​ That's My Secret, Captain. I'm Always Angry.

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I try to keep my rage directed at the railroad itself and not fellow riders, since we're all in it together. Oh wait. No I don't. From the drunk idiot who threw up all over herself to the world's biggest shithead and his boy wonder sidekick who demanded respect for the quiet car, the riders make up a good deal of what makes my commute awful.

Today I'm going to gripe on the group of regulars that sit near me every day. This is the same group Shithead and Robin belong to. Every morning, they take their dear sweet fucking time getting into the six seater they all share. God forbid you want to get past them to get to a seat. You're waiting while one or two stand in the aisle, taking off coats and bags for what feels like an eternity.

Some days, like today, I get sick of it. So I say excuse me and squeeze past and head to my seat. The door at the end of the car is propped open, blocking the seat I sit in. I unlatch it and push it closed because it's cold and raining out. The door slams louder than usual. Sometimes these things take a Herculean effort to close, sometimes the hydraulic is shot and they swing closed pretty quickly and shut with a bang. Today was the latter, added to by me pushing it closed.

Before my ass is in the seat I hear from one of the anonymous Fantastic Fuckheads, "Angry today. Slammin' doors." A short beat and then Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne's young ward, says, "Angry every day."

Oh, I'm angry every day, you little weasel? I'm not the one who participated in a shouting match with a stranger and demanded he respect the quiet car. I don't piss and moan about my Celiac disease at every chance I get (We get it. You get sick if you eat bread). I don't make out-loud comments about strangers. I've seen you glare the vilest of looks at people that get to the six seater before you. So don't talk to me about being angry every day, pal.

This group represents the worst segment of middle class white men. They are all frighteningly right-wing, gay-panicking, self-serving assholes. They go on and on about the expensive shit they buy. They talk firearms often and complain about restrictions on them. They talk about a Facebook group that they are members of that can be used to illegally trade guns and get high-capacity magazines that have been outlawed. They talk about how Donald Trump is "the only option" in the upcoming election. If you think that orangutan is what's best for our country, then you must also think leeches and a bloodletting are the proper cure for people stricken with consumption.

Stay out of my business you little shitbird. I only know everything about all of you because you prattle on about your daily lives at full volume, so I'm sure I'm not the only one who does. Yeah, I am angry every day. Because I have to deal with assholes like you.

​ R-E-S-P-E-C-T

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Every morning, I sit in the quiet car. For those not in the know, the quiet car is the westernmost car on any peak train. The idea is that you keep your voice down, you don't talk on your phone, you don't blast your music and you generally don't be a loud piece of shit. But when have pesky LIRR rules ever stopped anyone before? Name one time you've seen a conductor enforce a rule other than booting someone from a train for not paying. Yeah, me neither.

There are a group of regulars that sit near me, and generally they keep it quiet, but every so often when a lot of them are together, it gets rowdy. There's one guy in particular who is the alpha asshole. While I know most of their real names (because regulars love talking about their personal lives in great detail as loud as humanly possible), I've never caught his. Let's just call him Asshole. Not creative, but fitting.

Asshole is your typical Long Island redneck. Loud, not very bright, drives a pickup (and never shuts the fuck up about it), loves guns, bashes Democrats any chance he gets, cranes his neck to look at any woman who walks by. This is a guy who talked about his marriage falling apart as if it were a wet newspaper. 'Oh well, guess I have to get rid of this now.' Classy dude, you can tell. As I type this, he and another guy are talking about ways to circumvent gun laws to get firearms with higher ammo capacity. Real comforting a week after two mass shootings.

One morning, the regulars are being loud (Asshole in particular) when a voice shouts from across the car, "Will you shut the fuck up already? This is the quiet car!"

Asshole is perplexed. How DARE anyone speak to him like that! The regulars start murmuring. "Woah, woah!"

"Fuuuuuck yoooou!" Asshole bellows. "How 'bout you mind your fuckin' business?"

"If you don't shut up I will gladly get the conductor and he'll get you to shut up," the man replies.

Asshole continues, "How 'bout you shut your fuckin' mouth before I come over there and shut it for you."

"You want to escalate this pal? No problem," the man says. "I will gladly come over there. Let's escalate this."

One of the regulars, a squirrelly little fella no taller than 5' 4", sees this as an opportunity to jump in, which he never would have done had Asshole not done so first. "Hey! Watch your tone!" Good job lil' guy!

Asshole, being the coward he is deep down inside does not invite the man over to fight, but instead mocks him with a lisp (the man had no lisp), most likely to imply that the man was gay. "Oh no! Heavens, not that! Goodness me! Anything but that! Oh my goodness, no!"

The lil' guy continues his "me too" approach, "If you care so much about the quiet car, then why are you shouting? You need to watch your tone." Yup, he said it twice.

The whole while, Asshole is continuing his trite "gay" voice. After a good bit of it, the man replies from the other side of the car, "Nothing? That's what I thought you fucking pussy."

"Fuck you," Asshole replies, trying not to sound too emasculated.

There is a moment when everyone goes silent before the squirrelly guy shouts back in the most authoritative, lame dad voice he can muster, "Respect the quiet car!"

That was a phrase that was actually said. Out loud. After this whole situation.

The rest of the ride continued silently and without incident, with great respect for the quiet car.

Broken Rails/Broken Spirits

If you ask any person what railroad tracks are made of, I'm sure that over 95% of the responses would be for some kind of metal, most likely steel. But ask any daily commuter what they're made from and you'll probably get answers like, peanut brittle, glass, thin twigs, frozen tears of commuters, cancelled meetings or shattered dreams.

The reason why is because these things break allllll the fucking time. Broken rails are the new switch and signal problems.

I'm not even shitting you, this is what my inbox looks like at least 3 days a week

Today is the third day in the past month that the trains have been completely fucked up due to a broken rail. The first time it happened, I avoided Ronkonkoma like the plague and headed to Sayville. When I get on the Sayville train, somewhere around Bay Shore, they tell us due to a broken rail (HAHAHAHAHAHAHA) that the train is cancelled. They tell us we can wait onboard until the next westbound train comes which won't be for at least a half hour (HAHAHAHAHAHAHA).

This isn't funny, it's purely the laughter of sheer madness

About 40 minutes later, our train is magically uncanceled. We are going to proceed ahead slowly, because of the broken rail by Babylon. Oh, and one by Bay Shore which they're not telling us about until now.

Want to take a guess what happens next? If you guess that there is yet another broken rail then you are either a daily commuter or you understand the comedy rules of threes.

HehehehehehahahahahohohohohahhaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!

Also, I appreciate heat being that it's winter and all, but sweet zombie Jesus, does it really need to be 90 degrees on this train? It's not like people are boarding in Bermuda shorts and tank tops. They're already dressed for the elements — I think we can turn it down a few degrees, Mephistopheles.

So all in, door to door, it took me over four hours to get to work that day — a new record for a non-blizzard commute.

Now, I'm no scientician, but if I were operating a railroad in a region that saw extremes in both summer and winter climates, wouldn't I want to make sure that all my equipment could operate in all types of weather? Wouldn't I fix the signals that fail whenever it rains or the switches that fail whenever it hits anything below 40 degrees? Sure, if I were a business that had any competition. But the fail road is a monopoly. And they know they have us by the short & curlys. We're going to take it because we have no other options. They won't update their equipment because then how will their crews get overtime every time they patch it back together with chewed up gum? I'm calling on someone like Elon Musk to come in and build a better railroad. One that runs smoothly and has robot ticket takers and automated messages and is, therefore, asshole-free.

Opinions & Assholes

Hello dear readers. It's been a while. Things have been quiet and I regret the fact that I haven't posted recently. I was talking to my father about this blog just last night and he was asking when I'd have an update for you. Well. Let me tell you.

It was a late night at the office. I was catching the 10:15 to Ronkonkoma. I make it with a good nine minutes to spare only to find that the last two cars of the train were closed off. This is a common practice on the late night trains, as there are a lot less riders and thus no reason for the conductors to have to cover so many cars. I get it. Only thing is, the 10:15 is fucking packed. Standing room only. Everyone is pretty perplexed why they won't open up for us. I'm tired as hell and I can't fucking wait to sink my teeth into the conductor when he comes around to check tickets. Granted, I'm willing to give the guy the benefit of the doubt and I want to politely ask why off-duty failroad employees are getting two, count 'em TWO, cars to themselves while us hardworking paying customers have to stand. To be fair, I didn't give the guy much of a chance.

As I stand in the crowded vestibule by the double doors, I see another customer out of earshot pleading with the guy to open the cars. He's motioning to all of us standing and I see the conductor keep shaking his head no. I've seen enough. "Open the cars for us!" I yell. Other riders rally behind me. "Yeah! We don't want to stand!" they yell. He just shakes his head as he keeps moving through the car checking tickets.

"Give me one good reason why you won't open those two empty cars back there," I say. "I pay FOUR HUNDRED SIXTY SEVEN dollars a month* to ride this train! I worked a thirteen hour day and I'd like to sit down!" The people are behind me. They cry in agreement. I tell him that I'm asking nicely, but in actuality I'm borderline shouting. The spineless conductor stumbles over his words as he gives me some half-assed reason why he won't let us back, saying that the last two cars don't reach the platform at Jamaica. Now anyone who's been on a peak rush hour train knows that there are always trains where the last car or two doesn't platform at Jamaica. They make announcements. They shrug their shoulders and say, "Too bad," to the people who don't listen to those announcements. So don't feed me some bullshit excuse, guy. He says that's what they told him on the radio. I told him to radio back that he wouldn't mind checking tickets in two extra cars because it's the nice thing to do.

Captain spineless won't check my ticket. He moves on. Because he's fucking lazy and he knows I'm fucking right.

In the moments thereafter, as all of us grumble to each other about how ridiculous the whole situation is, a woman who is standing a few feet from me throws up. In the vestibule, on the door, almost everywhere. It looks like this woman ate a lot of beets, or more accurately, drank a shit ton of merlot. She's very apologetic and all of us are understanding. It happens (myself included — though in my case it was in the bathroom, not at the exit). I give her some napkins I have in my bag. The man next to her is supporting her and making sure she's okay. Everyone is joking and trying to cheer her up as she is clearly embarrassed. Someone asks a passing conductor, "Maybe we can get into those back cars now?" After a few minutes, as if he's doing us some great fucking service at great pains to himself, he tells us he's going to let us into the back cars.

In an extra bit of hilarity, as we are all passing into the next car (the sick woman included), we hear the sound of someone vomiting behind us. That's right. Someone else got sick in the exact same spot as this woman. You can't make this shit up, people.

As I move into the last car of the train I see a half dozen off-duty failroad employees sitting around in their own private Idaho. They shoot me looks as if to say, "What the fuck are you doing back here, asshole?" As I sit, they make an announcement over the PA: "Ladies and gentleman, if you're standing we have plenty of open seats in the back of the train. Please move back for extra seating." I lose it. I start laughing as hard as I think I ever have in my life. I can't help myself. I say in the most childish tone I can muster, "We can't let you sit back there. The train won't platform at Jamaica," and then in my normal voice, "or maybe you're all overpaid, lazy pieces of shit who can't be bothered to check two extra cars." A grey-haired employee sitting a few feet from me says, "Everyone's entitled to their opinion." Without hesitation I reply, "And sometimes people's opinions are fact."

Boom.

*Actual cost of my monthly LIRR train ticket + Metrocard

The end is (er, was almost) nigh!

Hey gang. Sorry it's been so long. A lot happened since we last rapped.

Just before Thanksgiving I was told that my company would be shutting down on December 31st. I was angry, scared, depressed. The one thing I wasn't was surprised. And I really shouldn't have been surprised that we were given such little notice. 

But then... a Christmas miracle! At the eleventh hour I received a job offer. So while I thought I'd have to put this blog to bed and take a retail job on Long Island, I continue to have a city job that necessitates a commute and allows me to keep all baker's dozen of you readers entertained.

I've been real busy with the new job so I haven't had a whole lot of time to write. But I have had plenty to write about and I'll be posting some new stuff soon.

So fear not, I'm still commuting, sitting amongst a gaggle of middle-aged Long Islanders, shouting in the quiet car, on their way to a party. When you reach a certain age (I'm gonna say 24), you should probably stop talking publicly about how excited you are to get wasted. 

"I like to go the outlets, but I don't like to go to the outlets." Wow. Thank you for your brilliant insight. I'm so glad you shared that with the entire fucking train. 

Hope you're having a killer summer.

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.