​ 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.

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.

The Worst of the Worst of the Worst of the Worst

The stupid hat of a stupid people.

A buddy of mine wrote a post back in October about how irritating it is when conductors try to live out fantasies of announcing at the races.

There's a dickwad conductor on the 6:21 eastbound to Ronkonkoma from Penn, who has a routine. That routine is saying, "Ronkonkoma train to Ronkonkoma. This is a peak train, all tickets all tickets all tickets aaaaallllll tickeeeeeeeettts." This is said with no pauses and in an intentionally annoying "radio voice". This guy sucks and can go gargle some Drano. 

Today's post was originally going to be dedicated to him. Until I found someone worse.

On the 7:19am westbound from Ronkonkoma, there’s a little troll who thinks she’s Howard Cosell reincarnated. Seriously. Imagine Howard Cosell’s voice, now raise it an octave or two and that’s this woman.

The 7:19 is an express train, in that there are three sequential stops (Ronkonkoma, Central Islip, Brentwood) then Penn Station. Every once in a while, a braindead person will get on at Brentwood, and even though the conductors announce, “The next and only stop is Penn Station,” they still stay on and expect to get off at Jamaica.

This has happened… maybe three times that I’ve seen in the four and a half years I’ve been commuting. But somewhere along the way, the LIRR decided they needed to beat it into the heads of everyone that there are no stops between Brentwood and Penn. For a while, there was a douche who would make it a fucking trivia game.

BING BONG “The next and final stop is Penn Station. What’s the next stop? … That’s right, Penn Station. Say it with me now, Penn Station.”

And on, and on. No joke. And if you’re chuckling right now or you think that’s cute or funny, go set yourself on fire. It’s fucking irritating and childish. Some of the regulars I used to sit near laughed at this every time he said it, like it was fresh and funny. Keep in mind one of them thought Couples Retreat was the fucking comedy of the century, so it explains a lot. I don’t sit near them anymore.

But recently, Howard Cosell Jr. has gotten the mic and has taken it upon herself to take it even further. Now keep in mind, it’s all about that fucking voice. Try to imagine it when you read her dialogue, THAT SHE RECITES DAILY, and make sure you add LOTS of dramatic pauses. I had capitalized words that she puts extra emphasis on for no fucking good reason.

BING BONG “This is the 7:30 PEAK express train to PENN Station… There are NO local STOPS on this train…. There are… NO Jamaica stops… There are NO Hicksville stops… There are NO Mineloa stops. This is the PEAK express train to… PENN Station. The next and final STOP… is PENN Station. Penn Station… last stop. Have ALL tickets out and ready. ALL tickets.”

Holy. Fucking. Shit. Why. Does. It. Take. You. So. Long. To. Say. Your. Fucking. Sentences. We. Are. Not. Children. You. Dumb. Bitch.

I would like to point out that she pluralizes the stations, as if there were two different fucking Mineolas that the train could stop at. Idiot. Now there is absolutely NO ONE that finds this the least bit amusing. Most people groan and mutter under he their breath when she gets on the PA. Even her fellow conductors don’t seem to like it. One time she was in the middle of here stupid speech, when her finger must have come off the button and she disconnected herself from the PA. Before she could get back on, a different voice said in a non-insulting tone, “Next and last stop is Penn Station, watch the closing doors.”

The one time I met this little beast was when she came around collecting tickets on a day that I was in no mood to hear that voice. This was before her daily radio play, but that voice saying two words is enough to make you want to submit yourself to permanent hearing damage. First, my train was cancelled, then it was combined with the train after it (a local train), and then it was delayed on top of that with extra stops added for good measure. She came and asked for my ticket. I told her she could wait, and I went back to reading the news on my phone. She said, “Oh, I can wait?” Without looking up I replied with murder in my voice, “You heard me right. You make me wait all morning? Now I make you wait. I’m gonna be about forty-five minutes late to work, so you can come back in forty-five minutes. That’s fair.”

She shuffled off to her little booth, but I caved and had my ticket out the next time she came by (she brought another conductor with her and I didn’t want to get kicked off the train, I was late enough).

I haven’t come face to face with her since that day. But I can’t wait until I do. I’m going to give her a review of her performance as an emcee. My aim is to make her cry.

Daddy Issues

There are plenty of kooks that ride the train every day. Some, I like to give back stories to (like this one woman who always has big sparkly pocketbooks, wears tights with leg warmers, white ‘80s sneakers, leopard-print skirts and walks bowlegged – go on, make up your own). Others speak their business so loud I know their names, their spouses’ names, their kids’ names, where they work, what they do, where they live, where they’re going on vacation… shit I know so much about these people, I could probably manage their finances without ever speaking to them.

And then there are the people that walk the line in between. They put it all out there, and yet remain a total mystery. In this case, I am referring to a group I like to call: Daddy and Baby Boy.

Daddy is a short, bespectacled man with thinning hair in his fifties. Baby Boy is a thin, slightly androgynous young man in his early twenties. I believe them to be father and son. The reason I believe this, is because Baby Boy has called Daddy “dad”. But I have my doubts. The least of which is that there is no family resemblance.

Baby Boy, well, he exhibits some bizarre behavior. He has a feminine voice. He talks loud. He seems anxious a lot (I think he has Asperger’s). And he sleeps nestled up against Daddy with his head resting on his shoulder.

Now Daddy, he carries Baby Boy’s bags for him from the train, up the stairs to the west concourse of Penn Station until it’s time for them to part. It’s not like Daddy is any bigger or stronger than Baby Boy. They are about the same height. What father is going to be chivalrous and carry his adult son’s belongings when his son is clearly capable of carrying them himself?

It’s highly possible that this is a May-December homosexual romance (alright, maybe May-September; Daddy’s not that old) and they put on a front because they’re not ready to come out. Based on their daily interactions, that would be a lot easier to accept than them being father and son. But when it comes down to it, I think they’re just the weirdest parent/child combo to ride mass transit.

The final point I wish to touch on is the separation anxiety scenario I was a part of the other day. See, Baby Boy has one of those rolling legal briefcase kind of bags. Daddy rolls it from the train, walks it up the stairs, continues walking it until they part, and then he hands it off to Baby Boy (Baby Boy then carries it up another flight of stairs, so I know for a fact he has no problem carrying that thing).

So, the other day, getting off the train, I was stuck behind Daddy and Baby Boy, who were walking slowly with that damn, rolling bag – Daddy up front, Baby Boy trailing right behind. When I cut between them to get ahead of them… holy shit. I might as well have gotten between a mama bear and her cub – that is, if a mama bear threw a hissy fit instead of chewing your face off. Baby Boy with all his weak little might, thrusts himself past me to be close to Daddy again, breathing heavy and grunting the whole time he maneuvered past me. It took all of my might to not burst out laughing right in their faces.

A little part of me lights up every day they ride the train together. Because I never know what fun little episode I’ll get to see.

GUEST COLUMN: Dear Conductors, You Are Not Ryan Seacrest. Or Jim McKay. Or the Dude from Saturday Night Live.

NOTE: Today's column is a guest entry written by a fellow rider of the LIRR.

Subpar service. Overpriced tickets. Constantly delayed trains. Riding the Long Island Fail Road each day is bad enough without the conductors who think they should be sports announcers or radio DJs and regularly subject helpless commuters to their lame squawking and curious pronunciations of towns.

Picture it: A busy peak train in the evening. You've just settled into one of the tiny seats when a Two Ton Tessie plops down next to you and her generous thigh and ass fat oozes over the line onto your side of the seat. Crushed between a fleshy thigh and a filthy window that hasn't been washed since the Pleistocene Era, you somehow manage to fish the buds to your Ipod out of your pocket and pop them in your ears with much difficulty. As you scroll through the music selections searching for a tune that will transport you mentally from this Living Hell, suddenly there's a deep booming from above that sounds like the voice of God. If the voice of God was really fucking annoying. "This is the train to ...(Dramatic pause)... Raaaaaan-KANK-aaa-maaaaaaah! Once again, this is the train to Raaaaaan-KANK-aaa-maaaaaaah!"

Douchebag: It's pronounced Ronkonkoma. There is no need to stretch out each syllable. There is no need to put extra emphasis on certain other syllables. There is no need to take 30 seconds to pronounce the entire word. By this point, since we are trapped between the dirty, bird-poop stained window and some freak who looks like she could appear on the TLC show "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant," we are captive. And since we are in captivity, what you are doing is torture. Forget waterboarding. The Bush Administration should have simply used LIRR conductors at Gitmo to get detainees to reveal all their secrets.

Lest you think you're safe on another line, such as Babylon, take note: The conductors there love to shout, "Maaaaaaah-saaaah-pequa, pequa, pequa, peeeeeequaaaaah!"

Listen, I get it. You failed at the game of life and are now resigned to wearing fugly polyester pants and clicking a hole puncher day in and day out. Not my problem. So the next time you get in touch with your inner DJ, this will be my response: "Fuuuuuu-uuuuuck-uck-uck-uck-uck yooooooooou." You're not the only one who can come up with annoying pronunciations.

Mystery Meat

It’s a Friday night. It’s raining. There’s a “smoke condition” in one of the East River tunnels (Honestly, there are so many smoke conditions in those tunnels, it would make more sense for them to announce when there’s NOT a smoke condition). So naturally the train is going to have a track change and be two cars short.

Someone needs to explain this to me. Does the rain wash away two cars somehow? Are shorter trains more aerodynamic and more suitable for wet weather use? Why two cars? Why is a train never just one car short?

Anyway, I’m stuck standing a in a vestibule which is quickly filling with lots of people. In front of me is a man of either a middle eastern or African origin, talking quite loudly on his phone in a foreign language, laughing every 20 seconds or so in a boisterous, raspy laugh. Fine. I have headphones. I’ve dealt with worse. Much worse.

We hadn’t even left Penn Station when this guy proceeds to open a plastic shopping bag and produce a plastic take-out container, which has clearly been sitting in a fridge due to the condensation under the lid and the fact that there was no steam coming off the thing. He opens the lid. Holy. Fucking. Shit. This is one of the worst things I’ve ever smelled. My initial reaction was that it must have been curried dog asshole. It had to be. What else can smell that bad? It was a brownish-gray meat of unknown origin with rice, that was coagulated together in thick, cold chunks. And this guy was shoveling it down like it was his last goddamn meal.

For the uninitiated, the LIRR does not have a dinner car.

Not too many scents make me feel nauseous instantaneously. Bad fart in a confined space? Gross. Dog poop on a hot day? Pretty rough. This food? Nasal Armageddon. I couldn’t even breathe through my mouth because I could taste the smell. And this was cold. Imagine if this was heated up. The whole train would have been dead within a matter of minutes. If I wasn’t sardined into my spot, I would have left.

Thankfully the guy finished it quickly (it must have been delicious). He then proceeds to lift the bottom of his polo shirt up to his mouth to use as a napkin, all the while making odd kissy noises and lip-smacking sounds. And I can hear them OVER my music.

These sounds go on, and on, and on, and on. They don’t stop until he takes another phone call, in which he again laughs boisterously every few seconds, and talks at decibel levels that are higher than the music playing directly into my ears.

Finally, the phone call ends. And relative silence.

Smack, smack, smack. Again with the sounds! All the way until he got off at his station, two stops before the end of the line.

I don’t know what I did to deserve this punishment, but I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Honest.

I Lack the Ability to Perform Two Actions Simultaneously

July 7, 2011. A day that will live in infamy. It was on this day that I witnessed the most childish dickery by a conductor aboard a train. I’ve had conductors wave their hands in my face, snap their fingers at me and knock on the wall behind me to get my attention. But I have never seen one of these pink apes almost bite a rider’s goddamn head off.

I was sitting aboard the 6:53pm train, waiting to leave Penn Station, when I received a Rail Road e-mail alert on my phone saying that there were 30-40 minute delays on the Ronkonkoma branch, due to weather-related signal trouble (how rich). Was there an announcement over the PA about this? Of course not. Because, if you get a e-mail alert about a problem, they won’t tell you on the train (I once got an e-mail alert that the westbound train I was on was being cancelled at Jamaica and they didn’t bother telling anyone over the loudspeaker until we pulled into the station).

So anyway, part of the way through the ride, the asshole that is clearly counting down the days to retirement (and probably a disability package) comes around to collect tickets a second time. He’s getting pissy because he has to ask several times for people to show their tickets, as if he were expecting to announce it once, and everyone would happily display them as he walks by, giving him thumbs up and words of encouragement.

He gets near me, and a gentleman a few seats ahead of me asks in a very polite and friendly manner, “I heard there’s delays. How are we doing on time?” The conductor, very frazzled, replies curtly, “Not good. Not good.” The rider begins to ask the conductor if he can provide further details, and the conductor cuts him off saying, “I don’t know why people won’t show me their tickets. I’m asking for tickets, and I don’t know why it’s so hard…” The rider decided that being nice two times was enough, and starts to ask more firmly how late our train is going to be. The conductor snaps and says, “I don’t know! I have to check tickets! I can’t multitask!”

As the rider, who is a lot bigger and younger than the conductor, starts to talk back, the conductor walks away from him, probably realizing that he was about to get his face mashed into a jelly. Even though he was running away with his tail between his legs, he was still looking for tickets before passing into the next car. I was the last person he came to before the door, and when he looked down at me for my ticket (which was in my wallet, in my pocket), I replied without looking up from my laptop, “Sorry, I can’t multitask.”

“Mom? I got shanked ‘cause I can’t hold my liquor.”

Riding the railroad in the wee hours can be the most uneventful moment of your life, or it can be like that scene in Adventures in Babysitting where Brad gets stabbed in the foot because he fucked with the Lords of Hell.

On the special nights, some of the creepiest creatures known to man descend upon the largest commuter rail in the country and make it a point to ensure you never want to be awake and in public past nine o’ clock ever again.

From the people who drink brown mystery fluids out of mason jars to the wasted guy with no shoes and filthy, hole-riddled socks who shares dieting tips whether you want to hear them or not, you’re in for a night to remember if you run into any of these winners.

However, nothing compares to the combustible result when you combine the volatile mixture of blabbermouth teenagers with people who have spent some time behind bars who just want to sleep.

Ever think you were sure to see someone get stabbed in the neck? If you answered yes, then you were probably riding the train with me late last year.

It was late on a Thursday night last November. I was with my girlfriend and her friend in a six-seater, when a young, homeless-looking fellow plopped down in the four-seater across the aisle from us. It wasn’t long before his shoes were no longer anywhere in sight. Smelly and content, he struck up a one-way conversation with us, sharing diet tips and telling us the dangers of eating processed foods.

After what felt like an eternity, he drifted off to sleep mid-sentence, and my companions quickly followed suit.  It wasn’t until I had no one to talk to that I noticed how loud some drunken teenage girls from the other end of the car were talking and laughing. And it only seemed to get louder. And LOUDER. And LOUDER.

A man with a teardrop tattooed below his eye noticed too, and he decided to stand up and shout at the girls that they should “shut the fuck up,” and that he was “trying to get some goddamn sleep.” He also noted that he had “no problem going back to prison.” After a few more thinly veiled threats and profanities, he once again reminded the “bitches” to “shut their fucking mouths.”

They responded by giggling uncontrollably, not knowing an invitation to the ER when they saw one.

My fellow travelers (and shoeless buddy) slept through the rant, and I was left to be the sole murder witness when the bloodshed went down.

Things eventually quieted down, and the man fell asleep. A good bit of time had passed when I looked up to see two of the girls, holding back laughter, now standing over the sleeping man, waving in his face and talking baby talk to him. They may as well have strapped raw meat to their asses and ran around the Serengeti. What were these assholes thinking?! Well, their guardian angels must have been working overtime, because by some grace of god this guy didn’t wake up and bust a cap their goddamn domes. They quickly realized they were tempting fate a little too hard, so they knocked it off, sat down and shut their traps.

As the ride dwindled down, everyone parted ways. The ex-con woke up and got off, the health guru found his shoes and departed without even saying goodbye, and the girls, after sobering up a bit, quietly left realizing that they had barely survived after stared death in the face, quite literally.

Even though it was uneventful in the end, I couldn’t help but think that if some murderin’ had gone down, I’d have probably turned a blind eye if I weren’t too busy cheering and applauding. Usually I only dream of yelling at the loudmouths on the train. So, sleepy ex-con with the teardrop tattoo, consider yourself my hero.

Good Morning!

The train came in on time this morning. It wasn’t too crowded. People were generally pleasant and kept their voices down. The conductor was polite, not rude like he usually is. We made it in to Penn Station without any delays. We actually got in a little early! It was so nice. I can’t wait to ride home tonight.

Oh wait, what’s today’s date?

Please Replace With a Robot at Earliest Possible Convenience

I have a major problem with the conductors on the Long Island Rail Road. Well, shit, I have a major problem with just about every aspect of the Long Island Rail Road. But I really don’t like these clowns.

They march down the aisle clicking their hole punchers rapidly to get your attention, as if they can’t waste their precious breath to ask you for your ticket. Sometimes they like to make announcements over the PA demanding that you have your tickets out, usually in a surprisingly forceful manner. Oh, I’m sorry sir, is your time so fucking precious that a few seconds of your shift can’t be spent waiting for me to fish my ticket out of my wallet while I’m crammed between a window and an underpaid/overcharged schlub like me? Well the LIRR seems to be in the business of wasting commuters’ time, so I take every opportunity I can to return the favor.

A wise fellow commuter once told me that he never takes his ticket out until the conductor is right there next to him, and he takes his time doing it. So you know what? That’s exactly what I do now, and I suggest that all of you do the same from this point forward. I wouldn’t look these assholes in the eyes to save my life, so I don’t know if it bothers them, but it gives me a small sense of satisfaction. Sometimes I like to hold up a finger as if to say, “Hold on a second,” while I finish reading a line in a magazine, or typing a line on my computer. The worse of a mood I’m in, the longer they wait. If the train is late pulling out of Penn Station and I’m stuck standing because the train is a few cars short, I’m going to “check” every compartment in my bag, every pocket in my pants and jacket, and every compartment in my wallet before I “find” my ticket.

These losers are also complete cowards. When there’s some kind of weather related fuck-up and it’s clear we’re all getting home past our bedtimes, you won’t see a conductor the whole ride home. Where are they then, all high and mighty demanding your ticket? Oh, don’t want to face an angry public because your incompetent organization is ruining thousands of riders’ nights? Scared that someone might take out their frustration on you? Get out here and do your goddamn job, numb nuts. I wonder how long I would keep my job if I hid at work to avoid clients who were unhappy.

If this were feudal Japan, every MTA worker would have committed hari-kari due to the shame they’d brought upon themselves.

But above all else, there’s a rather serious reason I can’t stand these slugs. A staggering percentage of them abuse disability. Read it and weep. Literally. Don’t act like being on your feet all day clicking a hole puncher is so physically taxing that you need monetary compensation for it. Do ticket takers at movie theaters file for disability because they stand all day tearing tickets? No. How about cashiers at grocery stores? Nope. The notion of them getting disability pay for what they do would be laughed at. Yet somehow the MTA has no problem doling out money to these lying slimeballs.

A conductor’s job requirements are pretty well spelled out, so you should know what you’ll be getting yourself into. Get some comfortable shoes and a wrist guard, and stop complaining. Now go conduct yourself to some broken glass and sit on it.