Going Off The Rails On A Crazy Train

            It’s one of my distinct joys in life to take public transportation to work everyday. Nothing pairs quite so well with the tranquility of a spring morning, like sitting on a dirty seat in a rickety Metro North train car with the faint smell of stale urine in the air. Riding alone on the train would be an unpleasant enough experience, but couple the ambiance with the bevy of attention craving gadget whores, bag ladies, drunks, perverts, conversationalists and all around nut-jobs, and you have the makings of a ride Vincent Price would be scared to get on.

            First a few words on the technologists; I want to go easy on this demographic because the idea of having some gadgets to entertain yourself on the train should be pretty easy to understand. Like a lot of things, it’s the handful of people who go overboard who ruin it for the rest of us. Yes, I see you over there Mr. Important Business Man, with your fancy suit and copy of the Wall Street Journal. Just being “that guy” isn’t enough for you though is it? You need to get on a conference call with your super futuristic Bluetooth headset, whilst sending urgent emails from your blackberry. I’ve got news for you hotshot, the train is for guppies not sharks. Don’t forget what pool you’re swimming in. Oh and one last note on cell phones before I move on, can we dispense with the ridiculous ringtones?  Nothing says “Look at me, I’m a giant attention whore!” like the maximum volume ringtone on your fucking iPhone. I get it; you’d blow Steve Jobs to get the newest bullshit Apple product because it will include some fluff functionality that the first edition should have had to begin with. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo, you’re a sheep like all the other sheeple. The train has become a breeding ground for attention mongering gadget whores.

 

            If you manage to somehow avoid the “plugged-in” crowd and find a seat far enough away from some dumbass kid listening to his iPod so loud you can’t hear yourself think, I hope for your sake it’s not in an aisle seat. The aisle seat leaves you particularly vulnerable to the heavy hitters of the tracks, the bag ladies. For the love of Christ ladies, what the hell are you taking to and from work everyday? People traveling with more than one bag should be banned from the fucking train, I’m serious. As soon as the conductor says “next stop, Fairfield”, I curl into the fetal position and start shaking. The typical woman getting on the train has more bags than the typical woman leaving the mall. Purse, change of shoes, change of clothes, lunch, laptop, umbrella, makeup bag, cord of firewood, reserve firewood in case the original cord gets wet, coffee pot, scuba gear and probably another dozen things I’m forgetting. On the way down the aisle to look for a seat that doesn’t exist, they can’t help but slam fifteen bags into you because they have no fucking way to control all that gear, and what happens when the conductor comes around to check tickets? They have no clue where their ticket is because they are lugging more shit than Tenzing Norgay. Ladies, let’s try and pack a little more efficiently, I figure a pack of Chiclets, some Chapstick and a pair of emergency panties ought to do it.

            The way I see it, I’m the only normal person on the train. Outside of the iSheeple and Sherpa fem-bots, everyone else falls into the final category of miscellaneous people you wouldn’t want to see on your grand jury. Approximately 80% of the people you see on the train are plain old bat shit crazy. You’ve got the wannabe intellectuals, grinding away at their Sudoku puzzles, or the real rocket scientists with the book of word searches in their lap, smoke pouring from their ears. You’ve got the “hungries”, who eat full blown meals on the train. It’s such an appetizing environment, who could blame them? Not long ago I rode home on a train car where the bathroom overflowed and there was an inch of toilet water, and I don’t mean eau de toilette, sloshing around. That sure got me hungry. You’ve got the drunks, so unhappy with their life that they need a couple beers “to take the edge off” after work on a typical Tuesday. You’ve got the dickheads that must have just read How to Win Friends and Influence People, who want to make small talk with you the whole ride. You’ve got the perverts; just ask my neighbor Nick about them. He got track-stalked by a nice middle aged man that wanted to play “put the train in the tunnel” games while their train pulled into the Grand Central tunnel. I think the perverts have a special subspecies that gets off on lurking in the train bathrooms, but until Richard Attenborough decides to document them, they’ll have to stay with the other sexual deviants. So you can imagine how I feel, being the most normal person on the train. I’m grateful my straightjacket has a pocket for my monthly pass.