I was sitting on the platform bench in the boonies this morning, thinking about how Metro-North’s various strategies geared towards combating the autumnal tyranny of Slippery Rail seemed to be working. Here it was less than a week before Thanksgiving, and not once had I been on a train running at less than full capacity, or been on a train that skidded past a stop.

Chalk one up for Waterworld, I thought.

OK, this is a bit disingenuous. I was sitting on the bench because the train was a few minutes late, which of course got me thinking that Slippery Rail had officially kicked off. Indeed, the train pulled in five minutes late, and indeed, it proceeded to skid right past Valhalla a few minutes later. “Nothing I can do about that,” the sheepish engineer told his congregation mid-skid. “We’re gonna have to back up.”

But lo, the true misery of my ride had not even begun.

Truthfully, I’ve been having less heinous rides of late; either I’ve finally gotten used to being jammed into a tight train car with several hundred people I don’t know, or those blessed Bose headphones are finally earning their not inconsiderable fee. Either way, I hadn’t felt my blood boil on the train in some time.

He was about 20, in a stiff black baseball hat on backwards. His iPod offered a bumpin’ Fremix for the entire car to hear; in the unlikely event you couldn’t hear it, the young man rapped along at a fairly loud level, and punctuated the music with manic gesticulations–the left hand threw up emphatic points, the right hand conducted a little air-turntable.

Worse yet, when he boarded in Hawthorne, he set his sights on an empty four-seater. He dropped a full Hefty bag on the seat next to him, and his blue duffel bag on the two seats across from him. This slim young man had four seats, all told. By my calculations, that’d be $832 for the monthly pass.

The train filled up in White Plains, and the young man made nary a move to make his compound available. While some seasoned commuters arrange their baggage (that’s literal baggage, not figurative) to dissuade fellow riders from sitting near them, I honestly think the kid was just completely in his own world.

So just as I’m tuning out 25 Cent, a voice fills the vestibule just behind me.

“I don’t know if this is going on public record,” the woman shrieked into her cell, “but I don’t want this document just floating out there.”

(Uh, but it’s OK to have it floating around the train?)

The woman was engaged in a lenghty discussion about an artist’s contract and aspects of the contract aimed to fight piracy. Generally you cut a little slack for a cellphone user in the vestibule; at least they’re self-aware enough to take their convo to a less-peopled place. But this woman was truly shouting. I turned around and saw the bulk of the problem–she was shouting not into her phone, but into the hands-free wire that dangled down by her neck. Her hands were thus free to rest in her pockets.

“The reason it doesn’t work is it’s not the real answer,” she bellowed. “The whole law of exegisis (I had to look that one up) is what sounds defensive to me. Yes, I’m here…CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

Yes, Ma’am. Yes. YES! 

I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps the lady could do up a contract for the young rapper not ten feet from her.

Young MC mercifully got off in Harlem, and the woman’s exegisis convo thankfully wrapped. The train ended up only being 2 minutes late.

Ah, but further horrors awaited in Grand Central. A few weeks back, we were faced with a substantial logjam at the stairs heading down to the subways while an escalator was being fixed. Alas, the escalator next to it was out of commission this morning, and an MTA employee in that red LL Bean vinyl jacket you wore in junior high was at the top of the stairs to corral us into a single-file line. Of course, I got stuck next to the lady with the small child who was just big enough to do the stairs on her own.

It’s times like this we wish we stashed a little Jameson’s under our desk.

The technology wizzes who design the wonder devices of tomorrow are hard at work tackling the topic of convergence–squeezing together your phone, music player, computer, TV, photo album, beard trimmer and pants-press all in a single device.

(Reportedly there’s something called the iPhone [or is the MyPhone? the iTube?] that successfully handles many of these tasks.)

Here’s one more handy function for your iPod: holder of your monthly train pass. Here’s how it works: if you keep your standard-issue iPod Classic (the 80 and 160 Gig jobbies) in a clear protective sleeve, it’s a perfect size for stashing your train pass for those times you want to nap on the train.

Rest the device on your chest or lap (or belly, for the endomorphs among us) with the ticket visible through the protective case, and snooze to your heart’s delight.

All the while, dream about the time in the not so distant future when your iPod can actually teleport you to work.

FREMIX: \FREE miks\ noun: The aural overspill from a fellow subway rider’s portable musical device, usually identified by thumping bass grooves.

Usage: I turned off my iPod on the 6 train because the Jay-Z cranking from the guy across the train’s headphones sounded better than the Wang Chung I was listening to.

I broke down and sprung for a nice pair of noise-reducing Bose headphones a few weeks back. My reasons were threefold: I use my iPod all the time, I have to tune out excess noise on the train if I’m going to last in the commuter game, and I figured I’d do y’all a solid and tell the commuters of America if they’re worth it.

I ordered my new cans September 17. A week later, I got a nice email from Ryan Bonner at Bose HQ up in Massachusetts, welcoming me to the Bose club, telling me about payment options, instructing me on my privacy rights.

It was a classy act. I’d never really ordered anything high-end before, except maybe a $110 pair of Kenneth Cole boots five years ago, and wondered if all upmarket brands offered such a nice welcome letter. “I hope your recent order fully merits your confidence in us,” Ryan wrote.

Problem was, I’d never received the headphones.

I went to a Bose website that allowed me to track the package, and it appears my ’phones have seen more of North America than Sal Paradise and Forrest Gump combined. They went from West Columbia, SC to Raleigh, NC, to Secaucus, NJ, to Saddlebrook, NJ, to New York City. They then spent eight days (8 days!!) in the city, before trekking on to Horsham, PA, back to Raleigh, where they spent the night, and back to West Columbia a full two weeks after they left.

I dug up the Bose headquarters number from information and called Ryan. I left a voicemail.

Ryan called back in a matter of minutes, apologizing profusely. I think he was Canadian. He was nice. Is that redundant?

Ryan told me a shipping manager would call and figure out what went wrong and, more importantly, get me my damn headphones.

Eric called moments later, also apologizing immediately to diffuse my anger. He told me a new pair would ship overnight tonight, with the postage fee waived. I thanked him, and asked him just what went wrong.

Eric was at a loss, then pinned it on a substandard UPS performance. “It doesn’t look like a very good effort on their part,” he said. I kind of liked that–it wasn’t something an indifferent $8 an hour customer “service” rep says. He also offered to have them shipped via Fed Ex, instead of UPS. I pictured poor Doug Heffernan getting screamed at by his boss, my Bose ‘phones buried in the bottom of his truck.

I told him to give UPS another chance.

Anyway, my new Bose ‘phones should arrive tomorrow. The only downside is, with that noise reduction, I may not be picking up stray conductor-rider spats like I used to.

(Speaking of such spats, there was, in fact, another one today. A young male stood near the doors. The conductor came around. The kid said something about not having money. The conductor said he’d be booted at Fordham. This seemed unlikely, as the train was going express to 125th. Sure enough, the train breezed past Fordham and the kid beat the system.  Will we get the hat trick tomorrow?)

A to H Have you ever given up your seat to: a) an elderly woman, b) an elderly man, c) a woman with an infant, d) a pregnant woman, e) a small child, f) an injured man or woman, g) a pretty woman, or h) a handsome man (this is New York City – it could happen)? 

I can tell you truthfully that I see a lot of “a-h’s” standing, while healthy young men and women sit.  I know. I’ve been guilty of it myself. Sometimes I bury my nose in my book and simply do not notice an “a-h” standing in front of me until it’s too late and my stop has arrived. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.  

Usually, though, if I’m even half aware of what’s going on around me, I’ll stand for an “a-f” – leaving able-bodied pretty women and handsome men to fend for themselves. And every once in a while I do see someone stand up and let an “a-f” have his seat–but it’s a rare occurrence.

What does this say about us men? Is chivalry gone in NYC? Have we all become so cranky and self-absorbed that we can’t let someone who needs a seat have one? I’ll tell you, it’s a beautiful moment when it does happen.

Yesterday I saw it happen twice. I got on the E with my son and his grandmother, on our way to the Museum of Natural History when a tall young man in oversize black and white t-shirt, baggy black pants, black and white baseball cap, and thick silver necklace, listening to his iPod and taking up one and a half spaces with a wide-kneed seat, got up and offered my son and his grandmother his seat. He stood from Roosevelt to 7th Avenue, where we got off to transfer to the uptown B; we thanked him again as the doors closed behind us.  

Then on the way home, my son and I sitting next to each other, his grandmother across from us, I watched a young man in a sport jacket and yarmulke stand for a young woman. She was by all accounts a “g” and he blushed as he stood. She stammered “thanks” as she sat.  He looked away while she looked up at him. Then he snuck a peak down at her while she looked shyly away.

When her stop came, she thanked him again, staying just a moment longer than a casual leave-taking warranted. I think everyone in the car noticed it.  

The meeting made me smile before I went back to counting, with my son, the number of people wearing iPods in our car.

Hey, it keeps him from thinking about how far underground we are, how fast we are traveling in a tunnel that is pitch black, and the queasy feeling in his stomach that may or may not turn into motion sickness.  

Two seat-giver-uppers in one day. Life is good.

–Joe Lunievicz

BIPODS \BYY poddz\ noun: Train riders who share the earbuds on a mobile music device, so that each gets a single bud. Most common on weekend and off-peak trains.

USAGE: I shared a five-seater with a couple of BiPods who were grooving to Beyonce on the 6:12 to Larchmont.

There was a man on the 6 train yesterday with the loudest iPod in iPod history.  I was halfway across the train–perhaps 20 feet away–and could easily hear the reggaeton spilling from his buds over my own bland white-guy music.

He was a burly Hispanic guy in plaid shorts and a sleeveless t shirt. He stood with his back to the door that connects cars.

Seated near him were two boys, maybe 5 and 7. They wore hats with foam sharks on the brim. I assumed they were the property of a man seated next to them, who had similar coloring, and also wore headphones.  

Perhaps I should reserve judgement until Little G is 5 and has a sibling. But it seemed weird that the father would have his headphones on with his two boys sitting next to him. I’d been chatting with a father I didn’t know at a festival over the weekend (our kids were playing together) about the iPod and its role in child development (no idea how we got started on that one), and how it affects interaction, conflict resolution, that sort of thing.

We got to 33rd. A seat next to the boys opened up. The burly guy with the loudest iPod ever sat next to the boys. He was the dad, not the guy on the other side of them. He put his long arm around both of them. One woke up and adjusted his shark hat. They sat in silence.

His iPod stayed cranking.

Good father, or bad? Doesn’t really talk with his sons. Buys them shark hats and, presumably, takes them to museums and/or aquariums.

Tough call, I thought as I got out at 42nd.  

ICLOD: \AYE-klodd\ noun: A person who holds up the line on the train platform or staircase because they’re checking emails on their Blackberry or searching for the perfect song on their iPod.

Usage: I would’ve made the 6:52 to Mount Kisco, but this iClod slowed things down just enough on the ramp to Track 23. to make me miss.  

Traffic was way backed up on Rte. 100 as I was walking home from the train yesterday, which meant I could walk along 100 instead of taking the less trafficked back roads. It was a gorgeous evening; if you own a convertible, you had it out.

What I heard from the three convertibles I passed who were stuck in traffic:

* “I’ll Be Back” by the Beatles. Thirtysomething guy in shades in a black BMW.

* “Beast of Burden” by the Rolling Stones. Fortysomething guy in an ill-fitting red Beetle.

* “Tales of Brave Ulysses” by Cream. Blue-collar guy in a non-descript gold shitbox.

If this keeps up, I may leave the iPod at home.

(And sorry for the Billy Joel reference in the headline. It’s a Long Island thing.)

The Sound of Silence

I’ve noticed more people on the subway wearing headphones. Not that this by itself is any big deal because the iPod is king these days. But it’s not iPod ear-buds I’m seeing, it’s the full headsets that completely cover the ears, with the metal strap that goes over the head.

These pieces of technology separate the person from the crowd in such a complete way that I wonder about their meaning in our society. I use an iPod about half the time I’m on the subway but because my ears are free I have the illusion at least of being semi-present and aware.

But with those earphones on it looks like you are somewhere else. Why do we need to be somewhere else when we are here? A pretty existential question for a morning commute.

 Can you imagine a subway filled with them? Each person encased in sound, no noise in the car but the rattle of the wheels on the track, no noise leaking from cushioned headsets, wires dangling down to iPods attached to belts or damply nestled into sweating palms, thumbs moving the volume up or down, rotating that click-wheel forward to the next song, back to replay the previous one.

It all just makes me wonder.

–Joe Lunievicz