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

Here’s some video of me zipping through traffic on my bike yesterday, cutting things way too close en route to the 8:43 train after wasting precious minutes explaining the season finale of The Wire to The Missus (Duquan! A junkie! I’m still heartbroken.).

OK, that’s not me, and that’s not Westchester. In fact, it’s a land far, far away–a land where hobbits and elves walk the earth in search of rings. New Zealand-based teacher Josh Campbell affixed a videocamera to his handlebars to show his friends how dodgy his daily commute through Christchurch is. 

Funny stuff, especially his near miss with the tow-truck.  

Interesting hint of drama on the 6:10 last night (a train so full that I had to stand with my back to the door in the back row, as the standing room only vestibule spots were cheek to cheek).

The conductor came around near Harlem. A young man looked at him with large, baleful eyes. He was around 20, with an inch-high afro and scrubbly facial hair, and looked like Dukie from The Wire (below).

He proceeded to stammer.

“I…l-l-l-l-lost my wallet…and it…had my train pass…and I bought a gift for my mother…”

At this point he procured a silver Dolce & Gabbana box that looked like it held a watch.

“A-a-a-and I only have three dollars,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

The conductor looked like the kid had barfed on his train belt buckle.

“Gimme the three dollars,” said the conductor. “I’ll bill you.”

His fingers protruding from gloves with the tips cut off, the kid pulled three wrinkly bills from his pocket as the conductor ripped off a ticket.

“How are you going to bill me?”

“I’ll come back,” said the conductor.

Twenty minutes later, the train shuffled into White Plains. The kid scooted off without being “billed”.

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