After commuting on Metro-North for 16 years, I have identified my top 3 stories. You won’t be disappointed. That’s 3 out of 7680 rides which translates into stories of the grotesque, nudity, and sexual abandon. I’ll put my 3 up against any average Joe Commuter’s.
Before I start, I need to explain a few basics facts about Metro-North commuting. Seats on the trains are arranged in a 2-3 configuration. That’s two seats, an aisle, and 3 seats. At each end of the train there are seats that face each other. On the two seat side, there are four seats in this face to face configuration On the 3 seat side, the window and middle seat face two seats, and the third seat, on the aisle, has a wide open space with plenty of legroom. This last seat is perhaps the best seat on the train, while the seat right next to it, in the middle, is the worst. There’s a culture on the train that passengers on the aisle stand and let later arriving passengers scoot in.
Story 1. On one of those days, when it’s raining, and the trains are running late, I manage to get on a very crowded 7:33 with people standing in the train vestibule. I’m not in the mood to stand all the way to Grand Central, but am resigned to leaning against the partition separating the vestibule from the passenger seats.
But then I notice that in the 3-seat face to face section, there is an empty seat next to the window. It didn’t occur to me that it was weird that the aisle and middle seat were occupied with the window seat free, but all I could think of was to sit down. I had already made my move and asked the guy in the middle if I could get in, when I noticed a slight scowl on his face and then the morbidly obese woman taking up the entire two seat side. I should have stepped back and said that I really didn’t want to sit, but I didn’t want to appear as if I had something against overweight people, and the momentum of the situation made me continue salmon-like to push forward. After the middle man (who turned out to be the woman’s husband) stood up, I found myself confronted by the woman’s tree trunk legs. You know how grossly overweight people have thighs that chafe? She had calves that chafed. As nonchalantly as possible, I balanced on one leg while stepping over her first leg, steadied myself and caught my breath, while changing my balance to my front leg while swinging my other leg up over the seat and aiming it for the space between the woman’s right leg and the wall of the train cabin. As I lowered myself into my window seat, I was locked in. On one side my right leg was wedged between the woman’s two legs and on the other side by the woman’s right leg and the cabin wall. The sensation was straddling a horse. Okay, that’s an exaggeration – it was more like a juvenile pig. All the way into Manhattan, I thought of two movies: the Laurel and Hardy episode, where Hardy elopes with Laurel’s hefty sister in a miniature car, and Slim Pickens riding that A-bomb at the end of Dr. Strangelove.
Story 2. At the beginning of every train ride, the conductor gets on the PA to announce the stations the train will be stopping at and to remind passengers to keep all seats free, not to put your feet on the seats, and to keep cell phone conversations short and to speak in a lowered voice. I observe all these rules, and hope on every train ride I don’t get a yacker near me.
So, on a summer Friday ride home, I catch the 6:29 in Grand Central and find lots of seats. I choose an aisle on a three-seat side about five rows back from the vestibule. Everything is fine until a Britney Spears wannabe shows up. I first notice her when she asks in a nasal whiney voice to no one in particular, “Does this train go to Chappaqua?” She looks immature and spoiled. She’s in a summery baby doll dress, fashion flip flops, a huge expensive looking beach bag – Louis Vuitton or something like that – clutched by a bangled arm, long hair that she had put up with a clip, and sunglasses worn like a bow on the top of her head. She sits down in the face-to-face section down and across the aisle from where I’m sitting with her back to me. At first she puts her bag down in the seat next to her, but almost immediately picks it back up and starts rummaging around until she pulls out her cell phone. Drat! But, there’s no cell phone reception in the Grand Central tunnels. Yeah! But as the train departs, I can see that she’s holding on to the phone waiting the 10 minutes until the train emerges into daylight at 105th Street. So as soon as were outside, she’s dialing home to make sure she’s picked up at the station but also to nasally complain about how hard it is to find apartments at less than $2000/month, but that at $2500 things seem to improve. Just when I think she’s talked out, she asks to be put on to Mom. Another 10 minutes passes, then she asks to talk to Nana. I look up from my newspaper and see that she is now slouched down in a recline position with her feet up on the seats, completing the superfecta of the train passenger from hell.
The train pulls into White Plains, and Miss Yackety Yack is deep in conversation with Nana, when all of a sudden she realizes the train is stopped with the doors open and she jumps up, yelling, “Is this Chappaqua?” She doesn’t even notice that her dress is all pushed up in back and that we are all looking at her pretty turquoise blue thong underwear. She even leans over to pick up Louis Vuitton, when the woman across from her tells her that Chappaqua is the next stop and before I can tell her, “Yes.”
Story 3. Another Friday evening commute home in my usual aisle seat five rows back waiting for the train to depart. I’m reading my newspaper when someone comes up to my seat and asks if they could take the window seat. The first thing I notice are yellow spiked heels and I look up to see a tall statuesque Asian woman with a matching yellow suit. I notice her tasteful heavily made up eyes – very glamorous in an 80’s sort of way. But when I get up to let her in, she does not budge and I end up face to face with her as if we were having a conversation in the Middle East. I step back and she minces by very slowly. She seems to want to prolong our interaction, but I’m too NY interaction overloaded and don’t put 2 and 2 together.
I’m sitting there and see her take out her cell phone. Drat! But no cell service. Yeah! And then she turns to me and asks with a Hong Kong accent if this is the train to White Plains. I try to explain that this is an express to Chappaqua, but that it stops in White Plains only to accept passengers going farther north, none of which I can tell she understands, mainly because I don’t understand it myself. So, she pulls out a train schedule pointing out she’s going to Brewster. Her manicured nails with bright red polish can’t hide a hand that seems a bit large for a dainty Chinese woman. It occurs to me that her voice seems a little husky, too. I explain that this is the train to Brewster and that it passes through White Plains. I return to my newspaper thinking that s/he doesn’t notice my wide-open eyes glancing away and upwards a la Jim Halpert in the Office.
As soon as we’re outside, she makes a phone call to tell the person she’s visiting in Brewster that she’s on the train and she’s wearing a yellow dress. Then, in response to a question, she says, “Yes, $150 for the first hour and $100 for the second.” Well, maybe she’s a masseuse. Maybe she’s a tutor. At least, the cell phone conversation was short and to the point -which adheres to my standards of train etiquette. But not 10 seconds later, her cell rings and she describes her height (5’ 6”), race, and that she only does out-calls. Then she says $100 for the first hour and $75 for the second. At this point I can see people turning around in their seats to see what’s going on. In my mind I’m seeing what they see – two Asians, a prostitute and me her pimp. She hangs up, and her cell goes off again. Conversation is similar, but this time I learn that she’s a bottom. She will do top, but she prefers bottom. She’s shameless, and talking as loudly as a Chinese market and as casually as if she were eating a box of chocolates. Although she’s breaking my cell phone rule, I feel like I have a front seat to an educational documentary on sex workers. I’m waiting for Allen Funt, Jr. to come out, or for Ashton Kutcher to announce to Margaret Cho that all those phone calls were gags and that she was punk’d. By the way, Margaret will fly to London, Paris, or Rome for $5000 plus airfare and expenses.
I was out in the backyard weeding when Emily came running around the house from the front yard screaming that Kirby was covered with bees. Kirby, our guarding alpha Cockapoo, was on a 50 ft tie-down out front. When I saw him, he was pawing away at all these bees on his head and rolling on his back, and my first instinct was to undo the leash. I reached for his collar and then the bees began to attack me, which made me yell with pain and raise my hand to shoo them away. Kirby’s state of mind and my gestures made him think that I was attacking him and he lunged up at me and bit me on my leg just above the knee, tearing my left pant leg off. Emily was screaming, I was screaming and running away from both Kirby and the bees, and Mae comes out of the house screaming why’s everyone screaming.
