Butch Cassidy is nothing without his Sundance Kid

Of course it would happen on the morning when the wind chill was -1.  -1 AMERICAN degrees.

Waiting for the train this morning, the disembodied voice of the friendly train station lady announced that all trains in and out of Penn Station were running 20-30 minutes behind. Thankfully, I was able to step into my train and escape the skin-punishing, bone-chilling cold at approximately the time NJ Transit promises in its train schedules. But, of course, after moving a few miles up the line, the conductor announced that the delays were worse than we had been led to believe. Apparently, due to a broken down train in the tunnel, there was but one track for all trains entering and leaving the major hub in Manhattan. 

In other words, bad news.

So, after we waiting for a while outside Newark, our conductor told us we were being re-routed to Hoboken. As you may recall, this had happened to me before, in reverse, last year, but I remain totally ignorant of the PATH train and their routes, so upon reaching Hoboken, I got on a train that took me near Penn Station and had to back-track back to my office. (I would learn later that this could have been a much shorter trip, but the PATH website was blissfully unhelpful.)

Oh, and I had to get out on Broadway and find my way back to Penn Station - and of course, since it was cold, I headed out the wrong way and had to walk more than I should have. 

The Highlight:

There was an irritating guy with a backpack - it's always backpacks - who continued to bump into me and a woman next to me on the PATH train. Oblivious to the natural law stating that two bodies cannot occupy the same space, he repeatedly beat us with his backpack, like the clumsy adolescent who is not in control of his newly-large body and bumps into walls and other things because he is not used to his hulking shoulders.  This guy, however, was just annoying.

At one point, the woman and I turned in towards one another to shoot him a dirty look. It was like something out of a sit-com: We turned at preciously the same time and turned back at the same time as well. I wanted so much to make eye contact and share that "If you punch him in the face, I'll punch him in the stomach" look, but she was too annoyed to have any fun on the ride. So alas, the man remained unpunched. Another missed opportunity in the annals of NY commuting.

All the news that's fit to recycle

I've grown accustomed to many aspects of my daily commute - fighting for a seat on the morning train, heavily armed police officers patrolling the subway and train station, women wearing half bottles of perfume, the homeless people in Penn Station - but there are just some things that still mystify me. Some things I never would have imagined growing up in my North Carolina hamlet. Namely, I routinely see grown men, men wearing suits and expensive overcoats, pulling newspapers out of the trashcan to read in Penn Station.

Now, I have nothing against recycling. And I am happy when people dispose of their newspapers rather than toss them on the ground or leave them on the seats of the train.  But are times really so bad that people cannot afford to buy a 50-cent newspaper? Are these investment bankers so hard up that they must rummage through public trash cans to read the latest bad economic news? (I guess in fairness I should say that these people usually take newspapers off the top of the trash heap, a la George eating the eclair from the trash can on Seinfeld. But I think I side with Jerry on this one: on top of the trash is still in the trash.)

So, ye readers, weep for the bankers, the day traders, the suited masses,

For those that so recently lived the modern lives of kings

Are themselves unable to feed their brains nor clothe their asses,

Whist heavens' angels, heavy hearted, beat their wings

Nevermore, nevermore.

Rats! (or: Welcome back to work!)

Having been out of the state for two weeks, I had a long period of adjustment on my commute this morning. Essentially, I forgot everything that makes the journey from New Jersey to New York so quaint:

• Walking to the train station in the bitter cold as a fierce northern wind blows snot loose in my nose (I apologize; there was no better way to say that)
  
• The mad rush to get inside the train so you can find a seat
  
• Large men sitting with their legs spread far apart, taking up as much of my seat as they feel comfortable doing (spoiler alert: it's a lot)
  
• The conductor who greets me every morning with "Good morning! All tickets display!" providing a sentence I still cannot diagram correctly.
  

And best of all: the rats scurrying along the subway tracks.  This morning I saw a rat that at first did not appear to have a tail. Luckily, I had time to study him and found that he did in fact have a tail. So much the better.

And thus enters 2009. Welcome back!

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.

On board with a ballerina

Living in the New York area, I've grown accustomed to seeing all sorts of people I never bumped into in North Carolina. Needless to say, very little surprises me anymore. I've seen the Barry White/Johnny Cash karaoke singer, dudes in shirts not big enough for Olive Oil, and so much more. But Tuesday I saw something truly shocking. Waiting in Penn Station for a train stood a six-foot tall, wrong-side-of-50, gender-neutral* ballerina wearing a bright pink tu-tu and showing a fair amount of leg.

* I say gender-neutral, but I assume the person had a gender. I just don't want to guess what it was.

What was truly remarkable was not that this person was there wearing a giant tu-tu but that this man/woman was standing there as if nothing crazy was going on. S/he stood straight upright, at one point pulling out a brush and calmly styling his/her shoulder-length graying hair. And through it all, I my lasting impression of this was thinking: Hum, that tu-tu bottom is quite large. It was probably 6-feet in diameter and looked like a gown from Gone with the Wind. In fact, I have an artist's* rendition of what this person looked like:
* This was drawn by no artist.

On board ... and off ... and on ... and ....

If Monday marked the highlight of life in the city, Wednesday certainly marked the lowest point. It was on this day, of course, that the rails leaving from Penn Station had no power, causing unimaginable confusion and a mass of humanity in mid-town I had not been introduced to before.

For me, it introduced more than just running around the city, cramming myself onto a PATH train, or finding Hoboken. I had the pleasure of meeting (read: being crammed against) some of the most selfish people in the tri-state area.

I got on board the 4:50 Dover Express, and soon after the conductor came on to announce that we were significantly delayed because of an overhead power outage along the lines. After sitting for about 30 minutes, they "recommended" that we take a PATH train to Hoboken and pick up a NJ Transit train from there. I walked back up the stairs and people had overtaken every tile on the floor, staring at monitors that read:
Delayed
Delayed
Delayed
Delayed
Delayed
Delayed

I muscled through, got outside and walked a few blocks to the PATH station and it was much worse. Taking baby steps among hundreds of people trying to cram through two doors, I eventually got downstairs. The station opened up and I was back in time at my first Hanson concert. A train was approaching so I "ran" as best I could down the track; every car was completely full, with people crammed so tight not even one of the Olson twins could have gotten in. I kept walking, knowing that time was running out until it would leave, got to the end and saw the tiniest space I could squeeze in ....

And the woman at the door would not move. She literally and completely did not move as I turned sideways, squeezed my bag close to my stomach and snuck into the car like the weird kid who ate his boogers trying to sneak into prom. I got in, and she said to me, "Sir, I'm going to need to hold onto something." I turned less than a quarter turn and PRESTO she had plenty of room to hold her arm by my head as I fought the urge to lovingly caress it with my cheek.

We stopped at every stop, taunting those waiting to get on, some of whom even walked up and tried a few times to squeeze in. It would have been comical if I hadn't been dripping sweat off my face.

We got to Hoboken and it was like the start of the Boston Marathon - people sprinted up the stairs and to the tracks. I can't be sure, but I think I saw a man shove a pregnant lady down, step on her hand and say, "Watch it, whore." It may not have happened, as this part is still a blur as I tried to keep from being trampled by the Pamplona bulls poking me in the ass.

The rest is boring: I got on the train, we waited about 30 minutes because our crew were themselves trying to get from Penn Station to Hoboken on the PATH. We slowly made our way down the line, and I got home about 7:30. Just your average three-hour commute. After seeing the best human on earth Monday, I got up close and personal with some of the worst Wednesday: those so eager to get home they act like gazelle running from an lion. Survival of the fittest, and the lame are Darwin's prey.

On board with Barry White

I had a surprise on Friday walking through Penn Station on my way back home. There is a spot just under an arch as you walk from the A-C-E line towards the NJ Transit gates where musicians typically set up to play and suggest you pay them for their troubles. Yesterday, however, was a man with nothing but a karaoke machine and a mic. Wearing only black and with silver hair, the jovial man chose for his first song "Can't Get Enough of Your Love." The man appeared emaciated, but he had an insatiable hunger for my love. I'll be honest: I was touched. And as I stood in line waiting for a pretzel, the dulcet tones ringing throughout Penn Station, I had to admit that this was probably better than the guy with the clarinet.

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