The woman who “flashed” her MetroCard at the 28th Street station this morning.

We were getting off the downtown-bound 6, and were making our way to the emergency exit door that leads to the way out at 26th Street.

You were flying into the station, desperate to get on board that train. You were blonde and about 40, with an expression that brought to mind grave seriousness, though we can’t say for sure if the unique circumstances in which we encountered you contributed to such a mask. Perhaps you sport a different face on weekends, peering over the Sunday Times in slippers made to look like rabbits.

But today, it was Game Face.

As is often the case, there’s really no way to effectively swim upstream when you’re trying to get past a teeming mass of humanity flooding the turnstiles in the opposite direction. Let’s face it, you’re on the next train, important meeting or not.

So what did you do? I mean, you had to be on that train. At 9:10, the next one might not arrive for, oh, another four minutes or so.

This is what you did. Seeing a slight break in traffic flooding past the iron emergency exit door, you made your break. Of course, there was the small matter of actually paying for your fare–not an option when you go through the emergency door, unless there’s a token clerk there to ring you up, and there hasn’t been a clerk in that spot since Ford told the city to drop dead.

Nonetheless, you, Woman With Grave Expression, At Least This Morning, flashed your MetroCard through the air, like Detective Sipowicz showing his “shield” at a crime scene (”Uh, sorry for your loss, ma’am. Whadda we got, boys?”), as if some invisible magnetic laser would extend from the turnstile to your card and charge you the required $2.25.

It was as if you were saying, I’m willing to pay, I even have my card out! I just don’t have time to pay the fare. No, not me. Places to go, people to see. Hard work to do before the rabbit slippers this weekend.

I wasn’t able to tell if you got on that train, Ma’am. I can only hope a member of law enforcement mimicked your motion and flashed you something with more juice than a MetroCard.

The Buffalo Wing Eating Slob on the 5:46.

Sir. This is your second appearance on An Open Letter to, and that’s two too many.

Just 2 1/2 months ago, I chastised you for consuming your chicken wings with blue cheese sauce on a packed evening train in a manner that suggested it was your own private dining car.

I wrote:

You sat in a four-seater along the window. The two aisle seats in the four-bagger were taken, and the (otherwise) empty seat across from you held your dinner.

You greedily shoveled the wings into your mouth, dripping with blue cheese sauce, like you’d just been booted off Survivor. Your seatmates looked at you dubiously, wishing they’d selected any other seat on the train–even the stenchbench. You were impervious to their sidelong glances as you gnawed what little meat remained on the bones.

Don’t your read your mail? Don’t you see yourself in the letter?

Well, Wingman, you took it one step further yesterday.

I was sprinting to the 5:46 and jumped on just before curtains. I walked to the rear for seats–actually, seat would do–and my eyes went wide with the good fortune in front of me: a five-seater with just one seat taken, which meant I could grab an aisle seat and not have anyone in front of me.

But wait. You were the occupier of that one seat, while your stankin’ buffalo wings and blue cheese (and baseball newspaper…always with the baseball newspaper) occupied the seat across from you. Hey–I like wings and blue cheese as much as the next guy, but I tend to enjoy them in a bar, with a pitcher of beer, friends, a bag of wipes, and a bar full of people who do not notice my greedy consumption. Not on a packed commuter train.

But I’ve already pilloried you in this space for those offenses.

I trekked onward, looking for a favorable seat as the train headed through the tunnel.

I foune a suitable one and all seemed to be well. I slipped on the earbuds, tossed open the Times, and forgot about your shoddy behavior.

Jump ahead 40 minutes, and the 5:46 is wheezing its way toward Hawthorne. I started walking toward the front of the train to end up closer to the station stairwell. You’d vacated your seat–you too disembark in Hawthorne. But you indeed left your mark–the detritus from your buffalo wing bacchanal that now looked like a scaled down version of a town dump, there on the train seat. Left behind were a mass of soiled napkins, plastic bags holding bloody bones, the filthy plastic clamshell case that you couldn’t even be bothered to close, much less actually carry off with you and dispose of in a garbage can.

Yes, Sir, the entire world is there for you to make a giant mess on and leave for others to clean up.

An appropriate punishment? You should clean train cars for a week, Wingman, then be made to foot the bill for the MTA’s latest revenue shortfall.

[Even more] Disgustedly,

Trainjotting

The a capella quartet on the downtown R train yesterday.

I was heading back to work after a long midtown lunch. I was out of my routine (lunch/NY Times Sports at desk) and therefore off my game a bit.

You guys–a golden-throated, if grubby bunch in your 40s and 50s–boarded the train at 34th and went straight into your musical act. There was a brief introductory Christmas number and some general pleasantries for the two dozen riders on board, then you launched into a version of Sam Cooke’s Only Sixteen in sublime four-part harmony.

It sounded fantastic, and even pulled some hardened New York noses out of newspapers and smartphones.

Then one of you–I don’t recall which spot you occupied on the voice register/barbershop quartet totem pole–went around with the cup. First off, I give you high marks for what, at least on paper, sounds like an insuperable task: requesting money while singing a song that extols the virtues of hitting on underage girls [She was only sixteen, only sixteen/I loved her so…]

You approached me for some change. I normally don’t give, but it sounded really good, and it’s the holidays, and anyone carrying on the legend of Sam Cooke is cool in my book (Uh, “Some Change is Gonna Come,” anyone?). I reached into my pocket and figured I’d give whatever was in there. You lingered, never breaking from Only Sixteen.

I was about to hand over my fistful when I realized one of the coins was a dollar–the gold coin with the Native American lady on it, a baby in a papoose on her back. [Editor’s Note: First time we’ve ever used the word “papoose” on this site.] I don’t remember where I got it (post office? parking garage?), but I do remember it happening in the last few weeks, and The Missus saying something to the effect of, good luck getting rid of that.

You guys sounded good, sir, but not that good–I wasn’t passing along a dollar. Nothing personal–I probably would not have have coughed up the buck to Bono and The Edge slumming it in the underground. There was some awkwardness as you eyed the coin like Gollum ogling his beloved bling. I pulled it back and gave you everything else just as you crooned something about doing the little things/That made my heart glow.

Sir, I should’ve done that little thing that may have made your heart glow, and certainly would’ve thawed my own ticker a bit. It’s just a buck, and I’ll venture to guess–my Westchester mortgage and Little G’s pre-school tuition in Priusville notwithstanding–you need it more than me. 

Next time, I’m giving you a fiver. What a wonderful world that would be.

Regretfully,

Trainjotting

The guy holding up the line on the stairs at Hawthorne station because he was playing Connect Four on his smartphone.

Sir.

It was the end of the long workday, and we all just wanted to get down the stairs at Hawthorne station, climb into our cars (or, in the case of three people in the whole of Hawthorne, climb onto our bikes), and head home for dinner and a Don Draper digestif.

You, Sir, were in no such rush. No, you took your own sweet time heading down the stairs. You were, in fact, engrossed in a game of Connect Four on your Blackberry.

Yes, when I finally had the slim opening to pass you, I saw the bright glow of your PDA screen, with the Connect Four board shining in the dark mid-Westchester November night.

Connect Four! That mid-’70s Milton Bradley creation, a barely entertaining mash-up of checkers and tic tac toe (frankly, neither of its forefathers was all that entertaining either, so it’s no surprise the offspring ended up dull).

In fact, the most lasting legacy of Connect Four would have to be the commercial: a bowl-cutted lad outfoxed by his sister, if memory serves, offering up a defeated “Pretty sneaky, Sis!” with equal parts dejection and respect.

That’s what occupied your mind, fellow traveler, and that’s what held up the masses behind you.

What’s next for you, Sir, a Hungry Hippos app?

Frustratedly,

Trainjotting

The guy chowing the stankin’ buffalo wings on the 5:46 yesterday.

I boarded right before we left and went from car to car looking for a seat.

I smelled you even before I entered the car, the odoriferousness of your buffalo wings in the plastic clamshell spilling out of your train car, fighting past the stale air of a Grand Central tunnel, and weaseling its way into the next car down the line like a curly white cartoon wisp of stink.

You sat in a four-seater along the window. The two aisle seats in the four-bagger were taken, and the (otherwise) empty seat across from you held your dinner.

You greedily shoveled the wings into your mouth, dripping with blue cheese sauce, like you’d just been booted off Survivor. Your seatmates looked at you dubiously, wishing they’d selected any other seat on the train–even the stenchbench. You were impervious to their sidelong glances as you gnawed what little meat remained on the bones.

It was 5:46, Buffalo Bob. I just can’t imagine that you were that hungry. You were going to be home in, oh, 50 minutes–you’re at my stop and it’s only 42 minutes away. Home. In your house. At the dinner table.

Even if you were truly starving, why not grab something that doesn’t stink up the whole car–and even the car next to it? Turkey with brie on rye, thin sheen of mustard? A salad? Cold can of Chef Boy Ardee?

But no, you saw fit to consume the messy victuals while in close contact with a few hundred of your closest commuter friends.

And while we’re on the topic, who the heck eats buffalo wings without a beer and a flat-panel TV showing football, anyway?

Disgustedly,

Trainjotting

The woman carrying the inflated pool raft in Grand Central today.

It is noteworthy that you picked the first day of autumn on which to lug a 7-foot long inflatable raft–the type commonly seen floating about in swimming pools–around Grand Central.

Autumn, also known as fall. Leaves turning colors. A hint of frost on pumpkins. Cool temps. Football!

Not floating-on-raft-in-pool weather!

And I couldn’t help but wonder–even if you are en route to some swimming pool, why not deflate the raft, fold it up, put it in your bag, and not have to lug the 7-foot long thing all over Grand Central?

You were a woman of about 40. You wore an overcoat and had your head shaved, like Sinead O’Connor. You set the raft down next to the information kiosk a little after 9 this morning, asked your question, then grabbed your raft again and went on your way.

To be honest, I wondered if, perhaps, you were not quite right. You shook your head vehemently at the Information guy. You seemed flustered as you walked away, dropping a schedule as you picked up your raft, dropping the raft when you bent to pick up your schedule. The shaved head…it made me think of an unhinged Sinead tearing the Pope photo to bits. Maybe the raft is your bed.

If illness is the case, then I apologize for this letter; please dispose of it promptly and think of it no more.

I can’t help but wonder what you’re doing right now. Did you find a pool on which to lounge about, letting the gentle Indian Native-American summer breeze (it is to be 74 today) nudge you and your flotation device to all corners of the pool? I hope you did. Because summer is a state of mind. If, in your mind, it’s hazy and hot, surfers are cruising by, we’re sipping Coronas with lime on the beach and the smell of barbecued meat fills the air, well then, all the more power to you.

Sure beats lamenting the failing evening light and dreading the onset of winter.

Respectfully,

Trainjotting

The greaseball with the “Mets Suck” t-shirt on at Hawthorne station this morning.

Geez, where to start?

I came down the stairs to the platform, a bit groggy after an extended break. You were sitting with your girlfriend on the bench. You were wearing a white t-shirt with a large Mets logo across the front and back. I was silently impressed that you stuck with the Mets colors in the heart of Yankee country amidst this woeful season.

Then I looked closer, whereupon I spied not only the lamest attempt at facial hair since Ethan Hawke in “Training Day”, but a shirt that, in fact, said Mets Suck, and featured a Mr. Met with a frown on his face.

OK, Mets suck, you say. Welcome to the Stating the Obvious Pantheon, pal. I can only assume your Rainy Days Suck t-shirt was in the wash (though, frankly, the concept of “wash” seemed a bit foreign to you), as was your Divorce is Difficult hoodie and your Satan is a Dick muscle T.

The 8:43 pulled up. Your girlfriend broke free from your clingy grasp. The two of you shared a greasy kiss before she climbed onto the train, and you, like Jeter after his double 0-fer yesterday, remained stuck behind.

I thought for a second you might then climb into the Yankee pinstriped Jeep Cherokee I saw at the station last week. Then your vehicle became clearer in my head: the white Yugo with the pinstripes you painted yourself.

Happy Trails,

Trainjotting

The Baby Who Snubbed Me on the Track 38 Ramp This Morning.

I was climbing the ramp to the Grand Central Concourse after exiting the 8:43 out of Hawthorne on Track 38.

You were clinging tightly to your mother, as babies of about 15 months are wont to do.

You were a cute Hispanic girl in a blue dress and matching hair clip, dark eyes and an immuteable expression.

We were slogging up the ramp, which moved at its usual snail’s pace. I’d tried to pass you and your mother on the platform, but your mother failed to move right and allow me a berth. So you were directly in front of me on the ramp, staring over your mother’s shoulder like an animal peering over a foxhole.

Since we had a few minutes of ramp ascension in front of us, and because I like babies (especially when they’re not screaming screeching at 3:30 a.m., Little Miss C), I offered a goofy smile.

Still, you stared, expressionless.

I tried another goofy smile, and another. Failing to elicit anything but the frozen mask from you, Baby, I shook up my act–swinging my head back and forth, opening my eyes and mouth wide. Perhaps there were even wildly gesticulating hands involved.

Nothing.

Which is weird, because my act usually–make that always–plays well with babies. Strange babies love me, and never fail to laugh when I suggest they do so through painstakingly executive humor-inducing machinations. If the mothers don’t offer up a “Wow, you sure are good with babies,” at least they’re thinking it.  

By this time, several other commuters were aware of my efforts, increasing the pressure on me to get a smile and save face. I tried a few more desperate gags from my bag of tricks, but alas, could not garner so much as a hint of a smile.

We finally got to the top of the ramp and the expanse of the concourse. I shook my head to express my disappointment in you, Baby, and bolted for the subway.

What’s so darn pressing on the agenda today? Eat, poop, cry, sleep. Repeat.

Don’t be such a baby.

Frustrated,

Trainjotting

PS: Can you please tell your mother to speed up, or at least move to the right a bit so faster walkers can pass?

The jogger who perspired on me at 34th and Park Wednesday evening.

I was making my way to the 5:46 out of Grand Central, and you were jogging (or maybe it’s pronounced yogging?) on the sidewalk, heading south. We were both going at a pretty good clip.

You were a man of about 28, brown hair, healthy looking. You looked like one of those guys who’s still in his honeymoon period of living in Manhattan–work at some downtown banking institution, drinks at some overly loud Murray Hill watering hole, with any luck a walk home with some staggering Third and Long trollop.

You wore a t-shirt that said The Funk Inside. I’m not quite sure what The Funk Inside refers to, my funky friend. A band, perhaps, that does mean versions of Sly and the Family Stone songs in bars near the University of South Carolina campus. An annual fraternity party, maybe. I don’t know.

And I don’t care, except you failed to keep your funk inside. There was a narrow space between me and a woman pedestrian, and instead of slowing down to let the space widen, or go around us altogether, you attemped to squeeze through. In the process, your arm sweat transferred itself to my arm.

It wasn’t the Funk Inside I was concerned about. It was the Funk Outside–the Funk now affixed to my arm.

I felt the cooties the rest of my walk to the train, Funkmaster Flex, and then for another 45 minutes on the train, and even into my bike ride home, during which my sweat finally defeated your sweat as I labored up Heartbreak Hill on Broad Street.

Cut back on your bar tab at Brother Jimmy’s, oh Funky One, and join a damn gym.

Skeeved,

Trainjotting

The kid selling lemonade on 5th Avenue yesterday.

I was heading down 5th in the Flatiron, and you and a young pal were hawking lemonade from the step of a storefront. You and your chum were about 7; he wore a Mets t-shirt, perhaps for sympathy, and you wore a blue shirt too.

Your mothers hung nearby to supervise.

Your little table held a sign that suggested that either you or your friend’s brother is ill with disease. It was one of those diseases with hyphenated last names; I hadn’t heard of it, but I sincerely hope–for the sake of your brother, your mother, you–that he pulls through OK.

The lemonade stand was, of course, a benefit for your stricken brother.

I walked by and smiled at the thought of a lemonade stand smack in the middle of Manhattan. Days before I was to move into Manhattan way back in, oh, ‘92, a friend checked out our prospective block and building, and gleefully reported that there had actually been a lemonade stand going on on the street–an encouraging factoid for a neighborhood that had seen its share of crime in recent years.

I’d even patronized a lemonade stand over the weekend; twice, in fact–Little G and I were given a cup on the house (neither LG nor I had our wallet), then we returned with some change and got a second cup. The stand was manned by the children of a guy who’s running for a pretty high elected position round our parts; we joked with his wife about the kids helping out with the campaign fundraising.

So back to the Flatiron. I’d walked by, then decided I should backtrack and buy some lemonade. Who with a beating heart can so no to kids running a lemonade stand? In truth, it was the Mets t-shirt, not the placard for the diseased sibling, that drew me back.

I asked how much the lemonade was. You, local youth, said it was 50 cents. My eyes opened wide–subtly but noticeably. I’d paid half that up in the ‘burbs.

You, the kid in the non-Mets shirt, took my dollar and tried to temp me with a baggie holding a pair of sagging Lorna Doone’s. I declined. You asked if I wanted change. I said I did.

As you made change, you delivered the ill-advised zinger:

“You’re the only one who’s asked for his change back!”

I simmered as I waited for my cup and quarters.

“That’s not nice!” Mom shouted, then topped off my lemonade to make up for the slight.

She handed it to me and said, “You’re actually NOT the first one to ask for change back.”

As I walked away, I thought of a million suitable replies for you, such as, your customer service could use some work, and not everyone strolling down 5th Avenue has 50 cents to spare.

Of course, all the good ones hit me a block too late. So you got away with one, you little punk.

But thank you for reminding me that if I’d ended up raising kids in Manhattan, those kids would have a very good chance of being entitled smart-alecs with shaggy hair.

Tartly,

Trainjotting

[image: barista.net]