JUMPING SOMEONE ELSE'S TRAIN

All aboard, bitches: actual train ridden not pictured.

I was running late as usual. Every time I have to catch a train, I set my alarm for a time too early, doze off and wake up in a panic. I showered anyway, finished packing my bags, and ran the hell out of my apartment. I would have to catch the L train here in Brooklyn and then transfer to the N or R train at Union Square in Manhattan to get to Penn Station. That is, if I wanted to make it to Baltimore to see my family on Thanksgiving.

Flying out of the 34th street station R train like a bat outta hell, I readied my quiver of curt excuse me’s. Everyone in my path had a bull’s eye, including Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade a block away. A straight shot down 32nd Street (between 6th and 7th Ave.) and five minutes to catch the 12:02 train en route to Wash., DC lay before me. I don’t remember if anyone slowed me down, but whoever may have gotten in my way probably got flattened. Most of the time, I complain about other people being inconsiderate, but, in this case, I was the asshole.

Strings attached: he must have done something awful to suffer such indignation.

I expected the parade to somehow delay my date with Amtrak, but, ironically enough, it helped me get there faster. The street was sectioned off and filled with onlookers. With no traffic to impede my way, I shot across the street, briefly looking up at the looming parade floats without discerning which copyrighted characters hovered overhead and between buildings. In retrospect, I probably should have taken a better look at the televised spectacle that brings people from all over the world to NYC. Seeing a Disney character may have given me an instant of comfort, but I probably would have been let down with SpongeBob SquarePants, or some other pathetic icon that passes for pre-adolescent entertainment these days.

Once I printed out my ticket from the machine, I barreled down the steps, sweat spraying from my whipping hair. My suitcase dangling mid-air, I skidded up to a Yoda-sized female conductor. “Is this the 12:02 train?” I blurted down at her breathlessly. Her mumbled response channeled the neurotic demon inside of me and I repeated, “IS THIS THE 12:02 TRAIN?” I knew it was indeed my train, but I had to make sure. “Y-yes, yes!” Yoda-woman confirmed. “Thanks,” I croaked, and hopped on board.

I roamed the aisle until I found an empty seat with a non-smelly, tolerable looking prospective neighbor. “Excuse me,” I asked a gray-haired, middle-aged lady occupying an aisle seat. “Is anyone sitting here?” No one was. Cold rivers of sweat flowed down my temples and back as my body attempted to cool itself down and the dust settled behind me.

The lady, who I'll call Lucy, held an authoritative air about her. She even suggested I stow my suitcase up top, across the aisle. “Sorry,” I said with a self-deprecating chuckle as I stepped over her to my waiting window seat. “Running late?” she asked. “Yeah,” I laughed.

“I can see the signs,” Lucy remarked, and returned to her book.

Repeated announcements stating that the café car was closed provided little hope for relief as I sat dehydrating in my own juices. Obviously, I hadn't given myself enough time to pick up any snacks or water. My self-hatred magnified every time I squeezed by my neighbor to get up. On my maiden voyage, I locked myself in the bathroom to cool off with cold, wet paper towels, the supply of which I nearly depleted in my effort to dry off.

Returning to my seat, I expressed my pardons without looking down. Lunging forward, I knocked the book out of Lucy’s hands and woke her up. Ruminating over the embarrassment, I plopped back down, and felt my throat closing up. I braved the asthma and claustrophobia as long as I could, while I focused on relaxing and breathing. After making little progress, I grabbed my inhaler from my suitcase, nearly dropping the bursting bag into the aisle.

Safely locked in the bathroom again, I pushed down on the yellow plastic inhaler, sucked in, and held my breath for a moment. Repeat. My obstructed airflow restored, I floated back to my seat, relieved.

An attractive, dark-haired, twenty-something girl and her mother sat across the aisle from Lucy and me. I decided that Lucy must have been the girl’s aunt or her mom’s friend. With her flattering striped frock, chin-length mop of curls and attempts at affecting a cultured inflection, the young girl was vaguely styled like a roarin’ twenties party girl. Think a toned-down “Thoroughly Modern Millie.” But, like a lot of people, her good looks masked her annoying personality until she opened her mouth.

Thoroughly annoying: Millie's song & dance.

Predictably, Millie asked Lucy about the book she was reading. Impressed, Millie breathlessly exclaimed that “no one I’ve met has heard of that author, and these are people living on the Upper West Side!” Lucy shrugged. Although I was not involved in the conversation, I had to roll my eyes anyway, just on principle.

“I see you’re wearing the necklace and the bracelet,” Millie said to Lucy. “You’re wearing two presents that I gave you, that makes me feel so good.” Millie’s ass-kissing sentiment brought me very close to vomiting. Pointing out the fact that Lucy was sporting the accessories that Millie gave her would have been totally natural. Telling Lucy that it makes her feel “so good” was laying it on a little thick. All the brown-nosing led me to suspect that Lucy was Millie’s professor, or someone with some kind of authority over Millie.

My neighbors’ conversation began to slip into the awkward realm of the vain and self-conscious with Lucy’s remark about gaining weight when she was recently sick. Millie, in a backhanded way, attempted to rationalize Lucy’s dilemma with her own history of the battle of the bulge. We learned that Millie’s weight problem, which began in high school and extended into her college years, provided the side effect of sizable breasts. Upon hearing this expertly delivered buffalo chip of conversation, I turned to size Millie up. I concluded that her story was entirely unbelievable, given her long, naturally slim body. Also, Millie couldn’t have been older than 23, yet she strived to close the age gap between her and Lucy. Sure, she just graduated, but it must seem like, soooooo long ago.

The conductor announced that the café car was open. I jumped up again and stumbled back to the small concession area at the front of the train. A fifty-something man in a suit with no tie and his jacket sleeves rolled up stood in the lengthening line behind me. Every time the people in front of me moved up, I felt him brush up against me before I could step forward. When he stepped on my shoe with his Doc Marten boot, I turned around to give him a dirty look. Very few things in life annoy me as much as queue-crowders. He apologized but repeated the same behavior twice more. He seemed slightly drunk or very self-conscious in his attempts to look hip, kind of like a record exec who partied hard in the ‘80s.

Virgin territory: becoming part of the complete collection.

My tumultuous trip to Penn Station had left me physically and mentally flustered. My mood shifted from irritated to irrational to angry to relieved. This Richard Branson wannabe lit my shortened fuse and I was about to kick him in the crotch. However, I drew unexpected consolation from another stranger whom I had encountered on this trip; my friend Lucy, back at the seats. There was something comforting about Lucy. She didn’t seem too worried about anything. Being a woman of few, yet very effective words, she held an air of authority and security. She also seemed thoughtful, yet at the same time very practical, to the point of alarming. Lucy was not someone to be messed with, as I would soon find out.

While waiting in line and getting bumped by Branson (wait, the real Branson wouldn't be caught dead riding a humble, earthbound locomotive!), I tried to imagine serving food on a train. The work certainly didn’t look very difficult. A microwave was present for any food that needed to be heated up and most of the items were packaged. Probably the most difficult task was pouring coffee or any other liquid into a cup without spilling. I ordered a chocolate chip cookie and apple juice and returned to my seat.

The presence of food in her vicinity seemed to prompt hunger in Professor Lucy. A plastic Tupperware container appeared with cold chicken and roasted potatoes. This was the kind of woman who is always prepared and doesn’t rely on public transportation for her nourishment. Like a bear going in for the honey, Lucy slowly and deliberately pulled off the lid of the container and reached in for a meaty morsel. Although I had my cookie and juice to distract me, I braced myself for the imminent olfactory assault of cold poultry, unavoidable in such close quarters.

Raw like sushi: snack time.

Devouring the first bit with moist crunching, Lucy turned her working jaws in my direction, perhaps in an attempt to escape from Millie’s incessant gabbing. It took less than a second for the smell of the food to travel from Lucy’s mouth to my nose. Feeling grossed out, I wondered if I smelled the chicken itself or the chemical results of my neighbor’s saliva and breath mixing with, and breaking down, the salty victuals. Turning my head toward the window and away from the impromptu snacking, I prayed Lucy would turn on Millie with her volcanic mouth.

After consuming one greasy chunk of chicken and a cold, boiled potato, Lucy sealed and retired the Tupperware. She returned to her book and Millie and Mom switched seats to huddle in whisper. After a few minutes, the mother and daughter socialite team invited Lucy for a bite to eat at the next stop, which would be Philadelphia. Apparently, the ladies had blocked out enough time to dine in between hunting down Gloria Steinem books and getting tipsy at wine tastings.

We arrived in Philly, and the estrogen posse left me surrounded by empty seats. There I was, alone, with my own thoughts for an hour or so. Now, I could only complain about myself, to myself.

- posted by Hal Miller @ 1:08 AM