Double Standards

So in my last post I chronicled the misadventures of a disaster of a woman vomiting on herself and not having the common decency to even acknowledge it, let alone clean it up. We’ll revisit that in a little bit.

Tonight’s joyride was already off to a great start. Some woman sits down next to me and then stuffs her gigantic coat (it’s Autumn, people, not winter in North Dakota) in between us. This is great. I'm having a great time.

After contemplating committing seppuku, I hear the faintest of voices over the PA. We’re being held in Hicksville. I think. I’m not entirely sure. Whenever they announce inane shit repeatedly (“RONKONNNNNNNNNNKOMAAAAAAA! THIS IS THE TRAIN TO RONKONNNNNNNNNKOMAAAAAA!! NO JAMAICA STOP ON THIS TRAIN!! NOOOOOOO JAMAICAAAA!! NOOOOOO JAMAICA STOP!!”), it’s louder than the voice of god, but when they actually need to let you know something important, the conductor becomes a fucking church mouse.

We’re forced off the train onto the platform and none of us have any idea why, because no one has told us. At one point a clear voice comes on the PA and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re being held here because ---” and they end their transmission and never bother to finish that statement. Is the MTA’s website any help? Honestly, why do I bother?

This is a lie. A big ol’ muthafuggin’ lie.

Turns out someone got sick on the train and we all had to clear off and wait for the next one. Wait… didn’t I have to sit on a train just a few feet from someone’s ex-McDonald’s dinner just a few weeks ago? We didn’t have a Contagion-esque emergency then. Why now?

We were all standing on the platform waiting for our new train to come. “Haven’t you ever seen the train on St. Patrick’s Day? Clear everyone outta that car and let’s go!” bellowed a man I have the utmost respect for at a weasely conductor I loathe. I came very close to 80s movie slow clapping for that statement.

So of course when someone gets sick on the train it needs to be immediately evacuated and cancelled. Except for when it happens right in front of me. Because I did something awful in my past life and I’m paying for it dearly in this one.

I'm Lovin' It

I knew something was off about this lady the second she sat down. Maybe it was the glazed over look in her eyes. Maybe it was the way she was drifting in and out of consciousness. Or maybe it was the way she kept missing her mouth as she jabbed McDonald’s French fries towards her face.

What could it be? I got it. This woman, who had just sit cattycorner to me, was stinking drunk. And what followed, was classic Long Island Fail Road.

Now, I’m no saint. I’ve ridden this train drunk before. Why, this past holiday season I had a little too much to drink at the office Christmas dinner, and I was a bit of a mess on a jam-packed, late-night train. Of course, it was an old train, so naturally it was jostling back and forth about eighty times more than a newer train would have been. I found a seat by myself. I was sweating, I was freezing cold, and my stomach was turning. It felt like I was on the Zipper on Coney Island. The more I tried to keep my mind off the nausea, the more I became hyper-aware of it. My mouth started salivating and I knew I had to throw up. I bolted for the bathroom.

The bathrooms on the newer trains aren’t so bad. They have plenty of room in case a disabled person may need to use it, there’s a sink with running water, an air hand dryer, and a toilet that flushes with a hell of a lot of suction (so you can’t possibly be embarrassed by clogging the thing).

But I wasn’t on a newer train, remember? The bathrooms on the old trains make port-a-potties look like the queen’s private chambers. Chemical toilet? Check! No sink? Check! Smaller than a glove compartment? Check! Hand sanitizer that hasn’t been refilled since Bill Clinton was in office? Check! Paper-thin door that allows everyone sitting nearby to hear what you’re doing in great detail? Sigh, check.

After I emptied the contents of my stomach I made the walk of shame to the nearest open seat, as someone took the isolated one I had before. Thanks to the lack of soap and running water, I couldn’t wash my face, hands, or rinse my mouth out. Everyone heard me. They were all staring. The girl sitting two seats over from me covered her nose with her scarf because I smelled like vomit. Awesome. I was that guy.

But at least I wasn’t this drunken wench who after lurching around in her seat, proceeded to turn her head and vomit those French fries all over her right arm and onto the floor. Did she get up to go to the bathroom? Did she use some of those Mickey D’s napkins to clean herself off or clean up her mess? Of course not! She proceeded to literally sit in her own filth, whilst drifting in and out of sleep. Now if you had been picturing this woman as a gross, disheveled girl in her early twenties, you’d be dead wrong. This was a well-put together, professionally dressed woman in her late thirties, early forties.

I am shaming you publicly on this site because you’re a disgusting, filthy cretin.

As soon as the train hit its next stop, she bolted off.
“Please tell me that’s not what I think it is,” said a man sitting near me who didn’t see the incident happen, but had a clear view of the aftermath.
“What do you think it is?” asked a grinning man who had a front row seat.
The first man replied, “Well it looks like she spilled some oatmeal, but I don’t think that’s what it is.”

We all made fun of her for a bit, alerted passersby to be careful and not slip on the vomit, and we all grabbed new seats as soon as some opened up. This fun ordeal capped off a 12-hour workday, because the cosmos likes testing me at every chance it gets.

And just when I thought I had run out of shit to write about.

Would You Like My Number?

I can’t believe in my last etiquette post back in May I forgot to mention the cardinal sin of train etiquette. And the only reason I remembered is because it happened to me two days after posting my etiquette guide.

I was on my way home. I was in a two-seater, sweating profusely, because I hit the triple play: I was on a subway car with no air conditioning, then I had to run to get to my train , then had to wait on the platform for my train, which was late, to pull in, and the platform area in Penn Station was a cool 451ºF (a grand slam would be if the LIRR train had no air conditioning as well).

So some dude sits down next to me, I get it, it’s rush hour and you don’t want to stand, but if you want to sit next to someone sweating like a whore in church, that’s your prerogative.

About halfway through the ride, a lot of seats start opening up. The ride goes on and a lot more seats open up and this guy doesn’t move. There were completely open two-seaters, four-seaters, three-seaters and even six-seaters, and this dude is sitting right up next to me as if there weren’t a single other free seat. This, my friends is the cardinal sin of train etiquette. If you don’t have to sit right on top of someone, DON’T SIT RIGHT ON FUCKING TOP OF THEM! It’s one thing if you’re asleep and you couldn’t possibly notice seats opening up due to lack of consciousness. Hell, I can even forgive it if you were deeply immersed in a book or something. But no, this clueless fuck was fully awake, looking at his phone, putting it down, looking around… It’s just plain weird.

PRO TIP: If you’ve reached this point in the trip where there are enough empty seats and the person next to you is sleeping, just slam your thigh against theirs. They’ll jolt awake, see empty seats and promptly move.

But not this guy. All attempts to signal to him by clearing my throat and blatantly looking around at the empty seats were met with, well, nothing. Sometimes when one of these people doesn’t get up when they ought to, you will have to ask to get up. Usually then they realize the complete douche they’ve been, get the fuck out of your way and jump into an open seat. When I realized this guy wasn’t budging, I asked to get up. He took his dear sweet time, barely moved out of my way, and I sat down in a free seat on the other side of the aisle. Did this guy take notice? Of course not.

It must be so nice to be so oblivious. Kind of like the people who run the Long Island Rail Road. Heyyyy-ooo!!

The Bar Can't Go Any Lower

2013 has been a banner year for shitty service aboard the Long Island Rail Road. I’ve been late to work more times than I can count. I’ve been getting home late even more.

I’m not even sure the LIRR reports their Peak On-Time Performance anymore, since there’s no way it’s above 50%. This is usually reported in Train Talk, a newsletter the LIRR leaves on seats for no one to read, and is ranked only slightly above the New York Post on the list of most worthless publications to ever waste ink and paper.

Every time my commute comes up in conversation, I almost always hear the phrase, “And the service has gotten so much worse!” This is coming from people who don’t commute on a regular basis. Yes, it’s gotten so bad that common public perception has gone from, “What a fun little ride!” to “Fuck that nonsense. They have no idea what they’re doing anymore.” Kind of like public perception of M. Night Shyamalan films.

The twist is that you were thinking it before I even said it.

Right before I leave from work tonight I get a handy email alert saying that there are delays due to signal failure, worded in a way that makes it sound like the LIRR is trying to pass the blame off on someone else. I’m a lucky duck and I manage to catch the 5:41 express to Ronkonkoma, where the only stops are Hicksville, Central Islip and Ronkonkoma. But lo and behold we get to Jamaica and guess what? We’re going to be making all local stops! Thank god. I thought this pleasure cruise was too short as it was.

So all the displaced refugees from whatever cancelled train the email alerts failed to tell me about shuffled on board and we’re on our merry way. After sitting at Jamaica for a while, naturally. The voice over the PA is extra high and grating and sounds kind of like a mixture of Janice and Scooter from the Muppet rock group Electric Mayhem.

These two. If it were Statler and Waldorf I might have been able to deal with it.

So this testicle-free man reminds us about a hundred thousand fucking times that we’re making all local stops, and he does it in the most condescending way possible. That’s because the employee handbook of the LIRR reminds you that if you’re going to stab a man in between the ribs, make sure you twist that knife so you can watch the agony in his dying eyes.

I think back to a time long ago, when people took pride in their work, and imagine that if a conductor were anything but courteous and apologetic to paying customers, riders could drag him off the train and beat him within an inch of his life and that would be perfectly acceptable behavior.

Always signal problems. You’d think they’d have figured this shit out by now after being in service for almost 180 years.

So when I should be getting home and giving my fiancée a kiss and petting my dog, I’m sitting at Wyandanch waiting for the second coming of Christ. I think about how much money was just charged to my credit card today for this stellar daily service. My blood pressure has risen. The sun has set. I contemplate the decisions I’ve made in my life.

Signal failure. That’s what they said.

It’s Called Etiquette, You Asshole

It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to know that people don’t like being crammed into small spaces. If we did, we’d hang out in phone booths, sleep in bathtubs, and carpool in clown cars.

Oh, right.

Well, if it were up to us riders, things would be a tad roomier. Riding the train doesn’t have to be a miserable experience. Considering how much the MTA wants to make us all rage-filled maniacs by 8:30 AM, commuters need to be there for each other and make the ride as painless as possible.

Being a seasoned commuter, I know a few simple tricks to help make my ride aboard Hell on Wheels a little more comfortable. And today, I’m going to share some simple commuter etiquette with you, dear readers.

PRO TIP #1: Picking your seat in a six-seater.

The six-seater is the group of seats that is usually reserved for loud, chatty girls, loud, beer-swilling construction workers, and loud, obnoxious “regulars” (groups of commuters who have become train-friends and talk up their lives in great, personal detail that can be heard by everyone aboard the train). But when it’s up for grabs, the first two people to sit in a six-seater determine the comfort level of all who sit in it for the duration of the train ride. A person’s natural reaction is to get as far the fuck away from the other person in the six-seater, as possible, so usually this is what happens when the first two people sit down:

I have mad Photoshop skillz.

Well this is fine and dandy if you’re the only two who’ll be sitting here, but it’s 6:00 PM and nobody wants to stand on their goddamn ride home. So what happens when the next person sits down? This:

Now you have no goddamn legroom, as if you had any in the six inches of space that exists between the two seats facing each other.

But what happens next? Oh good! Some tall schmuck with a giant beer ruins the fun even further and intertwines his legs with the person opposite him. Happens all the time.

Meister Brau?! Do they even make that anymore?

Now watch what happens by having these people in the four corner seats: in the eyes of a lady who doesn’t want to stand (they never do), these four people have perfectly framed two open seats! One of them all for her! This lady will usually have at least one bag that is bigger than her, and most often she will have no less than three bags total. Overhead rack? Tsk, tsk. That’s for peasants. Her bags will go on the empty seat, on her lap, on your lap, my lap and in between you and her, my friend. 40% of the time she is with a friend who will take the other free seat, and the six-seater is filled, as it was intended. But ask any one of these people if they’re happy about it and they’ll say no. Except maybe the lady with the bags, because she’d rather die than stand. Seriously. You will never find a female standing on a rush hour train. They will wedge themselves in between two sumo grand champions before they spend an hour on their feet. TELL ME I’M WRONG.

But this could have been avoided. The first person needs to sit in the one of the far seats. Once they are seated, the next person needs to sit like this:

 And then the next person sits like this:

If riders follow this protocol, no one will want to have to climb over all of you to get to the free seats. The worst that will happen is that only one person will sit in the free seat on the end. If that happens, a little shifting of the body helps legs avoid collision and everyone’s pretty much happy.

PRO TIP #2: Picking your seatmate.

Your best bet is a three-seater. Once two people are on opposite ends of that, almost no one will ask to sit in the middle.

Except maybe her.

If you’re a big guy or gal, go for a three-seater with someone of equal or larger size, further minimizing the amount of room for someone to squeeze into.

When the three-seaters are full, you’re relegated to the two-seaters. I hate when someone sits next to me in a two-seater. Not because I mind the company, but because I’m not the smallest guy there ever was. So when someone wedges in beside me, it’s instant misery. I try to send body language that I don’t want company (looking surly is my forte), but somehow I must be sending out invisible beacons of sunshine and rainbows, because every motherfucker always wants to sit next to me!

Reading body language isn’t an especially difficult task. Especially when the person trying to convey their feelings is throwing their emotions in your face like the ham that hit Paula Deen.

Quite possibly the funniest thing ever.

You don’t want to sit next to someone who hates your guts for an hour and a half. Your very existence has pissed them off and now they’re going to bump and nudge you every chance they get for the duration of the ride. Not that I’ve ever done that. Ahem. So if you ask to sit next to someone and they roll their eyes and sigh heavily, move along to the seat next to the tiny Asian girl who only takes up half a seat and is already asleep.

PRO TIP #3: No assigned seating

This one is for the everyday commuters. I hate to break it to you, but there’s no assigned seating. You’re not a feral dog. Once you “claim” a seat, it doesn’t mean it’s yours tomorrow.

Some people will scratch and claw to get their favorite seat, and if it’s not free, holy shit, step back because shit’s about to go thermonuclear.

I understand that if someone gets usual my seat before me, it’s time to pick a new one. I like to get a seat that has an electrical outlet for my laptop (for those who don’t know, some seats have hidden Edison outlets good for powering your gadgets), but if I can’t, tough titty on me.

I like to sit at the very end of a car with my back to a wall. I watch movies on my computer, and most of them tend to have a lot of blood and boobies, so I try not to sit out in the open and feel incredibly awkward during a gratuitous shower scene or when Leatherface saws someone in half.

So one morning a non-regular girl got to my usual seat before me. No biggie, I take the one across the aisle. That’s when I hear, “Uh oh. Not good.” The two middle-aged ladies who normally sit in the seat I took start freaking the fuck out. They proceeded to spend the ENTIRE ride complaining about how their seat was taken (they clearly wanted me to hear) and how unfair it was. Hate to break it to you, ladies, but fairness doesn’t exist on public transportation. At the end of the ride one of them said, “I don’t know why this makes me so angry, but it does!” I’ll tell you why: man’s primal nature is to be a territorial piece of shit, and you clearly can’t keep your cavewoman instincts in check. But this is a good first step. You’ve identified that you have a problem for no good reason. Now let it go, shut the fuck up and let me watch invisible Kevin Bacon commit rape and murder in peace.

Quality AM viewing material.

Oops, Wrong Train

I haven’t updated the site in a while because I never wanted these entries to devolve into bitter, angry rants that alienate and scare you, all twelve readers. My aim is to at least be marginally funny about my miserable commute, and not just seem like a crazed old war vet with 1/8 of a bag of marbles left, foaming at the mouth and growling like an aging Harrison Ford. That gets harder and harder with each passing day aboard this shitbox. I’ve drafted a whole lot of material that I’ve wound up trashing because, while it seemed funny whilst writing it, upon revisiting it I realized that I sounded like a complete sociopath. It left me taken aback, much in the way I imagine Bruce Banner must feel when he comes to and witnesses the destruction left behind by the Incredible Hulk.

I was feeling particularly angry about having to play musical trains tonight as I was comfy, in a secluded seat, and then the shaved apes got on the PA and announced our train was being taken out of service. I then had to make a mad dash with everyone else, got shoved and cut in front of, and now I’m stuck in a five-seater across from Nickelodeon alumna Lori Beth Denberg.

Leg room galore.

It got me thinking about all those times a train has been taken out of service after I’ve gotten settled, taken my laptop out, got my coat off and put my headphones in. It’s usually on a Friday evening, and they usually time it so you have to climb a flight of stairs to get to a different track just as they’ve announced a train on the track adjacent to the one you were just on, as a sea of people is descending said staircase.

The most hilarious/frustrating instance of this was when we had to do the train shuffle at Jamaica station, I shit you not, three times. Got off one train, got on another, got off that one, got on another, and so on and so on. But that’s a long story for another day.

The story I share with you today is a bit simpler, but caused no less thoughts of beating an LIRR employee to death with their own shoes.

You can usually tell when a train is going to be taken out of service. It starts with the most obvious sign: your train doesn’t depart on time. The second sign is that no announcements are made about the lack of departure. If your train is simply going to be late, there is usually an announcement that there is some train traffic ahead, or the train’s being held at a stop signal but will be moving shortly. The final sign is that inevitably, someone gets the news (telepathically perhaps?) ahead of everyone else. They grab their shit and bolt off the train, and it’s right at that moment that the announcement gets made over the PA.

So one day, I’m on a train on track 19 and they made the announcement that the train was being taken out of service and its replacement would now be boarding on track 15. I head back up to the west concourse and before I make my way down the stairs to track 15, I confirm that track 15 is the place to be. Ah! The sign at the top of the stairs says Ronkonkoma. My line. We’re off to a good start. I head down the stairs, and see that the signs hanging above the train also say Ronkonkoma. Excellent. I make my way all the way to the last car of the train, where everyone else is too lazy to follow, and take a seat near the open conductor’s booth. They now make an announcement on the train that this is the train to Ronkonkoma, not the train to Port Washington. The train to Port Washington is now boarding on track 17. Perfect. I’m all set. I start getting settled, and they make the announcement a few more times. The doors close and the train starts heading out of Penn Station when a peppy female voice crackles over the conductor’s radio that our train was heading to Port Washington. The conductor looks over at me with a very confused look, and immediately grabs the radio. “No, that can’t be right. This is the 6:21 Ronkonkoma train. We switched and already made announcements. All the Port Washington customers got off the train. No one on this train is going Port Washington.” There was a pause when the voice, now with a hint of bitch, said matter-of-factly, “Nope! Port Washington train!” The conductor looked at me with a look of sympathy, as I’m sure my eyes shot him this gesture:

My mother always said I had very expressive eyes.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said as he shut the door to his booth and immediately started berating the woman on the other end of the radio. In all fairness to him, he seemed to be on our side.

Other people around me heard this exchange as well and started murmuring and word quickly spread through the car. They eventually get on the PA and announce the mix-up and that we can all get off at Jamaica and transfer to a new Ronkonkoma train. And they apologize with such a complete lack of sincerity, that you feel more emotion coming from Stephen Hawking’s computerized voice. In fact, they pretty much sound annoyed that they have to apologize to you.

After all that shit, they come around collecting tickets. It’s like they fucked you and then stuck around after demanding you make them some breakfast. People argued, how can this be? This was the train to Ronkonkoma! Rah rah rah! Deaf ears, my friends.

When the conductor got to me, I held up my Stop & Shop card for the conductor to see. He half rolled his eyes and said forcefully, “TICKETS.” I looked at the Stop & Shop card and acted surprised, then looked back at him and said, “Oh, that’s so weird, because this was my train ticket when we left Penn Station.” Then in my head, I dropped my imaginary microphone like Chris Rock and walked away as the audience erupted into applause.

In reality, he sighed heavily and walked away as I smiled smugly, amusing only myself.

We all changed at Jamaica and got on a new train headed for Ronkonkoma. And as that completely empty train pulled out of the station heading towards Port Washington, I was reminded once again of the stellar service I pay a small fortune for.