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.