I was cutting it close, as I always do, as I headed toward Grand Central last night. I got jammed up at the 42nd Street light and was guilty of some serious Pershing Square Dancing as I waited for a green.

Once in GCT, I bolted for the track, and encountered a morass of humanity shuffling down the ramp, heading for the train across the platform. Things were getting dicey as I looked for a gap in the fleshy wall.

Just as I hit the platform, the doors of the [TIME REDACTED, SO I DON’T GET ANYONE FIRED] train shut.

*&$#*, I thought to myself. It had been a late eve at work to begin with, and The Missus would not be happy to hear I’d be 25 minutes later. Such a delay might even be the difference between seeing Little G and Little Miss C, and not seeing them at all.

The train ambled out of the station as I stood there contemplating my next move. It had left right on time, not the usual 30-40 seconds late that most trains do.

The caboose drew level to where I was standing, and stopped.

And stayed stopped for a moment.

On a whim, I knocked on the door. The conductor, a man whose description I will withhold so I don’t get him fired (let’s just say he was wearing powder-blue), looked at me, shrugged, and went back to punching tickets.

The train remained on the platform.

I knocked again. The conductor shrugged again, as if to say, you were late, it’s not my fault, get a Bud tall boy and wait for the next train, champ.

Then the clouds broke and sun poked through the gap.

The conductor pulled his Schneider-esque key ring from his pocket, slid the key into the door, and let me on.

“I…uh…I owe you BIG TIME!” was the best I could muster. He nodded blankly and I took a seat.

Thank you, [REDACTED] conductor on the [REDACTED] train out of Grand Central. You know who you are.

I am fascinated by tattoos because I can’t get one. My wife would divorce me if I did; it’s written into our contract. I once explained this to my son, and he suggested I get a temporary tattoo. Which makes sense. Still, ever since watching Steve McQueen in Papillion, I thought it would be cool to have one. But these days so many people sport tattoos—hell, there are television shows about tattoo parlors—that they’re too damn “in.” So I feel cooler not having one.

Anyway, it’s 8:47 a.m. and I get a seat on the F-train. That’s two days in a row (what are the odds?) and the same seat, too: bottom of the “L.” I sit with my back to the person next to me and my legs in the aisle, my bags between them. It usually annoys people when they try to pass from one section of the car to another. But I get more room that way, and it keeps me from knocking knees with the person perpendicular to me at the base of the “L.” Six of one, half dozen of the other.

I notice a guy across from me in the opposite section. Same seat, mirror image. In cut-off camouflaged shorts and a black T-shirt, he also has two earrings in his left ear, a close yet untrimmed beard, and a shaved head sprouting five days’ worth of stubble. Maybe thirty, he smiles when a woman sits next to him and he has to move his legs to let her by.

The man is also covered in tattoos. They’ve been inked like identical twins on his forearms: a ring of flames begins at each wrist and spreads to his elbows. On the biceps and triceps of his left arm (I can’t see that much of the right) is a large Victorian clock with Roman numerals; the time is stopped at 11:55. AM or PM, I can’t tell.

On the back of his neck is some kind of bar code. What product is the bar code for? Rolling papers or Rice Krispies? Maybe it’s Fruit Loops. My son’s dying to eat Fruit Loops, but my wife and I won’t let him. Maybe this Illustrated Man got the bar code after seeing Angelina Jolie in Wanted. She had a bar code tattooed on her body. Or was it a binary code? Well, it was a code and it was on Angelina Jolie—somewhere. Maybe that inspired this guy.

Now, when you get rings of flames on your arms, you might be trying to say, “Don’t touch me or you’ll get burned.” And the Victorian clock surely has a Gothic look. But what are you trying to say with a bar code? That he works a day job at The Container Store? I stop looking at him. I don’t want him to catch me studying him, and I certainly don’t want to know what the tattoos mean if they’re trying to say, “Don’t piss me off!”

But tattoos are still cool to me. What about a subway car across the back of my neck? My own personal bar code. It would have to be the F-train, with orange and tan seats, and me at the bottom of the “L”, bags between my legs. Maybe all straphangers should get one. But only if their partners approve, of course. Me, I’ll be keeping this particular canvas blank, thank you very much. You’re on your own.

—Joe Lunievicz

I had five minutes before I had to hop on the bike this morning, navigate the sleepy streets of Hummerville, and make my 8:16 train.

I sat with Little G as we set up yet another “Big Car Party,” which sees 8-10 of his larger cars and trucks (White Hummer, Green Monster Truck, Kitty Cat Car [don’t ask]) arranged in a circle, talking about Big Car/Truck things (bad gas mileage, their mutual irritation with small cars and light trucks).

The skies darkened. The Missus suggested I hit the road a little early to avoid potential rain. I considered the suggestion and kept playing.

The skies darkened some more, and it looked as though the clouds were about to burst. I said my quick good byes and bolted the Big Car Party.

A drizzle fell as I stepped outside.

“Do you want a jacket?” The Missus asked.

“No,” I said, reasoning that I could beat the heavy rain in the time it took to retrieve a jacket from the front closet.

Just as I exited the driveway, the hard stuff came. Large drops soaked my shirt and pants. Puddled water kicked up off my back tire and soaked my ass, which is a wonderfully fresh feeling with which to start the day.

Twice I jammed on the brakes as I decided to return home, my wet brakes squealing loudly and unpleasantly. Twice I decided to forge ahead.

The rain actually slowed back to a drizzle within a minute, but I was good and soaked.

I pulled into the station parking lot and, for the first time since pestering Town Hall for a bike rack, opted for one of the makeshift spots under the overpass to provide a little shelter for my graphite horse.

I’d forgotten about the giant puddle–aspiring Great Lake, more like it–in front of the overpass and felt the water soak through my left shoe.

With a wet shirt, soaked ass and drenched left foot, I stepped onto the 8:16–the A.C. a constant reminder of every drop of water touching my skin.

Unlike White Hummer and Green Monster Truck, at least I’d saved a few pennies on gas.

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

TJ welcomes the arrival of Charlotte (heretofore referred to as Little C), 6 lbs, 12 oz., into the world yesterday. The serious contractions came around 4:30 a.m., we hit the hospital around 7, and Charlotte zipped out with the speed and purpose of the 4 train.

As a result, this week’s posts may lack frequency, wit and insight.

The Missus and I had the divine–and exceedingly rare–pleasure of an actual dinner out without Little G rolling Lightning McQueen and Tow Mater all about the place. We chose the Iron Horse Grill, a cozy, tasteful joint located inside the old Pleasantville train station house.

Located smack in the middle of the village, Iron Horse Grill wears its train past proudly; the name itself is a reference to the train that first rolled through P-ville around 1846. It’s not hard to envision the old waiting room, people seated along a long wood bench that takes up almost the entire western wall. A miniature electric train adorns a shelf near the entrance. You can see the trains fly by out the window, though you can hardly hear their rumble.

Entrees run around $28-30, and Iron Horse was still pushing a winter menu over the weekend–root vegetables, , braised meats, hearty soups, full-bodied wines.

The room was surprisingly packed for 6 p.m. on a Saturday, but never got uncomfortably loud.  

The Missus had the duck with spiced yams and I had a Chatham cod over potatoes with a beet coulis around it. Unfair as it may be, we always end up comparing suburban restaurants to those in the city. Iron Horse kind of invites such comparisons, with its classy decor, ambitious menu and not inexpensive checks. The Missus thought her meal was city-level in terms of ingredients and presentation, and a bit lacking in terms of flavor. I thought the cod was a tad bland, even for cod, but the beet coulis brought it to life.

We finished off the meal by splitting the warm pecan tart, which was good, but we both agreed it needed a little more “glue” to hold the crumbly dessert together.

The service was perfectly professional; I liked our waitress’s shamrock tattoo on her hand, and when she wasn’t sure whether the Pinot Noir or Sangiovese had more heft, she deferred to another staffer who really knew her stuff. A second waitress kept her cool when the woman seated next to us–some crabby 60-something biddy–went through a ridiculous litany of order specifications that would’ve driven the mellowest of servers nuts.

By our count, Iron Horse falls somewhere between good and very good.

The Missus isn’t big on betting, so we kept the terms fairly benign. If her hometown Pats won–and beat the spread–her pedicure was on me (I don’t know, something to do with her feet).

If the Giants won, or at least came within 12 of the mighty Brady Bunch (Brady Bundchen?), I was able to demand a ride to the train station on the day of my choice–and not one of those days when it was raining/snowing/sleeting and she was going to drive my sorry ass anyway.

OK, it’s not exactly plunking down $10Gs on the craps table at Binion’s, a starlet on each arm, but this is what we call excitement in our post-baby, suburban world.

Thanks to Eli, Plaxico and the boys–not to mention Strahan, Kawika and those defensive-minded types who turned Brady into a walking hemoglobin today–I get my ride to the train and don’t have to contribute to the dubious pedicure industry.

(Kawika Mitchell. Has ever there been a more bad-ass individual?)

Better yet, I came up big–huge, even–in the office pool, taking a few “hunge,” as the sales guys here might say, in the sales guy pool.

I’ll have to double-check my day planners from the last few decades, but I think it was one of the 10 greatest days of my life, not counting my wedding, Little G’s birth and getting an Atari 2600 in 1981.

If you want to take part in tomorrow’s Giants parade at Battery Park, Metro-North is kicking in some extra trains. On the Hudson Line there will be an 8:41 a.m. departure from Poughkeepsie serving new Hamburg, Beacon, and Peekskill and arriving in Grand Central at 10:11 a.m. 

On the Harlem Line there will be an 8:30 a.m. departure from Southeast serving Brewster, Goldens Bridge, Katonah, Mount Kisco, Chappaqua, North White Plains and White Plains and arriving at Grand Central at 9:48 a.m. 

If you’re on the New Haven line, well, you’re on your own.

Well done, Big Blue.

[photo: ESPN]

Filthy Mark is a friend from high school, given the nickname thanks to his formerly Falstaffian appetite for certain vices. When Filthy Mark joined the NYPD about a decade ago, the moniker was tweaked to Filthy Narc. That made us laugh, but didn’t ultimately catch on.

Filthy Mark and I have been playing phone tag, for lack of a better term, for several days, trying to get our families together (he lives in Copland up in Putnam Co.). He was on my mind as I hustled to the 5:27 last night. As I stepped onto the platform with about a minute to spare, a cop jumped in front of me. He looked for all the world like Filthy Mark.

I had my iPod cranking, was focused on getting my ass onto the train, and wasn’t quite thinking clearly.

“Excuse me, sir, I’ll need to check your bag,” he said.

Was Filthy Mark f***ing with me, I thought for a split second. Upon further inspection, it was not, in fact, Mark. It was a cop named Prieto, and he needed to search my bag.

Had I been put on a watch list for disparaging Metro-North on this blog, for listening for a little too much revolutionary music like the Clash’s first album, for attending that lone Amnesty International meeting in college (it was just to impress a girl! i swear!)? More pressing, the Missus and Little G were counting on me to be on that 5:27 so we could check out that great Jack O’Lantern blaze up in Croton. If I miss the train, we miss the pumpkin blaze, and I’m sleeping in the minivan.

“It’ll just take a minute,” said Fake Filthy Mark with what actually might be classified as a smile.

I told him I’d confused him for a second with a friend from high school as another cop–a dark, giant fellow who, making things even more confusing, looked like another cop friend (McDowell) from high school–slid a white ticket the size of a stamp into a machine.

“That’s it, you’re done,” said Fake Filthy Mark.

The whole thing took 40 seconds. I made the 5:27 with half a minute to spare.