On board with a whiff

With the prospect of a four-day weekend thanks to Memorial Day, many people took Friday off. The trains this morning were pleasantly empty. However, that did not stop something odorific from happening to me on an otherwise beautiful Friday morning. In Orange a man sat down next to me, but I knew he was coming well before he sat down. No, I am not psychic. Through the power of smell, I sensed his imminent arrival. 

For some reason, after he had shaved this morning, he thought it a good idea to dunk his head in a large vat of aftershave. He then looked at himself in the mirror, said, "Lookin' good, sexy!" and walked to the train station. Once on the train, he stopped by the door to let every passenger slowly inhale his excellence before casually walking down the aisle, stopping occasionally to let those he passed take a nice, long whiff of his greatness. Seeing me, he turned into my seat and thought to himself, "This young man needs a pick-me-up. And my intense and splendid aroma is just the prescription he needs."

Little did he know that what I really needed was an Allegra. And his aftershave only made that need stronger.

On board with a national championship

Allow me to go off topic for a moment:


Franklin Street: The Celebration from The Daily Tar Heel on Vimeo.

And I will say this: taking the last train from NY home on a Monday night is an entirely different experience than taking a rush hour train. The train was almost empty save for a few people traveling alone, and I couldn't help but wonder what each of their stories were. Why were these people traveling from NY to NJ at 12:45? And the one guy who sneezed 45 times in a two minute span: why did you even leave your house?

Rain rain, go away ... oh wait you did

I propose a moratorium on umbrella use when it is not raining.

Yesterday, on a morning that was dark and foggy - yet remarkably dry - there stood a woman on the platform of the train station holding a large, yellow umbrella. Holding it above her head, she took up a good three square feet of prime real estate - including the spot on the platform where I typically like to stand. What was most peculiar about this all, though, was that it was not raining. It had not rained for some time, in fact, and still she stood, isolated in her imaginary downpour. I stood next to her and stared for a while, my hands empty and yet still managing to stay dry.  After a few minutes, she realized that her umbrella was entirely gratuitous and put it down. 

I thought her ability to irritate me had passed, but after two solid minutes of fidgeting to tie up her umbrella, she popped a piece of chewing gum - mint I believe - into her mouth and chewed that stuff like a cow chowing on grass. There are few things that annoy me more than someone chewing with their mouth open, and this woman managed to make every other lip smacker I've ever met sound like a congregation of librarians. I swear I could hear her over the train as it barreled up the tracks. And this was with my headphones in. Maybe I should have gone to more concerts growing up. My hearing wouldn't be so sensitive, and I'd have more ticket stubs for my scrapbook.*

*There is no scrapbook.

On board, and keep walking

This is a public service announcement:

When boarding the train, walk to the center of the care before sitting. This will allow passengers boarding after you to find a seat and will result in a smoother flow of traffic. Sitting in the first available seat - when there are many others beyond it - will cause a logjam of passengers waiting behind you while you stand in the aisle waiting for someone to stand up and let you in.

Thank you for your attention.

On board with a stench

While taking the train into and from work each day has its drawbacks, there are definitely perks to riding during rush hour.  Typically, the people you ride with are impeccably groomed business men and women who are quiet and respectful of others.  Notice the word "typically."  Yesterday was anything but.

On the way into New York, we had to make an unscheduled stop and pick up a swarm of people in Newark because of a broken down train in front of us.  Naturally, this happened on a rare morning where I was able to sit in a three-person seat with just one other, normal-sized human.  The herd of people - waiting on the platform they were about 4-5 rows deep - pushed their way in, and I saw the typical (there's that word again) types find seats in front of me. 

And then I spotted him.  I large man, sloppily dressed, out of breath, and moving towards me. As soon as I saw him, I knew he would end up sitting next to me.  That is my luck; I attract fat dudes.

I let him into the middle seat, he took off his coat, and I smelled it.  This was B.O. on an order I am not accustomed. Walking in Penn Station and riding on the subway, where homeless people often reside for hours, you will smell something like this.  But an experienced commuter can avoid these smells; yesterday morning, I was pressed up against it like tootsie rolls in a pinata. And I prayed that someone would whack me free.

Naturally, I wondered how anyone who was ostensibly riding into the city for work could smell so bad, so early in the morning. Had he not showered? Had he worked up a sweat ... walking through the aisle of the train?  What was this large fellow up to at 7:00?  I decided to stop wondering and instead sit with my hand over my face, turned the other way, happily thinking back to times when I had experienced other questionable smells: Wading through liquid pig fat on Interstate 40 for a story? Not as bad.  Driving through Richmond where it wreaks of sulfur? A meadow of pleasantness.  Using the bathroom at any Bojangle's in America? I welcome a return visit. This man beat them all. Congratulations.  I hate you.

On board with rags

A typical morning rush hour commuter, if he or she is not resting with eyes closed, reads either the New York Times or the Wall Street Journal. These are the reading materials of choice, with an occasional Newark Star-Ledger thrown in for good measure. This morning, however, I sat between two people reading exciting alternatives: the man on my left was reading the classic Batman graphic novel, The Long Halloween, and the woman on my right was reading US Weekly or Star Crap or some horrible gossip magazine. Naturally, as I have read The Long Halloween, I was drawn to the gossip rag.

Now, I feel the need to dwell on one of the stories in the magazine because it smacks of hypocrisy, and the one thing that turns me off more than anything is hypocrisy. (In related news, I hate cheaters. Go Yankees!)  The story was on how Demi Moore stays young. It included a sidebar with seven tips from the star herself on how she stays young: Hydrate, moisturize, exfoliate, marry someone half your age, etc.  However, the story also included before and after photos showing the incredible plastic surgery she had last year.  

Now, I try to stay off of soap boxes because I find them slippery and they leave my shoes bubbly, but this smacks me as patently disingenuous and dishonest.  This would be like you saying the key to your good writing has been studying English in college and forcing yourself to write a little bit each day ... while leaving out the fact that you take large, unattributed portions of your essays from F. Scott Fitzgerald.  For some reason this made me really angry this morning. 

Maybe I'm just irritable because yet another baseball hero has taken my faith in humanity, chewed it up, and after 40 minutes in the bathroom, turned it into a steaming pile of broken promises and yesterday's corn chowder.*

*Full disclosure: This analogy is taken from F. Scott Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night.

On board with my furry friends

I've noticed this new middle-aged lady - let's call her Vick Furry* - that wears an expensive fur coat every morning, complemented by a wonderfully huge fur hat, like the ones worn by Soviets in spy movies. I mean, this thing is incredible. I find myself staring at it and wondering what waiting for the train with an animal on my head would be like. I think I would pretend it were still alive and talk to it. Because really there isn't much else to do but stand around and shiver.

*This is joke for comic book dorks. If you don't get it, you're probably cooler than me.

At any rate, hat or not, she inevitably gets into the train every morning in front of me. She has a buddy waiting for her, and so she stops right inside the door, he gets up to let her in, and I'm left waiting behind the Soviet ice princess and her boy toy. For those of you who have rushed to get into trains at rush hour, you know how precious few seats there are, and waiting behind someone while watching the rest of the car fill in the empty seats ... there just are not words for the frustration. Actually there are: I hate her.

I'm most certainly not a PETA sympathizer, but everything about this woman makes me want to scream. Keeping the line of people behind her waiting for her to de-animalize her entire body; flirting with all the old men around her; talking loudly while the rest of us on the train are reading newspapers or sleeping. Maybe I just need more sleep.

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!

Beware the wrath of leaves

I had a first this week, a first which both tickled me and irritated me - a sort of cat hair french tickler for trains. Wednesday afternoon, as I rushed home to turnaround and get to class, my train encountered a serious delay as we moved between Short Hills and Summit. After about 10 minutes, the conductor came over the speaker and announced:

"Sorry for the delay. We are being delayed because of the rain and the leaves. Sorry for the inconvenience; we should get to Summit in just a few minutes."

Yes, you read that right. Our worst fears have been realized: Trees have decided to fight back and, ironically, are shedding their leaves - that which soaks up our carbon rubbish - and concentrating them to slightly inconvenience our public transportation. It's a sort of double death comeback for the green team. And among the most asinine experiences of my commuting life.

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.

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?

Putting the sport in transport

I started classes last week, which isn't such a big deal except that it means that, after two months of driving no more than 15 miles a week since my office moved to NYC, I am driving regularly again, to and from class twice a week. Yesterday, I was reminded of all the reasons I don't like driving around New Jersey. But is commuting in a car worse than public transportation commuting? Here, I will decide once and for all, which is better: public transportation or driving.

Some of you know that I enjoy singing along to Les Miserables loudly and wonderfully. In the car, no one but me knows I'm pretending to be Jean Valjean. On the train I get stares, but is that going to stop me from singing along to the greatest musical ever? No. Point Car.

On the train, I can sit back and read a book or listen to music and drift in and out of consciousness. When I do either of those in my car, I tend to veer off the road and into on-coming traffic. Also, it's hard to turn a page with one hand on the steering wheel. Point Train.

In the car, I have plenty of room to spread out and I rarely have large sweaty people touching me. (Thought there was that one time when I pulled an Eddie Murphy ... ) On the train, unfortunately, I seem to attract the affections of large men. This is my curse. Point Car.

On the train, I do not have to worry about congestion except when we get around the tunnel, and even then it's not ME who is concerned with moving along. In the car, I have to deal with a mass of humanity trying to squeeze into three lanes of highway with idiots cutting one another off without any thought of others while my blood pressure slowly rises to a boil. Dealing with these ass clowns* takes the gentleman out of me. Two Points Train.

I have tried to keep this blog profanity free, but you try driving on the Parkway and leaving it a gentleman. Give me 5 minutes on the Parkway, I'll give you new and wonderful ways to offend the ears of God.

On the train, you are putting your time and life in the hands of a few others, whom you must assume are competent enough to get you where you're going. In the car, you are putting your life in the hands of thousands of people I am quite certain are not competent. Point Train.

Alright, by my count it's Train 4, Car 2. And I grow tired of counting, so that's the final answer. Public transportation forever.

On board with can you hear me now?

When did we as a society decide that we needed to talk on the phone at all times, no matter the time or the place? I ask this because Friday I had to listen to people talking on their phones the entire way to and from work on the train. Most mornings you can count on the commuter train being relatively quiet, as people read newspapers or mentally prepare for another day in the office (i.e. sleep). But on Friday, the guy behind me spent the entire ride talking on his phone, discussing something work-related. And on the way home, a woman discussed personal matters the entire trip.

The worst, though, was listening to a teenager sitting behind us talking to a friend Sunday morning for 20 minutes. He had an incredibly annoying voice, sounding like a valley girl (yes, valley girl). I can tell you this: He worked at McDonald's for 6 months (beating his friend by 4 months), he spends about everyday in Brooklyn, he so badly needs a new phone, and when he gets his tax refund next year, he is soooo going shopping.

Do we really need to be available 24 hours a day? Do we really need to be able to talk about mundane things in public places whenever we want? And most importantly, should people feel comfortable speaking on their phones in public? In this age of social websites, blogs, and message boards, very little is private. But shouldn't we keep something things to ourselves? Shouldn't we respect others enough to not broadcast everything all the time?

Okay, you're right - I'm just bitter because no one ever calls me.

On board with a lamp

On a typical morning, taking the rush hour train into the city, I will see people carrying only briefcases and newspapers. And while I can’t imagine why anyone would want to read anything other than the New York Times, I see more copies of the Post and Daily News than is healthy. But that is at least understandable; at least these people are reading rather than snorting coke or something. I suppose a titillating, skimpy-on-the-truth story about Britney Spears is a decent way to start the day, though I would prefer a skimpy-on-the-shirt story. At any rate, these sights are common and I hardly notice them anymore.

This morning, however, brought a surprise. A woman on the train this morning had a lamp shade. An honest-to-goodness lampshade. Nothing more, nothing less. Her commute boiled down to the transport of a lampshade. Where she was going is anyone’s guess, though I like to think that her previous lampshade was destroyed in a fit of fury after her secretary accidentally hung up on the President, who had called to congratulate her on winning the most recent National Spirograph Contest. I miss spirograph.

Four rules for choosing a seat on the train

I often wonder how people choose their seats on the train. I have a few rules which I live by:

1) Avoid fat people. I hate to rag on the obese again, but it makes perfect sense: large people take up more of the seat, leaving less for those who sit with them.

2) Avoid people with pens outs. I have a paralyzing fear of being written on by a neighbor who is waving a pen around next to me. This has happened to me before. At a school board meeting in Hillsborough, way back when I was with The News of Orange County, a reporter from a rival newspaper, writing furiously on the pad in her lap, wrote so long and hard she did not realize that her pen had reached the edge of the paper and moved onto my left leg. This was my favorite pair of pants, please remember, and I was distraught. The boring people in the meeting were talking about school lunches or how better to embezzle money (I have since forgotten, overcome with remorse) but all I could think about was what do to with my pants. I eventually decided to take them off, run to the bathroom, soak them in water in the sink, return to the meeting in my skives, and rock back and forth muttering, "I miss my pants. Definitely miss my pants." Long story ... um ended ... I fear that people writing on the train will repeat this dark episode of my life.

3) Do not sit near the door. For some reason, people - who have paid a fair amount of money for their seats - enjoy standing up well before they reach their station and standing in a line, rocking back and forth, as the train slowly brakes and then stops. Inevitably, these people will hit you in the head more than once. So sitting nearer the middle of the car lessens the chance that people will be standing near you.

4) Do not sit near teenagers or people traveling in groups. Everyday commuters are quiet throughout their rides. These people are severely beaten down by capitalism, and the harsh reality of working so long for so little leaves them depressed and silently rethinking their life choices. In other words, a commute is typically quiet. However, there are sometimes people - usually these are students - who talk very loudly. These people are annoying. These people make the rest of us even more depressed. I hate these people.

There are probably more rules, but I've managed to talk myself into a deep sadness and must lay down and rethink everything in my life.

On board with obesity

Train travel, like real estate, is about three things: location, location, location. Every morning the train stops at exactly the same spot at the station, so I stand right where a set of the doors opens so I can get inside and find a seat to my liking. (By the time I get on, it's a choice of middle seats in a three-seat row, but there are still degrees of middle seat badness.)

Unfortunately, this morning the train pulled a fast one on me, and by the time I got inside, my options were limited.

Unfortunately, I ended up sitting next to a fat man.

It was unfortunate, not because I dislike fat people, but because he was taking up half of the clearly defined area that was supposed to be for my rump. And for 40 minutes, we were cuddling. (And as I think I've mentioned before, I don't care for bodily contact in my strangers.) I don't mean to offend anyone*, but I think fat people should have their own trains.

* In case you are unfamiliar with these types of qualifiers, by opening a statement with "not to offend our alien overlords but ..." or "I have nothing against poor people but ..." one can say absolutely anything and not get in trouble. It's infallible. I dare you to fall it.

Okay, I don't honestly believe that fat people should have their own trains ... just their own cars.