  

By Harlem, the two are well-engaged, yet still holding fast to their roles: Clean Cut pushing the convo, Robin Williams half-heartedly playing along.  

But by the Westchester border, Williams warms. Instead of answering to the seat-back in front of him, he turns about 45 degrees to Clean Cut to answer. They’re smiling. They’re laughing.  

What are they talking about? 

At White Plains, the usual gaggle gets off. I inch closer. Clean Cut says the Democrats have become smarter, are much more in touch with their people.  

Moments later, Clean Cut asks what the name of the parish is. Robin Williams struggles to find the answer. 

“Sacred Heart,” eventually comes the reply.  

As we approach Hawthorne, Clean Cut has bad news: it’s his stop. Will they shake hands, promise to do lunch, barbecue in summer, introduce their wives, hug? Not so. Smiles and nods, and Clean Cut is on his way.  

Storage Deluxe

Auction All Makes & Models

Topless Go Go Girls

D&M Towing

Streamline Plastics

…

Melrose

Golden Krust

Pena Grocery

Fordham

…

Botanical Gardens

…

Williams Bridge

…

Woodlawn

Self Guard Self Storage

Fleetwood

J.C. Fogarty’s

Bronxville

The Painted Veil

Tuckahoe

Crestwood

Edwin Bennet Funeral Home

Tumble Bugs

Scarsdale

Hartsdale

Big Top

Bud Light – Always Worth It (Editor’s Note: Not)

White Plains

Pace University

Daddy’s Little Girl

North White Plains

Hertz Rental Car

Healy Electrical Contractors

Too Damn Hot

Valhalla

Hawthorne

Trinkets & Treasures

Pop’s Deli

Loving Moments Florist

No Thru Trucks Over 4 Tons

Neighborhood Crime Watch

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