A man in his 50s exited the train in snowy Scarsdale last night, bummed a light off a public works employee, then drove off in the DPW truck, reports the Journal News.

“Someone got off the train, jumped in the truck and drove home,” said village manager Alfred Gatta.

The truck, filled with sand and salt, was found 12 blocks away.

No arrests have been made.

Sure beats schlepping home on foot.

Some 150 pages in, I really like The Russian Debutante’s Handbook for a number of reasons, such as the immigrant Russian Vladimir’s gimlet-eyed take on America, his descriptions of Challah, his zaftig dominatrix girlfriend, and Gary Shteyngart’s author photo, a hobbit man-boy seated on a curb with a baby bear on a leash.

I also like that Russian Debutante’s name-checks Metro-North more times than any book in recent memory. Vladimir’s striver parents ended up in Scarsdale when they arrived in the States, and Vladimir frequently makes trips from his dodgy Alphabet City apartment to his folks’ place in Westchester, where they own “one of the world’s most expensive backyards.”

“Vladimir was conveyed from village to city by the 8:12 p.m. Metro-North local train,” Shteyngart writes.

Later, “Vladimir was reminded of their high school days: Vladimir and Baobab taking the Metro-North Railroad home from the math-and-science high school after a long day of subtle rejections by young women and men alike, discussing better ways to lodge their suburban selves into Manhattan’s starry firmament.” 

PEER PRESSURE \PEER pressh-shure\ noun: The physical discomfort, often in the form of headache, eyestrain and nausea, resulting from trying to read a station sign as the train you’re on flies by it.

Usage: Every day, I try to figure out what the stop is between Tuckahoe and Scarsdale, but the peer pressure got so severe that I had to stop.

Played it all wrong on the 8:17 this morning. Despite my better judgement, I went looking for my beloved Conductors-Only…or Not? seat. The first one I came to was locked in the upright position. Heading into the next car, the second one I came to was… occupied! (By a man who surely read about the wonders of the 1 3/4-seat on this very cyber-pages, no doubt!)

And boy, was he working it–laptop out, headphones on, needing only a masseuse and martini to complete the picture.

As the train rumbled along to Valhalla, I had to move quick. By this point, I was near the front of the train. And the front fills up much quicker, as riders with morning appointments and/or actual work to do are steps closer to work when it pulls into Grand Central.

I eventually found an open seat in the handicapped section, a fold-down seat that’s hardly a choice location.

The front of train experience is different. There’s something to be said about someone who’s looking to be at work a minute or two before the rest of the train (of course, one wonders why they didn’t take the earlier train); put a hundred of them in a car, and the dynamic is indeed different than with the slackers in the middle and rear. They seemed to be more efficient commuters: quieter (yes, nary a cell phone!), and fitting better into a tight space.

Unfortunately, at White Plains, one of these go-getters was looking to grab the fold-down seat across from me. It’s only about 18 inches between the two, so we were more or less having sex by the time the train cruised through Scarsdale: My leg, his leg, my leg, his leg, you get the picture. There’s wasn’t even room to read the Times, though at least the smaller trim size of the Wall Street Journal came in handy.

But, as promised, I was mere steps from Grand Central as we braked at the platform. Must’ve saved myself a whole 60 seconds. Hope the boss appreciates it.

Yesterday, it was snow, sleet, freezing rain and locusts falling from the sky (”I’m shoveling Margaritas,” one Brooklyn maintenance man told the Times), and the train was all of two minutes late.

Today, it was sunny and clear, though butt-cold. And what hell awaited me on the 8:17. The train pulled up at 8:21 — not unexpected on the heels of a Nor-easter. We were going slow past White Plains and Scarsdale, and probably on course to be a bit late.

But that was OK. I had a two-seater to myself. I had the papers, the iPod and the new BlackBerry.

Then we slowed to a trickle somewhere between Fleetwood and Mount Vernon West. Then, at 8:52 — when we’re usually pulling into 125th – we slowed to a dead stop.

“We’ve got a switch failure,” said the conductor. “There are a couple trains ahead of us, then they’ll let us go. Should be 5-10 minutes.”

People called work. People shuffled. Other trains flew by. Why hadn’t their switch failed?

The conductor came on four minutes later. “They’re on the scene, working on the switch failure,” he said. “We’ll keep you posted.”

I got a little nervous. I hadn’t realized there were fix-it guys involved. I had no water. I had no food since I’d eaten my “emergency” granola bar a month ago and never replaced it. I was done with the Times (though saving Sports for lunch…spring training!) and half done with the Journal. I should’ve saved the Money section, instead of throwing it out. Why hadn’t I packed an emergency book?

At the stroke of 9, the man came back on. “The switch failure has been…uh…solved,” he said. We started moving.

It was a crawl the rest of the way, along with another dead stop under the 153rd Street sign in the Bronx, when I actually thought of busting through a window and walking.

We got in at 9:41. That’s 36 minutes late; even by Metro North’s generous “on time” standards, that’s just plain late.  

Dreadful commute? Let us know: trainjotting@gmail.com.