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.
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| 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:
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| 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.
