The 6:33 was chugging along to points north. I had the express pleasure (or was it the local pleasure?) to have the Missus and Little G in tow, after Missus visited with a friend in Gotham.

We were pulling out of Valhalla when a rider came bursting through the door.

I’ve seen this a few times. As any regular rider knows, those wishing to exit in Valhalla and Pleasantville must not be in the rear two cars, as those doors don’t open. In fact, I can almost recite the conductor’s speech by heart.

Apparently, the message never reached this guy. He was a young man, maybe 30, in chinos and a green polo shirt, hair closely cropped atop an increasingly crimson face, a finger still holding his place in a paperback Harry Potter book.

He bolted to the closed door, put his face on the window, and watched Valhalla inch away. He screamed for the conductor and swiveled his head around for some sort of emergency switch.

Someone pointed to the ceiling, where some mystery Mission Abort button resided. Like a kid trying to reach a Nerf ball stuck in a tree, the man leapt repeatedly, finger extended, trying to hit the button. Within seconds, a young Asian conductress entered the car. The man got in her face and gave her what-for: announcement never came, he had no idea, yadda yadda yadda.

Slowly, she shook her head. No, the train was not backing up so the man could egress at Valhalla. He grew redder. His voice grew louder. She shook her head again and walked away.

The man saved his best blast of unintentional comedy until this part. He took four steps to the vestibule, stopped in front of the door, cocked back his fist, eyed the ideal target, and shot a right cross at the waist-high metal handrail strip.

The pre-meditation of his movement struck me. Punching a wall is a spontaneous act, or at least should be. But this man, this reader of Potter, this misser of Valhalla station, painstakingly prepared for his flash of anger.

It reminded me of Yankee washout Kevin Brown, who after yet another putrid performance, retreated to the clubhouse tunnel and had the uncharacteristically good sense to punch a wall with his left hand, thus breaking his non-pitching hand.

As the train ambled toward Hawthorne, we debated offering him a ride back to Valhalla, then decided he was sort of a jerk.

Harry Potter Hi-Sign 

Day one, last Monday P.M.

F train: There’s nobody on the subway at 5:12 p.m. reading Harry, but a woman looks up from her seat at the book I’m reading and smiles at me. I smile back and hoist my book a little into the air. It’s like two motorcyclists passing each other on the highway, giving each other the thumbs up. It’s the Harry Potter Hi-Sign. 

Day four, Thursday A.M.

F train: I see two men with large books, orange-ish cover, the dust jacket taken off, reading further down in the crowded car. My first Harry Potter sighting. I can’t give them the HP Hi-Sign because we’re too far away and, well, they’re immersed in reading their books, like I should be. 

Day four, Thursday P.M.

F train: A young man comes out of the car in front of me and he’s carrying the orange-covered book sans dust jacket. I try to raise my book at him but drop my yoga bag and lunch box instead, trip, fall against the side of the car and almost miss the train as the door closes on my heel once before I can extricate it.  

Day five, Friday A.M.

Commerce Bank: It’s not the subway but the teller, a young Latina, sees my book and says, “He dies, you know.” I look up at her and say, “You’re serious? You’ve read it?” She laughs and shakes her head. “I heard it’s good though and lots of people get killed off.” I’m no longer smiling.

“So you’re going to read it?” I ask. She shakes her head. “No. I never read any of them.” 

Day ten, Wednesday A.M. and P.M.

F train: Where are all the Harry Potters? The book sold over 8 million copies in 24 hours here in the U.S. Are they all breaking the rule on Metro-North? Are they crowding the Long Island Railroad (No, not that!). Are they all on the E train riding down the West Side? Are they waiting for the trade paperback version to come out before they haul the reduced poundage to work with them?  

Seriously, folks. Where are all the hi-signs? Did I miss something? 

–Joe Lunievicz 

Got an MTA Web Advisory in my in-box late Friday urging Metro-North riders to consider not bringing their brand-new copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows on the train in the coming weeks. You see, owing to the hardcover book’s 750-odd page heft, large numbers of them slow down the trains, which as we all know, don’t need much assistance in being slow.

“We’re not telling people not to bring their book of choice on the train,” MTA spokesperson Bob Ogden says. “We’re simply asking them to consider waiting a few weeks to start the new Harry Potter so we can stagger the number of Potter books on each train.”

Ogden notes that every 100 copies of the 2 1/2-pound Deathly Hallows, which was released just after midnight last Saturday, weighs “about as much as two typical female riders.” He also points out that every Potter release causes people to break out the older books in the series, meaning more giant books on the train.

I’d finish with a Potter-esque quip here–something about Dumbledore, or quidditch–but I haven’t read the books.