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.”