On board with Stephen King?

I think I saw Stephen King on the subway today. I say I think because I don't actually know, and while I was staring at him as much as I could, he was only on for one stop and then left with two young girls, whom I assume were his grandchildren. He wore a barret, which I believe the master of horror would wear, and his face had those pot marks that I recognize from Red Sox games. But this whole thing brought up two questions:

1) Would Stephen King ride the subway?

2) Why am I thinking about Stephen King this much?

The answer to the former is, why not? Is his face really famous enough to make riding public transportation such a problem? I don't think so. And the answer to latter - we all know I'm a loser.

On board but without a seat

NJ Transit has interesting priorities.  This morning, on a cold and rainy October morning, we -- the hard-working people of Summit who pay full price for seats on the train -- boarded the train (a few minutes late, of course) to find that essentially all of the seats were taken.  This left people -- including your faithful narrator -- standing in the aisles of every car, door to door. Naturally, the conductor still made her way through the train to collect tickets because even those people who cannot sit must pay for seats.

When she reached our train I turned from my spot (on which I was vibrating as the train bounced down the wet tracks) to listen to her.  "No luggage in the aisles, people! Luggage cannot sit on the floor in case of an emergency.  Safety first, people!" Now I have a few issues with this:

1) No one taking the 7:15 express train to New York Penn Station has luggage. We carry purses or bags which may or may not contain a laptop.  But no one has planned a weekend getaway for this morning.

2) Can you please keep your voice down? It's dark as Satan's birthday still and we are all miserable and tired. Your voice does not need to ring in our ears like a banshee giving birth to Fran Drescher.

3) The aisles are full of people.  In the case of an emergency, this train will be ass-to-nose crammed full of people in all positions pressed together in an unholy mass of humanity.  Does it really matter if there are three laptop bags in the aisle with 20 people? Will those bags spell our doom? Will the police report following the investigation of our tragic, early-morning crash read: "If only that luggage had been properly stowed underneath seats or on the overhead racks.  When the fires broke out and the commuters - piled high from the impact with the oil truck - tried to escape through the emergency exits, a laptop bag unfortunately blocked their exit. These commuters, dazed from the impact of the collision, could not devise a way to get around it. In the minutes that passed, the fires grew and eventually enveloped them.  This all could have been prevented if that luggage had been put away."

It's all about priorities.

A stranger, a train, and a relationship I can't come back from

This morning's commute produced a great number of tantalizing subjects for this blog, among them: 

• The State Police cars lined up outside the station and the police helicopter circling above when I arrived
  
• Walking into the train station behind a police officer brandishing a very large, very loaded assault rifle
  
• The delays that were produced with ANOTHER power outage along the lines, resulting in people being bused into Summit Station
  
• The fun one derives from a two-hour commute
  

But once I arrived at Penn Station, something happened that topped them all. Yes, even something more amazing than the fact that I've now reached a point of numbness from living in the NY area so that large men carrying large guns doesn't phase me in the least. 

You see, because of the problems this morning, my normally express train into the city became local, and because NJ Transit refuses to think in an efficient or helpful manner, we made four stops, even though the train was standing room only as we left Summit.  So, somewhere along the line, I - sitting in a aisle seat - ended up on the wrong side of a just-past-middle-aged woman's caboose.  The woman ended up standing right next to me ... or as would be more appropriate, above and on me.  Because for 20 minutes, her posterior was in near-constant contact with my left shoulder and arm.  This produced a level of discomfort I have not felt since my last colonoscopy, and I was at least asleep for most of that.  

Now, with her butt to me, I didn't actually see her face the entire ride.  This, unfortunately, changed when we reached Penn Station, and when I rose to collect my things and squeeze into the aisle, our eyes met for the first time, and I was left thinking: What does one say to someone after that sort of bonding experience?  In the last 20 minutes we had reached a point in our relationship that I have reached with few others.  I was completely speechless.  But she, God bless her, looked at me and grinned.  Perhaps this was the most action her beginning-to-wrinkle body had seen in some time.  And if so, I am happy to have been of help.

Such a bad blogger

It's been awhile since I've written anything, but I've been traveling a bit and therefore not commuting. You deserve my apologies. But you won't get them because I regret nothing.

I was in New Mexico last week. I flew in for two nights and met with two national research labs. By coincidence, we were there for the Balloon Festival - annually the biggest event in New Mexico. Well, just look:


My experiences there were probably the complete opposite of working in New York. Driving along Interstate 25, on one side of the care: a wide swath of nothing for miles and miles, desert as far as you can see. On the other side: plateaus like something out of a John Ford movie. No congestion (except around Albuquerque - did I mention it was Balloon Fest?) No pushing, no shoving. Oh, to be a cowboy.

On board with speed commuting

Commuting can be a dull, tedious enterprise. I walk to the train station – now the sun’s not even up yet! – I ride on a quiet train where everyone is wearing black suits or black sweaters, I ride the subway where people are crammed together but refuse to speak or even look at one another. And then I do it in reverse 8 hours later.

And yet, I can count on one thing to brighten this experience everyday. Waiting for my train to post at Penn Station, I always see middle-aged men dressed in their finest suits sprinting through the train station.

These people are not sprinting to catch a train that is set to leave; no, these people take off as soon as the train posts, hoping to be among the first on the train and have their pick of seats. I assume they will spread out in their seats, hoping to sit by themselves, catching an hour for self-reflection before wives and children invade on their otherwise peaceful existence. And, as I’ve said before, their dreams will inevitably crash around them as the train fills up and some thoughtless person asks to sit next to them in the seat they had so diligently staked out. Hopefully, they will have visions of other well-dressed men sprinting through the train station to keep them happy. It is one bright moment in an otherwise monotonous, habitual exercise.

Train haiku

Stinky man sits down
Nose hairs tickle with male musk
Time drags breath by breath

On board and sitting in MY seat

I’ve noticed recently that people feel a sense of ownership of the seats they choose on the train. Often, these people will sit down and spread themselves out – either by literally sprawling out over the entire seat or by putting their stuff in the seat next to them – in an effort to claim their seat. In essence, they are a dog marking their territory, with their bag, thankfully, taking the place of urine. It’s a noble effort because really: Who wants to sit with a stranger on a train?

The trouble, of course, is that during rush hour, odds are you are going to get a seat partner. Or two. And it’s better to realize this going in, I think, than coming to that realization after you’ve sat down and sprawled out. Because you’re only going to get disappointed. Or, as I’ve noticed, irritated.

Increasingly, I’ve noticed that people who have laid claim to a seat are visibly annoyed when someone asks to sit down with them. “Do you not smell my urine?” they seem to ask. “Do you not see my flag sticking out of this seat, claiming this territory for me?” The train can be standing room only, and these people will feel as if you’ve greatly put them out by asking to sit with them. As if they paid more for the seat than you. Or have a special relationship with the leather of the seat that you wouldn’t – that you couldn’t – understand.

So please, save your exasperated sighs for someone else. If you’re going to Wall Street, don’t you have more pressing concerns?