The “Man” Sprinting From the 6 to the 4 At Grand Central This Morning.

The 4 express had been at the platform for a moment, its doors open.

The 6 pulled up at 9:33 this morning. You–very white male, 40, wearing suit, glasses and cream-colored scarf–burst out of the door like shaken champagne. You’d lowered yourself into a squat and sprung when the doors opened, calling on your milquetoast frame to run for the first time since Mother’s ill-fated suggestion regarding the cross-country team freshman year in high school.

You simply had to be on that express train. You slammed into a very large man–6′ 3″, 230, and black, for what it’s worth–who was walking along the platform. You muttered some lame acknowledgement of your transgression. The large man looked back and shook his head.

You indeed gained entry to your beloved express train.

But then a funny thing happened. The train sat. And sat. And sat, doors open–rendering your extreme urgency completely unnecessary. You pretended to read a magazine as you stood there, clutching the pole. You knew everyone on both the 6 and the 4 was looking at you and laughing, thinking, what a dork. That lame-ass busted his skinny white posterior to make a train that continued to sit there.

You, sir, claim the Tool of the Day prize.

Disapprovingly,

Trainjotting.

The Black Mustang Parked Across From My Bike at the Train Station This Morning.

It’s impossible not to notice the giant decal on your rear window, a blue cursive admonishing all within your range to “Fear This.”

You’re an ‘86 Ford Mustang. I remember your type from high school–the wealthy kids from the Jewish part of Greenlawn got the flashier and faster GT model, and the scrappier kids that smoked butts on the bus to Wilson Tech got the LX.

Well, Mr. LX, I parked my bike not five feet from you, and I must say–I’m not feeling the fear. A bit of amusement, perhaps, that someone would still drive around with a sticker that became uncool around the same time parachute pants and Spuds McKenzie did, but no, not fear.

If I were to approach you on the highway, I’d hardly retreat in fear; if anything, I’d speed up and pass you, maybe even toss a dismissive guffaw your way just to show I was not only unfearful, but actually was enjoying the moment.

As the saying goes, God is in the details, and your details, Black ‘86 Mustang With No Fear Sticker, include a string of skulls hanging from the rear view mirror.

Sorry, still not feeling it.

Intrepidly,

Trainjotting 

[image vb.foureyedpride.com]

It was just a year ago when I stumbled off a late train at Hummerville, wearing the most unlikely of outfits–a tuxedo I’d rented from Yesterday’s Man or somesuch for our company’s annual black-tie affair.

Unfit to bike, and probably even to walk, I shared a cab with the kindest of gentlemen en route to my house. So moved was I by his kindness and selflessness that I felt compelled to pen him a letter.

I once again have my rented tux for the Night of a Thousand Stars tonight. We’ll see what pleasures await me when I turn up in Hummerville in the wee hours.

An Open Letter To:

The drunk guy in the cab at Hawthorne station last night.

It was late. I was tired.

I was wearing a rented tux with uncomfortable shoes and I just wanted to go home.

I climbed into the cab and the driver told me he was new. He asked me where I was going and what it normally cost. I told him.

He was told a few more riders were getting in. A woman climbed in the back next to me; she was going one block away from me.

Then you stumbled in, Drunk Man, and poured yourself into the front seat.

You had dark, wavy hair, glasses and a mock turtleneck; in fact, the word “mock” could describe several aspects of your appearance.

You told the driver where you were headed–”Four Corners,” I think you said, near the diner. The absolute opposite direction of me and the young lady in the back seat.

The driver asked where to go first. I spoke up, said, we had two going south and one going north. I left it at that, assuming logic would prevail.

But not you, Drunk Jerk Who Lives Near Four Corners. We pulled to the station exit and you slurred a “go left.”

And we did.

The driver, he wasn’t the sharpest blade on the Swiss Army knife. As we headed north toward your beloved Four Points, the driver asked the woman again where she was going. She gave the address, reiterated that it was back the other way.

Then you, Inebriated Clod, instead of simply celebrating your successful hijacking in silence, you gloated. You turned around to the two of us and went “Hah!”

I restrained myself from smacking your bloated face with the heel of my rented patent leather shoe. It wasn’t easy.  

But your behavior gets worse. The driver asked you how much your fare normally was, and you stammered, “Five dollars.” Nothing is five dollars, pal. It ain’t called the dishonor system.

And, to make matters worse, when we finally happened upon your foul lair, you gave the driver just that–five freakin’ dollars. Perhaps you think “Gratuity” is that Pixar movie about the rat chef.

Oh, dear Drunken Fool, the stories we told as you stumbled to your door. The laughs we had at your expense, Besotted Clown, as you fumbled for your keys. The ill-tempered chortles we chortled as our cab, at long last, headed south.

Kind disregards,

Trainjotting

My Big Boss.

Most every day, I hit that 8:16 out of Hummerville, and step into work just about an hour later. The work gets done. I get a little morning play time with Little G and Little Miss C. Everyone wins.

Then you had to go and call for an all-day, offsite meeting (because that conference room at the W is soooo much different from the conference room at work), things kicking off this morning with a very important opening statement from you at 8:20.

8:20, Mr. Big Boss. Any other day, that’s about when my morning train is huffing and puffing into Valhalla, frequently skidding past the stop and having to back up just a few feet. But no. You had to commence that session in which we brainstormed unique ways to “drive strategy” at 8:20, meaning I had to be on the freakin’ 7 a.m. train this morning.

I set my damn alarm, for the first time since Little G was born over 2 1/2 years ago. I left without seeing a single member of my family. I guided my bike through the cool 6:50 a.m. air–indeed, it was actually cool.

I was a stranger in a strange land at the station I’ve called home for almost two years. I stepped onto that platform amidst dozens of peculiar faces, then eased onto the completely foreign 7 a.m. train, which was surprisingly packed. I felt like I was 21 again, stepping onto some Eurail express chugging to Amsterdam and packed with unsmiling Turks.

Whereas my beloved (OK, beliked) 8:16 is scheduled to arrive at GCT 48 minutes later, the 7 a.m. takes all of 49 minutes, despite having the exact same stops. What’s with that?

I hope you’re happy, Mr. Big Boss. That makes one of us.

Perturbedly,

Trainjotting

PS: Can you please ease up on the “going forward” phrase next time we get together to drive strategy?

The guy in the white dress shirt and khakis, throwing his weight around at the 28th Street stop this morning.

The 6 train heading down from Grand Central was jammed. We spilled out at 28th, happy for the fresher air of the subway platform.

A large mass shuffled toward the two revolving doors heading out of the exit at 26th Street. (Two revolving doors servicing a busy subway station…Quaint, or entirely impractical?)

Protocol gets a bit dicey at this exit. People gradually form two loose lines for the two doors, but frequently, people sneak up the flank and cut the line. It’s not exactly like cutting the line at the bank or Duane Reade, since the lines are never proper single-file, people are moving all the while, and no one’s ever waiting too long.

Still, it’s a breach of commuter etiquette when you step in front of other people waiting to use the doors.

And that’s what happened today. A man of about 30–skinny, corn-row braids, tugging a large suitcase on wheels–snuck up on the right. You, Mr. White Dress Shirt and Tan Khakis–also about 30, in gelled blond hair–watched as this man cut in front of you, and the other 40 people waiting to leave.

You’re not a tall man, but you have square shoulders and a stocky build; you look like you played a little linebacker in high school, or was a hooker in the SUNY Oneonta scrum a decade before.

Your broad back was to me, but I could sense your body tense as the man cut the line. You were going to address it. I knew you were.

You did not disappoint.

As you stepped into the revolving door just behind Corn Rows, you gave the door a little extra shove. The door hit Corn Rows in the back, and caused him to stumble just a bit. We’re never one to advocate violence in the subways, but we feel you struck just the right balance–enough to let Corn Rows know he’d broken the rules, but not enough to hurt him, or even elicit a counterattack. It was as if Corn Rows had fallen offsides at a ruck on that Oneonta rugby pitch, and you politely but firmly suggested he get back onside with the sharpened studs of your size 10 Reeboks.

As we stepped up the stairs and out into the sunlight, you pulled a Marlboro from your pocket and sparked it up.

You’d earned it.

Respectfully,

Trainjotting 

The 20-somethings on the 5:46 out of Grand Central Friday evening.

There were two of you, one about 20 and the other a little older. You got on in White Plains. You were dressed in baggy shorts and white t-shirts. You ate from bags of chips and drank from bottles of iced tea.

It had been a long week. We were tired.

You both took window seats on opposite sides of the aisle. That’s cool, I thought, you want to nap, you want to read, you want zone out. Perhaps the two of you have been together all day and have nothing left to talk about. We know the feeling. We’re married. [NOTE TO THE MISSUS: A JOKE! A JOKE!!!]

But no. The two of you chose to converse across opposite ends of the car! You were both on a window, as far apart as the width of the M7 train would allow. But that did not prevent you from talking…shouting…across the width of the car.

“THAT [expletive deleted so as to avoid protests outside Trainjotting headquarters] GOT FOUR MONTHS IN JAIL!” the younger one yelled.

“NO SHIT,” replied the other.

“HE WAS WORKING AT AN ACURA DEALERSHIP WHEN HE GOT KNOCKED!”

“NO SHIT!” replied the other.

“YEAH, THE LAW PASSED THE NEXT DAY, BUT HE WAS TOO LATE. HE GOTTA DO A BULLET ON THE ISLAND.”

And on your conversation went, our own little live performance of The Wire: White Plains, on the 5:46.

Next time, can you at least have the decency to share a three-seater?

Painstakingly,

Trainjotting

My iPod “Classic.”

I guess this is, as the cliche goes, good bye.

We went through a lot together, dear iPod “Classic” (I believe you were merely an “iPod when I bought you three years ago, much as “Classic Rock” was merely “rock” when Dark Side of the Moon came out). I don’t believe it’s a stretch to say I could not have handled commuting each day without you, as you linked so seamlessly with my Bose headphones to help tune out the dull buzz of the hurtling train and my fellow riders.

Before we met, dear iPod, I was slapping cassette tapes–cassette tapes!–into a rickety old Aiwa player that’s slightly smaller than a Tom Clancy paperback. The ballyhooed CD Walkman just did not cut it, and I never thought I’d advance beyond the crummy old 90-minute Maxells.

Then you came along. Sleek, sexy, able to bear my entire CD collection in a package no bigger than a pack of Marby Reds. Whiter than the White Album, cloaked in a rubbery lime-green wrap for extra protection.

You gave me three years, iPod Classic, which I’m learning is a good six months to a year better than most people get. Then you sputtered. You froze. Finally, you expired.

Don’t think I don’t appreciate the effort.

As you might expect, if you were still responsive, a sleeker model has come along. Indeed, she’s–yes, she’s a she–barely bigger than a Triscuit, and really not much wider.

Please don’t think I like her better. When you were resting on my lap on the 8:16 to Gotham, you didn’t go sliding off onto the cruel, filthy Starmucks of the M7’s floor, as my Nano–yes, that is her name. I believe it’s German. You stayed anchored. Your graphics were lo-fi and you didn’t show album artwork, but hey, what am I, a 14-year old girl? You did everything I asked, and more.

You rocked. You know it. I know it.

I’ll miss you.

Longingly,

TJ

The tall, bald man who wiped his hands on the Grand Central handrail after scavenging around his groin area.

The morning train had pulled into Grand Central, and we commuters did our daily shuffle up the ramp to the concourse.

It was crowded and the pace was slow.

You were in front of me. You’re a large fellow, and your head is shaved; I’d gander that, at least once in your life, you’ve been mistaken for the lead singer of Midnight Oil.

In a flash, you had both hands down the front of your pants, presumably to sort out something in the groin area that just wasn’t sitting right. I’m not sure it needed to be a two-handed job, and I’m definitely not sure it’s appropriate to conduct such maneuevers out in public, but it’s not my place to say. Long as your boys stay in your hard, it’s your affair.

But then, Mr. Midnight Oil, you removed those hands from the front of your trousers, and wiped them on the ramp’s handrail.

You wiped your groin-besmirched hands on the f***ing handrail!

Bad, bad form, Mr. Midnight Oil.

I hope you return home tonight to find your cooties-ridden bed is burning.

Sincerely,

Trainjotting

The young man who barged onto the 6 train this morning.

The train pulled up around 9:10. Usually, the 6 comes in every few minutes in the morning; today, it had been a little longer.

We waited patiently at the perimeter of the “Train Stops Here” box, known among our hockey brethren as the “crease.”

But you, young man of about 18, Asian, spikey black hair, white t-shirt and faded jeans, you barged right to the middle of the crease. Right in the middle! It didn’t matter that 10 of us waited on the perimeter, or that a few dozen people were about to stream out of the subway.

No, Spikey Hair Guy, you were concerned with one person, and one person only. Before the first subway rider had the chance to set foot on the platform, you tried to worm your way into the car, and looked surprised when everyone wanted to get out.

Tapping my (admittedly limited…not to mentino rusty) knowledge of Jedi mind tricks, I willed an old man to throw you an elbow, and he did–though being old it was a few seconds after you’d passed. On you slalomed through the full car, jostling riders left and right as you sought out a seat.

Perhaps it was your first time on the subway, or you come from a place where those on the platform have the right of way over those in the car. (Lord, what a dreadful place that would be!) I don’t know.

I can only hope that someday, I’ll be the one on the train as you push through, and I’ll recently have sharpened my elbow.

Sincerely,

Trainjotting

PS: What’s with the spikey hair, Billy Idol?

The high school kids reading the Wall Street Journal on the 8:16 today.

You were both about 18. One of you was a bit rakish–tall, lean, a mop of curly hair that one could envision a recently divorced MILF running her fingers through. The other was a bit more generic: parted hair, the vaguely preppy (chinos, oxford shirt) uniform of a private school kid or an intern.

You each had your own copy of the Wall Street Journal. You discussed stock prices across the aisle, AOL’s takeover of Bebo, even the pro’s and con’s of rainy-day slip-on shoe covers (we called them “rubbers” back before we knew better).

Guys, you’re 18! You should be reading Mad Magazine, or maybe even Maxim. I’m all for 18 year olds who are engaged, maybe even feel compelled to register for the vote, and perhaps even muster the energy to break from the Xbox and get to their local polling place come November.

But geez, you shouldn’t be reading the Journal and discussing stocks and takeovers and shoe prophylactics on the train. Be 18! Slouch in some pizza joint chair, your mouths full as you make fun of people walking in! Talk about girls! Talk about baseball and ultimate fighting and My Chemical Romance! You have the rest of your life to read the Journal.

OK, class dismissed.

Sincerely,

Trainjotting