As of this moment, that beer, wine, cocktail or soft drink you rely on to melt away the day’s frustrations as you board Metro-North is considerably more expensive than it used to be.

Metro-North spokesman Dan Brucker says prices are up “give or take about a dollar” on beverages. “Some have not been raised in ten years,” adds Brucker.

With the new prices, top shelf liquor is $6.50, Foster’s oil cans are $4.75 and soda is $1.50. Our beloved Sam Adams is considered an “imported beer” despite its Massachusetts address, and thus costs $3.25.

According to Metro-North, riders consumed 1 million bottles and cans of beer and 1 million non alcoholic drinks on the trains last year.

Metro-North is poised to hike up the price of a cocktail on both its bar cars and the carts stationed near the platforms in Grand Central. The railroad is “seeking approval from the Metropolitan Transportation Authority board of directors to raise prices…to keep pace with inflation.”

Metro-North’s booze sales represented $607,000 in profit last year, approximately 63% of it from me.  Metro-North estimates it sells a million beers and 250,000 bags of chips in a year.

The MTA board will vote on the matter–a joint request between Metro-North and Long Islang Railroad–Wednesday, and the price hikes would go into effect May 8. Perhaps more daunting, the railroad is also “seeking authorization to raise prices each September at the rate of growth in the consumer price index… without seeking board approval.”   

The new price list would see a domestic beer jump from $2 to $2.50.  

Dude, I’m sorry.

It was a long day and I was tired. I wanted to sit on the train and sip my Sam Adams quietly.

I also wanted to tip you, it being the holidays and all, and you guys almost always being so nice.

It was to be a modest tip, mind you, just a quarter on a $2.25 purchase.

I paid for my beer then stepped to the side of your cart to make room for another customer. I poked around in my pocket as you helped the next person on line, then settled on what I thought was a quarter.

Alas, Thomas Jefferson’s aristocratic mug stared back at me as I pulled it from my pocket. The nickel!

Then the awkwardness ensued. I had nothing but that nickel and some pennies, and there I was, stuck at the side of your cart. I couldn’t just walk away without dropping something on your tip cup.

So I threw the nickel in there and tried to pass it off as a quarter. Ah, but I’m sure you knew full well of my skullduggery, Mr. Beer Man, your ears well-trained to tell the difference between a quarter and a nickel as it drops in your cup.

I know now that I should’ve walked away instead of insulting you with a 2% tip.

Sorry, dude. Next time.

Sincerely,

Trainjotting

I started packing up my spent newspapers as the train pulled into the Grand Central tunnel around 9 this morning. I realized I had an empty Sam Adams bottle in my knapsack that I’d neglected to throw out on the ride home last night; I thought my bag felt a tiny bit heavier, but just chalked it up to not having been in a gym since Emily’s Reasons Why Not was still on the air.

Leaving the relative privacy of my 1-3/4 seat cubby, I stood up and crept toward the door, where my fellow riders were massed.

The train crawled towards 42nd. My commuting brethren took me in as I approached. To a man (and woman), their eyes zeroed in on the empty bottle in my hand, then back to my face, wondering all the while what would compel a man to pop open a brew on the morning train.

I let loose a boozy belch and shrugged my shoulders.

(OK, that last part didn’t really happen.)

According to a new report from the U.S. Census Bureau, all of 4.7% of American commuters used public transportation to get to work in 2005. Furthermore, almost half of the nation’s 6.2 million public transportation users live in 10 U.S. cities, such as Philly, LA, Houston and, yes, New York.

Also among the findings, 87.7% drive to work, and 77% of them drive alone. So those $3.50 gallons of gas obviously aren’t a big issue for many.

And Trainjotting readers–all six of you–know well the travails we’ve suffered in trying to get the town of Mount Pleasant to install a bike rack at the Hawthorne station so that more than five people can bike to the train (the 18-bike model, for $320 at Park-A-Bike, should suffice). A mere .4% of the population biked to work in 2005, with Portland, Ore. leading the pack with 3.5% (2.9% of them while stoned).

Finally, 2.5% of us walk to work. Boston led the nation at 13%–mostly guys named Sully who lost their license when driving home from Bill’s Bar on Lansdowne after 11 Sam Adams.

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.  

Friday after work, and I’m enjoying a little life, liberty and pursuit of happiness on the 6:33. Guy next to me is young (28?) and nondescript. The second the train exits the tunnel, the guy whips out his cell phone.  

He dials.  

“What’s going on…” 

“I’m on the train. I’m bored…” 

“Forgot my book…” [Editor’s note: Yeah, right.] 

“KFC? Cool.” 

I tried to tune him out.   

“It barely snowed here. Remember when we were kids, wasn’t there like mountains of snow? Remember when we’d play King of the Hill and it was, like, 10 feet high?” 

The train progresses through the Bronx. I squeeze my Sam Adams a little harder.

“Did you download Lost yet?” 

“I haven’t seen any movies…” 

I turned the iPod up a little louder.

“I have Babel. It’s like Crash, seven storylines going at once…” 

I switched the iPod from Violent Femmes to System of a Down, acoustic punk for angry Armenian metal. No luck.

“I hate it when they try to push their political agenda…” 

“Yeah. Cool. Cool. Cool.”

And on. And on. And on.  

At least he was kind enough to get off inWhite Plains.