When I moved back to the northeast from Florida I was offered a job at Bozell. This was my first job at a real agency in New York, and I was thrilled. The only problem was that I had to take the train to get into the city. No big deal, right? Thousands of people ride the rails every day. It would be fun, an adventure, a chance to bond with my fellow commuters. Bullshit. It was a fucking disaster.
After one week I found this dreaded daily routine to be about as fun as fungus. It was highly frustrating, but also tragically amusing. So in order to make the best out of a bad situation, I decided to start documenting my experiences as a form of therapy (and just in case someone would want to make a movie about them). I'm still waiting for an offer, but I hope you enjoy reading about my experiences in the meantime. I also hope you never have to commute into the city. It sucks the life out of you.
“Creatures Of Habit”
Confessions Of A Train Commuter
by
Marc Guttesman
After accepting a job at an advertising agency in Manhattan, I never considered any other mode of commuting besides the train. Sure, I like the comfort and control that driving a car provides, but I wasn’t about to risk life and limb negotiating construction, road rage, and traffic backups on the New Jersey Turnpike and the Lincoln Tunnel.
The bus isn’t too bad a ride for a Sunday matinee in the city, but every day? No thanks. Besides, they stop every five blocks between Princeton and New York and the fumes in Port Authority will kill you. So the train was the only real solution for me. Safe, efficient, and stress free. Or so I thought.
I experienced my first official New Jersey Transit (NJT) ride on the morning of July 28, 1996. I eagerly walked to the ticket counter and purchased a round trip ticket for the 7:38, an “express” train. Cool. This was going to be easier than I thought. I would later discover that “express” meant this train would make 11 stops between Trenton and New York instead of the usual 13. Express my ass. This was the first of many discoveries I was about to uncover during my life as a train commuter.
What’s your bag?
Everyone who commutes carries some sort of bag. It’s practically law. Most men opt for the black-leather laptop bag, or the designer shoulder-strap kind. You’ll also see knapsacks, briefcases, messenger bags, duffel bags, homemade macramé bags, and an assortment of those cute, little department store bags. Most women carry two bags. One is an oversized and overpriced designer satchel of some kind. The other is a ginormous tote large enough to accommodate a complete change of clothes, pair of running shoes, healthy snacks, and an armament of stain removers.
The commuter bag is really much more than a receptacle for toting work back and forth from the office. For some, it’s a home away from home—a kind of all-purpose kit. After all, you never know when you’re going to be stranded, so it’s vital that you be prepared for any emergency.
The standard commuter bag consists of a cell phone, compact umbrella,, laptop computer, breath mints, chewing gum, tissues, writing instruments, aspirin and mace.. These staples will see you through just about any emergency; however, some people feel the need to augment this list. Optional items may include: checkbook, tobacco products, pocket knife, low-fat snacks, playing cards, wedding photos, assorted pharmaceuticals, porn magazines, bottled water, condoms, taser, and a rape whistle.
I prefer to travel light, so the contents of my bag are limited to a cell phone, train schedule, and a clean pair of underwear. Hey, you never know. Of course, the one universal device everyone has is a cell phone. I must say it’s a lifesaver when the train breaks down and you have to let someone know you’re going to be late. That’s just about the only time I use my phone (well, that and to order take-out from Sunny Garden). But just because you have a cell phone doesn’t mean you can use it anytime you want. Unfortunately, many of my fellow commuters don’t share this sentiment, so on their behalf I’ve taken the liberty of jotting down a few pointers for proper cell-phone use.
Who’s talking?
First, since everyone (including my mother) now has one of these devices, we’re not impressed by how small it is, how well the faceplate matches your outfit, or how cute the ring tone is. Trust me, we’ve seen and heard them all.
Second, the maximum number of calls you are allowed to make is two; I repeat, TWO, or a total of three minutes—whichever comes first.
Now, if you must talk, for Christ’s sake, do it softly. What you have to remember is that there are about 28 people all within earshot of you who don’t give a shit what you have to say. Have some respect for those people around you. We’re not interested in hearing about your husband’s eczema, your daughter’s piano lesson, or your mother’s goiter. Just keep it short and sweet: “Hi, it’s me. I’m on the train. I’ll see you soon.” Or, “Hi, it’s me. The goddamn train broke down again. I don’t know when I’ll see you.” See how easy that is?
Every once in a while you’ll run into Mr. I’m-Very-important-So-I-Don’t-Care-How-Loud-I-Talk. This guy is usually dressed in a $1200 suit that was never altered. He’s about 55 but thinks he’s 35. Slightly overweight and balding on top, he keeps his hair long in the back to show he can still grow some. He’s armed with all the top-level-executive paraphernalia—ultrathin laptop, Blackberry, microscopic cell phone—and he uses words like “restructuring” and “outsourcing” a lot. He likes to drone on about how he’s already got too much to do and can’t be managing another department. The funny thing is that he’s usually playing computer golf on his laptop while shouting about the lack of employee productivity.
Cream or sugar?
Now most people think you have to go to South Beach or to the East Village for the finest in people watching. Nosiree. One need not travel any farther than the Trenton train station to observe the finest in human behavior.
On any given day, you’ll spot the usual suspects: A homeless man, posing as a doorman and asking for donations, a toothless woman, trying to gather enough change for a donut, and a geriatric couple arguing about which is the right gate for their departure to Miami. Then there’s always the coffee klatch crowd who prove to be the most interesting.
I smiled as I watched each person in line perform the same robotic routine. First they choose a cup of previously filled coffee from the regular or high-test display. Then they thumb through a depressing assortment of hermetically sealed bagels, muffins, scones, doughnuts, and pound cake. Once they get to the register, they politely pay with exact change before moving to the coffee-fixins table. But once they arrive at the fixins table, it’s anarchy.
Everyone surrounds the fixins table to hunt for his or her own special list of ingredients to make the first morning cup palatable. “Wall-Street Type” with gold-initialed briefcase likes two creams and one sugar. “Thirty-Something Woman” likes three creams, no sugar. “Silver-Haired Businessman” likes it black, just needs four napkins. And my personal favorite: “Fifty-something Jewish Woman” likes eight, yes eight, creamers. (Trust me, I counted.) And she must come right from the nail salon each morning because she opens each creamer with her teeth. I’ve watched her perform this ritual a few times, and I think she knows that she’s way over the legal limit for creamers because she looks around to make sure nobody is on to her. Sorry, sweetie... busted.
Is this spot taken?
Everyone employs a different routine while waiting for the train. Some people head right down to the platform and brave the elements, peering down the tracks every few seconds to see whether the train is approaching so they don’t miss it. Others prefer to wait in the comfort and security of the station until they see the train coming, then they bolt for the platform. And then there are those who mingle about, as if at a cocktail hour, engaging anyone they can find in conversation.
There’s one strange man who stands on the platform in the exact same spot every morning. He doesn’t move or pace or speak to anyone else. He just stands in his spot, which happens to be about midway down the platform, 10 feet from the fourth trashcan, and dangerously close to the yellow warning line. Neither rain, snow, hail or blistering heat can keep him from protecting his spot. I prefer to mix it up. I’ve found the less I get into a routine, the less I feel like a Stepford wife.
Take your seat
The real trick to boarding the train is guessing where the train will stop so the doors open directly in front of you. If you’re off by just a few feet, you risk not getting a seat. Or at least a preferred seat. Preferred seats going into New York are on the left side, facing forward, so you don’t have to suffer with the sun glare.
Wherever the train stops along the platform, there’s always an eager cluster of people waiting for the doors to open. As the train slows, people actually walk alongside it, only inches away and keeping pace with the doors so that they can be the first passengers aboard when the train stops.
Not being particularly fond of crowds, I’ve found a nice spot toward the far end of the platform, close to where the engine stops. Fewer people wait there, probably because you have to walk an extra 200 yards to get there. I’ve found that even if I misjudge where the train will stop, I still have a pretty good shot at finding a decent seat.
Most people wait on the platform near the base of the stairs so they don’t have to walk far. The funny thing is that they usually end up walking the entire length of the train trying to find not one, but two empty seats. More on that later.
So the train arrived at 7:33 sharp. The doors opened, the portly conductors stepped out, and we filed in like lobotomized drones. I passed row after row of blemished seats until I finally found one that wasn’t sticky, ripped or dripping with some kind of bodily fluid. The interior lighting was harsh, and the 1967-inspired vinyl seats were locked in a vertical position. The only bathroom was located at the far end of the train and was usually vacant because of the stench of urine and anonymous floaters in the bowl.
At exactly 7:38, the conductors closed the doors, the train lurched forward, and we were on our way. From my seat I could see we were leaving a few latecomers stranded on the platform. They were yelling something at the conductors, but I couldn’t hear them. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t “Have a pleasant trip.” We made the obligatory stops: Hamilton, Princeton Junction, Jersey Ave., New Brunswick, Edison, Metuchen, Metropark, Rahway, Linden, Elizabeth, North Elizabeth, Newark, and, finally, Penn Station, NY.
On my way in, I studied the train schedule to familiarize myself with the other trains I could take, and that’s when something caught my eye. I noticed a tiny red “A” , like a footnote, next to the 7:48 train. I later learned that the tiny “A” stood for Amtrak, and being a monthly New Jersey Transit ticket holder, I was entitled to ride this particular Amtrak train.
I think I can
The next morning I watched as my regular 7:38 train departed. I waved goodbye and made my way, literally, to the other side of the tracks where the Amtrak commuters were waiting to board for the 7:48.
I couldn’t place it at first, but there was something different about this group of people. They were slightly better looking, their posture was more erect, and they were smiling. Already I was feeling better.
When the 7:48 Amtrak train entered the station, I couldn’t contain my excitement. This looked nothing like the archaic NJT train I rode the day before. This train was magnificent! It was shiny and aerodynamic, like the ones you see in the TV commercials. And it had long silver passenger cars that seemed to slice through the wind.. Surely I was about to get on the wrong train. Could this be possible?
I quickly boarded and couldn’t help smiling. I had found paradise. Before me stood the equivalent of locomotive first class. Twenty-four rows of high-back, upholstered, cushioned chairs that reclined into a nearly sleeping position. There were fold-down tray tables for eating or writing, multi-directional reading lights above each seat, a water fountain, and two bathrooms—with hot- and cold-running water! It was glorious. This was a train for professionals. The best of the best. The serious commuter. I asked one of the other passengers to pinch me, and then I sat down. I found a nice seat on the right side, about midway down. I swear I almost giggled when we pulled out of the station.
Then it got even better. Rather than making the usual 13 stops before getting to New York, this train made only three! Yes, this was going to be a good day. Scratch that, this was going to be a life-altering, take-the-family-out-to-dinner kind of day! The only thing missing was someone rolling a beverage cart down the aisle.
So now I ride the Amtrak train to work every day. Every once in a while, I still have to rough it and take the “little engine that can’t” if I’m running late, but it’s rare. There are four Amtrak trains in the morning and four going home each evening. If it weren’t for these special trains, I’d be one of those babbling idiots walking around Penn Station with a trench coat and a shopping cart.
I can remember laughing at the people who would haul ass through Penn Station at night trying to make their trains. The poor bastards. Their lives manipulated by a lousy train schedule. I said to myself, " I’m no drone. Not me. I decide what train to catch. And if I miss one, well, there’s always another one. I’m not going to look like some stupid ass sprinting at full speed to catch the 6:06 to Trenton." Well, it just so happens this stupid ass has run the entire nine blocks and two avenues to Penn Station to make a train on more than one occasion. And in under 10 minutes, I might add.
I usually give myself 20 minutes to walk to the station, but it only takes about 15. I like giving myself those few extra minutes in case I want to grab something to eat on the way home. Like a $7 slice of pizza.
One winter day I was very late leaving the office, but I was determined to make my regular 6:06 Amtrak train, so I started sprinting for the station as soon as I hit the street. I tucked my commuter bag under my arm, put my head down, and raced for Penn Station. I got there just as I heard the final boarding call for my gate. I zigzagged between a dozen other commuters, leaped over two homeless people, and raced down the escalator to my waiting train. I jumped on just as the doors were closing and quickly found a seat. I looked at my watch: it read 6:03. I made it in just under 8 minutes! A new personal best.
Feeling especially pleased about breaking my old record, I eased back into my seat and caught my breath. A half smile formed on my lips as the train departed. I sat there for a minute, relishing my little conquest, until I noticed something tragic. I tiny bead of sweat had formed on my forehead, and I knew I was going to be in trouble. My body temperature was still high from the run, and, of course, the heat inside the train was blasting. In 15 seconds my body was going to break out into a full body sweat, and there was nothing I could do.
The sweat slowly starting coming down my forehead, then the damn broke. It was as if someone had turned on a faucet. I was sweating so heavily that the woman sitting next to me thought I was going into cardiac arrest. I couldn’t stop it. The sweat just kept coming and coming. My shirt, my pants—everything was drenched. Now other people were looking and starting to worry. That’s when I decided to use the bathroom to see if I could splash some cold water on my face and cool down.
Every Amtrak train car has two bathrooms, one at each end. They’re very tiny, but the average person can squeeze in for an emergency (I say emergency because like the bathrooms on the NJT trains, there’s almost always a surprise waiting for you in the toilet).
Inside the bathrooms are strategically placed signs asking people to please be kind and clean up after themselves because the conductors can’t always get to each bathroom to wipe them up. That’s a good one. Most of the conductors I know couldn’t even fit inside the miniature bathrooms. And even if they could, I can promise you the only thing they’d be wiping is their ass.
Please take your seat
Here’s another one of those unwritten laws. When I enter the train car, I find a seat that I like—usually a window seat—and sit down, regardless of whether someone is sitting in the adjacent seat. It’s more important to me to find the right seat, in the right car, facing the right direction, than who is occupying the seat next to me. But most people routinely walk past dozens of perfectly acceptable aisle and window seats until they come to a row with an empty aisle and window seat together. Sure, we would all love to ride home without having to endure the strange and curious habits of sitting next to anyone, but due to the increasing volume of train commuters, it’s practically impossible.
Even though the Amtrak trains originate in Philadelphia, there are still plenty of seats available for those of us getting on at Trenton. We can usually pick the car and the seat that we like. But getting on at Princeton Junction is a whole different story.
Because of the high number of people getting on at Princeton Junction, it takes expert timing, catlike reflexes, and a strong shoulder to find a seat. You have very little margin for error, so if you’re not one of the first few people to board when the train stops, you’re standing. If you’re caught behind someone who decides to take their time to inspect every seat before sitting down, you’re standing. And if you’re stuck behind some idiot schlepping two suitcases, an umbrella, and a tote bag, you’re standing.
It’s very competitive. People arrive early and jockey for position on the platform, searching for the perfect spot. No one ever says anything, but they’re all watching. Eyeing each other. Keeping track of who got where first, and who might be a cutter. It takes balls to cut in front of someone at Princeton Junction.
I’m telling you, try cutting just once at Princeton and all hell breaks loose. People yell, call you names, and push you out of the way. And worst of all, you’re forever labeled.
“Look, Bob, there’s that asshole who tried to cut in front of us on Tuesday.”
“Oh yeah. He’d better not try and pull that shit today... asshole.”
When the train finally approaches, people close their newspapers, pick up their bags, and get ready to do battle. They all stand at the ready, elbows out, watching intently as the train slows to a stop, trying to calculate whether the doors will open right in front of them or whether they’ll be caught in the middle.
Should the train miss its mark, you have to make a split-second decision. Move left or right. And chances are everyone else was thrown off their mark, so you still have a pretty good chance of getting a seat—if you hustle.
Now, even if you’re one of the first people to board at Princeton, your job’s not over yet. You still have to find a seat. Preferably one that’s front facing, on the left side, and next to someone who is relatively normal.
It’s very entertaining to watch relatively normal people be transformed into modern day gladiators, wielding their briefcases and umbrellas like shields and weapons to secure a seat. So here’s where another one of my favorite things occurs.
Since there is a door on each end of every train car, people file in from both ends and proceed toward the middle. Now, if there are no seats available when you get to the middle, most people want to keep searching for a seat in the same direction they’re walking. Unfortunately, there is another hostile, seat-searching group of commuters trying to walk in the opposite direction.
The laws of physics tell us there will be a reaction when two opposing forces meet. And trust me, there is. Each group feels that they are heading in the right direction, and that the other group must yield and let them pass. No such luck. When the first two people meet, it’s like a game of chicken. And the result is more pushing and shoving.
It’s all in the timing
I always wear a watch. I switch off among three that I own but they are all set to NJT time. Granted, the U.S. Atomic Clock in Colorado may be a tad more accurate, but if you miss just one train because you were 30 seconds late, you’ll understand what I mean.
We all secretly smile when we make the train and someone else doesn’t. You feel a sense of victory knowing you’re just a little better, a little faster than the poor bastard left stranded on the platform. It’s actually fun to watch them as they realize they’re not going to make it. Their first look is of complete disbelief. They can’t believe they didn’t make it. Then it changes to “How could they have left without me?!” Then, just as the train starts to pull away, they think, “Surely they saw me. They’ll stop. They’ll back up and open the doors.” Then finally, as reality sets in, we see them mouth the exact same word... “Shit.”
Let me out
If you think getting on the train is difficult, just try getting off. People are slow to get up, carry too many bags, and move like snails. That’s why many people start to collect their things and stand in the aisle long before we arrive at the station, a condition I refer to as premature evacuation.
It usually starts with some obsessive-compulsive type. This guy (and it’s usually a guy) knows exactly when to make his move. With 15 minutes left until we arrive in New York, he’ll close his laptop or briefcase, stuff his newspaper into the seat pocket in front of him, and reach for his coat. He looks left, then right, trying to gauge which way is the shortest distance to the exit, then he’s off. Now he’s standing proudly in the vestibule for the next 14 minutes, completely ignoring the sign that reads: “Please don’t stand in the vestibule while the train is in motion.” No, that sign’s not for him; nobody tells him what to do. He marches to his own beat. He’s going to be the first one off the train! The first one up the escalator! The first one to set foot in Penn Station! Well, unless you count the 859 people already up there. Schmuck.
I’ve never had much luck playing this game. It seems every time I choose to leave the comfortable surroundings of my favorite window seat, the goddamn train breaks down. Then I’m stuck standing between two life insurance salesmen for the next 40 minutes while we all listen to 43 renditions of “The engine has died, we’re trying to fix it” on the intercom.
When the first person gets up, everyone else takes notice. This serves as the official start for the next wave of early evacuees. Now it’s a race to see who can own the coveted second-, third-, and fourth-place positions. See, even if you’re the 10th person in line, you still have a pretty good chance of getting out of the train and up the stairs onto the main concourse in under 3 minutes. A respectable time. But God help you if you’re sitting in the middle of the car when the train arrives at Penn Station. Then you have to wait until every single person gets up—an easy 7 minutes. Then the escalators get backed up, so it’s another few minutes before you finally emerge from the bowels of the station. Better to just wait until everyone clears out to make your move. It’ll be close to lunchtime then, but at least you’ll be first in line at the deli counter.
While all this jockeying around may seem pointless, it’s a scientific fact that getting out of your seat early can save you anywhere from 5 to 10 minutes. The last thing you want is to be caught behind some grandmother with a walker and a suitcase. Or worse, you manage to get a good position a few feet from the exit door, but the guy in front of you wants to be the good samaritan. This SOB lets everybody merge in—whether or not they’re even ready to merge! Still searching for your coat? No problem. I’ll hold up the entire train just so you can take your time. Asshole.
All aboard
Otherwise normal people are transformed into savages. It’s every man for himself... kill or be killed... no rules apply. Even the old and handicapped have no advantage here. One day I wouldn’t be surprised to see a sign at the entrance of Penn Station like those on roller-coaster rides: “WARNING: anyone with a heart condition, high blood pressure, back problems, or anyone who is pregnant should not enter. And that’s just getting to the train.
Because of the number of trains coming in and going out of Penn Station, there’s always some amount of confusion. The train you normally ride home never boards at the same gate, so people just hang out near the departure board waiting for their gate number to be announced.
There’s a science to figuring out which track your train will come in on. About 70% of the time, your train will arrive on the same track, say number 12. However, if another train is leaving on track 12, they might direct you to track 10 or 8. So you never really know.
The funniest thing I ever experienced leaving Penn Station happened on a Friday night. It was December and every train was delayed. The normal number of commuters filling the station had doubled, then tripled to an uncomfortable level, and hundreds more were coming in every minute, unaware of the delays.
There was no place you could stand without rubbing up against someone else. And anyone attempting to make a last minute bathroom or beverage run would risk not getting back in time for the train. People were hot, tired, hungry, and fed up with yet another delay. After enduring this kind of torture, especially at the end of the day, all anyone wants to do is get home. And that means getting a seat on the train—no matter what.
I watched as my regular 6:06 crowd huddled near track 12, our usual gate. But with all the confusion, it was anybody’s guess where we would actually board. This is when the fun started. One by one, other trains were announced, and huge crowds of people charged for a gate. Sometimes an Amtrak rep would shout the location where the Amtrak train was boarding before it was announced over the P.A. system. If you were within earshot of this, you would have a nice jump on your fellow commuters.
Some people even believe that they can tell where the train will board by feeling for the engine’s vibrations underground when it enters the station. (These are also the people who talk to themselves on the subway.)
So I was betting on track 10. We occasionally boarded there when track 12 was being used for other trains. Some of my fellow commuters were betting on track 14. A long shot, but given the extreme circumstances, still a possibility.
When our train was finally announced on track 7, at the other end of the station, nobody was prepared. Instantly, a huge crowd surged toward the gate. Everything not nailed down was swept up in the frenzy; trash cans, vending machines, small children.
As I pushed and squeezed my way to the gate, a petite woman who was swallowed up in the crowd asked, “Is this the train to Boston?” A man replied, “No, Philadelphia.” Frustrated that she was literally being swept along to the wrong gate, she said, “Please let me through; I’m trying to get to Boston!” The man replied, “Well, you’re going to Philadelphia first.”
Don’t feed the animals
Everyone eats or drinks something on the train. I think it’s mostly to pass the time. But this is another one of the things we accept as commuters. Most people carry the obligatory bottle of spring water. They’re so funny to watch. Screwing and unscrewing the top. Habitually sipping every few minutes to keep themselves sufficiently hydrated. But sometimes it’s more.
Morning commuters must have their coffee. On the way home, the businessmen like their 16-ounce beer—24 ounces if it’s been a particularly trying day. Oh, and it’s usually concealed in a brown paper bag. Yeah, like they’re really fooling us. I never understood that. It’s not illegal to drink alcohol on the train. God knows the commute would go a lot smoother if we were all inebriated. So why try to hide it? Besides, we all know they’re alcoholics.
Still, at one time or another, you’ll find yourself sitting next to someone with food. Usually this consists of nothing more than a soda and a bag of chips. No harm here. But if you’re sitting next to someone and they pull out a knife and fork, run.
I once sat next to a very large man. He easily weighed 350 pounds. He didn’t even fit into the seat. And he was covered with hair—on his head, his face, his arms. Tufts of it sprouted out from under the top of his stained T-shirt and curled down a few inches onto his chest. He was unshaven and breathing hard. Definitely not a commuter. Probably just in the city for the day to sell something. Like a goat.
He was sweating heavily when he sat down. I turned my head to make sure he wasn’t having a heart attack or something. (Not that I would’ve done anything to save him. I just wanted to make sure that if this guy was going to die I wouldn’t be trapped next to him. Hey, I had a volleyball game that night. And besides, it probably would’ve taken the Jaws of Life to free us both.)
Anyway, after a few minutes, his breathing slowed and he settled back into his seat. He shuffled a couple of large paper bags between his feet, crowding us both. (See, he hadn’t even eaten a thing yet, and already he was pissing me off.) At that point, I knew I was in the wrong seat. But it was too late. I was trapped in the window seat next to a gigantic, sweating, hairy man for the next 73 minutes.
For the first 15 minutes everything was fine. I read my magazine, and he just stared straight ahead, breathing. Then it happened. Very slowly, he reached down between his legs into one of the paper bags and pulled something out. I thought, here it comes. This is where this guy goes wild and devours a 23-pound turkey with stuffing and candied yams. But when I looked over, it was just a wrapped sandwich. Not as big as I would’ve expected either. About the size of a Whopper®. (Granted, Whoppers aren’t small, but in this guy’s paws it looked about the size of a quarter.) So I relaxed. Poor guy. Probably just wanted a snack to tide him over until dinner.
I watched him as he carefully unwrapped the sandwich, pulling back the paper to allow himself an unobstructed bite. The first bite was enormous. The only other time I saw something tear off a hunk of meat like that was during a documentary on the Great White Shark. This guy engulfed almost the entire sandwich, and I swear his eyes rolled back into his head. Two, maybe three chews, and he swallowed hard. (This is where the rest of us would’ve reached for that bottle of spring water.) But no, our hero went back for another bite. The second bite wasn’t as big, since most of the sandwich had already been decimated. The third bite was nothing. Just a clean-up act. I don’t even think he chewed.
So then I thought this guy is going to be okay. He ate quickly, didn’t get anything on himself—or me—and made very little noise. I reclined my seat back into a more comfortable position and relaxed. Then he did it again. Without even looking below, he reached down between his legs and pulled out another sandwich. Again I watched him ingest it in three easy bites. Snack nothing. This guy was famished. He took a big breath after this one. No shit. That sandwich was probably lodged somewhere in his esophagus next to the first one. I began to wonder if I was going to have to perform CPR on this guy after all.
A few minutes passed, then he did the unthinkable. He went for number three. Just like the first two, he inhaled the sandwich in three bites, only slower. He was off his record pace. I sat there watching out of the corner of my eye in both horror and amazement. Where was all this food going? And more importantly, how many more sandwiches were in that bag? Suffice it to say, he devoured two more sandwiches before we reached New Brunswick. I was sick, and I hadn’t eaten a thing.
Still, I couldn’t complain. Aside from the carnivorous act he performed, I wasn’t harmed in any way. Until he belched. He did his best to muffle it, but it caught him by surprise. It took about three seconds before the odor hit me, and I can only describe the stench as horrific. Thick and pungent, with traces of garlic, curry and something I was sure wasn’t of this world. And it just hung there, lingering long enough for the people in front of us to wince. That’s when I got up.
What smells?
Some people just smell. It continues to baffle me how anyone can get away without bathing. I mean, could they really not know? Most of the people who ride the Amtrak trains bathe on a regular schedule, but anything goes on NJT. Sometimes it’s body odor. Other times it’s what they had for lunch. And sometimes it’s a combination of both. God help you if you get stuck sitting between two Greek immigrants eating gyros for lunch. Don’t laugh, I’ve seen it happen.
A fart is just about the worst sin one can commit on the train. There’s nowhere you can run, and the windows don’t open, so you’re pretty much screwed. What’s more, you never really know who the guilty party is, so everyone looks around with that same “it-stinks-like-shit-in-here” expression trying to identify the villain. (As if the offender is going to be holding up a flag or something.) I always thought it would be funny if oxygen masks were released from the ceiling in case of a really bad fart.
Standing room only
When the train is overcrowded, people have to stand. It’s the worst. You’re either caught in the vestibule freezing to death or jammed up against someone who had shrimp with garlic sauce for lunch.
I’ll do almost anything to avoid standing. That means taking one of the quads (the four seats facing each other) or sitting in the phone booth. I sat in the phone-booth twice. I’m not proud. Yes, it’s somewhat claustrophobic, but at least I wasn’t doing the bump and grind with some strange woman all the way to Trenton. Plus, even if you happen get a seat on the aisle, it’s not much better. Everyone is packed in so tightly, you either get an ass in your face or a computer bag smacking you in the back of the head. The only safe place is a window seat. At least there you’re guarded against the mayhem. And besides, you get a front-row seat to watch the real excitement when the train pulls into the Newark Station.
Here’s one that always gets me. Every so often there are too many people for a particular train. As professional commuters, we know this is one of the many indignities we must suffer, and we accept it. The early bird gets the worm, or in this case, the seat. That’s why we always rush and push and claw our way into the train. No one wants to stand up all the way home.
Still, there are some people who just don’t understand when there are no more seats left. If people are already standing when we pull out of Penn Station, there’s definitely going to be many more people standing when we arrive in Newark. Simple math tells us that. It’s kind of like that old word problem: “If a train leaves Penn Station at 6:06, and all the seats are filled, how many people in Newark will bitch and moan because they have to stand all the way home?” All of them, right? Easy.
So why is it that every time we arrive in Newark, these passengers must push and shove their way past the people already standing looking for that one empty seat they assume every other person has missed? Baffles me. Oh, and nobody ever says excuse me while they’re pushing past someone in the aisle.
I once witnessed two well-dressed businessmen nearly get into a fistfight over those two simple words. One man tried to shove his way past another man without saying, “excuse me.” Their conversation is below.
First man: “Hey, how ‘bout an ‘excuse me.’?”
Second man: “I did say that.”
First man: “No you didn’t. You just SHOVED your way past me.”
Second man: (under his breath) “Yeah, whatever.”
First man: “Well fuck you.”
Second man: “Fuck you!”
First man: “Asshole.”
That’s how it always ends. Someone calling the other one an asshole. Then five minutes later they both go back to reading their newspapers.
No vacancy
When you’re the first one to enter a train car you have your choice of seats. Front-facing window seat on the left side, rear-facing aisle seat on the right side—anything you want; all you have to do is claim it quickly before the sweaty guy behind you knocks you down to get it. Just slide a leg in or plop your bag down on the chosen patch of upholstery and it’s yours.
That’s the good thing about being first. The bad thing is that somebody will sit next to you eventually. And since we have no say in who will be sitting next to us, we all play this little game. It’s called “pile-up-things-in-the-seat-next-to-you-so-that-no-one-will-sit-there.” You’ll never win at this game (unless you have an open wound or you’re over 300 pounds). So it’s useless to play because every train has twice as many riders as there are seats. But still you see them. The train snobs. Piling up their coats, laptops, briefcases, shopping bags, and suitcases in hopes of discouraging people from sitting next to them. All this does is slow down the seat-selection process even further because now we have to wait until these idiots remove their precious belongings and stow them in the racks overhead. And then they have the nerve to act as though this is an inconvenience for them.
Sometimes people play the game and don’t even know they’re playing. Here’s an example. Guy gets on at Trenton and takes an aisle seat. Then he places his laptop and Starbucks coffee cup on the snack tray in front of him and starts to work. In 10 minutes we arrive at Princeton Junction, where people are fighting for every available seat. So what does this jerk do? Nothing. He doesn’t even look up. Why should he? He’s got a seat. He’s comfortable. He’s working. Except now when somebody wants to claim the vacant window seat next to him, everybody has to wait while he does a juggling act.
So he grabs his coffee cup in one hand, his laptop in the other, and tries to flip up the snack tray with his elbow. When this fails, he gives a little grunt, places his coffee cup on the overhead ledge, grabs the laptop again, closes the snack tray with his free hand, and moves out of the way so the nice lady who has been waiting patiently can finally sit down. Now that she’s comfortable, he can resume his duties, and the passengers who were stuck watching this debacle can now hunt for their seats—if there are any left!
See the insanity? This whole thing could’ve been avoided if the schmuck had just taken the window seat in the first place. But then again, this is the same guy who has to get out of his seat 15 minutes early to be the first one off the train.
Conducting business
Somewhere between Adolf Hitler and your old high school principal is the train conductor. They hold some modicum of authority but only in their minds. They decide what goes and what doesn’t go on their train (and they all think of it as their train). They all wear a uniform that consists of a hat, jacket and tie, matching pants, and the obligatory walkie-talkie. Some add special touches to their outfits such as pins or tie clips for a bit of whimsy. Most are pleasant enough—smiling and courteous. But, of course, there are always a few overzealous types who take their jobs a little too seriously. Like Gestapo Man, for instance.
Here’s a guy who evidently was never held as a baby. He’s one of the shorter conductors, but he tries to make up for it with fear and intimidation. He even looks like Hitler.
While most other conductors take some liberties with their job, this guy goes strictly by the book. No one gets a free ride here. He’s on a never-ending mission to stop the corruption on the railroad. He’s no ordinary conductor, he’s SUPER CONDUCTOR!
Here’s what I mean. Every day, a handful of people get on the Amtrak train with the wrong ticket. They don’t do it on purpose; they mistakenly assume a NJT ticket is good for any train going to New York. So when most conductors come by, they politely inform the passengers of their error. Then they get a warning and are told that the next time they do it, it will cost them $30, plus a $7- penalty for having to buy a ticket on the train. That’s what most conductors will do. But not our boy. He doesn’t even look up. He just tells them to pay up or get off the train at the next stop. He doesn’t want to hear excuses. He doesn’t care if you have a note from your doctor. He wants everyone to know he means business.
There is one conductor who is so in love with his voice that he announces every stop seven times. Always the same, never faltering: “Princeton Junction, Princeton Junction, this is Princeton Junction. Please remember to take all your belongings. Princeton Junction, Princeton Junction... here we are at Princeton Junction”... then once more when we stop. “Princeton Junction.” Asshole. And God forbid if it’s a rainy day. Then we have to endure a half-dozen renditions of “Don’t Forget Your Umbrellas and Raincoats.”
All conductors like to announce themselves when they enter a car to check tickets. And everyone has a schtick. Some yell, “Tickets! All tickets, please!” Some just say “Tickets” under their breath. And a few even say, “Good morning.”
We had a singing conductor for a few months. Rather than utter the usual, “Tickets, please,” this guy actually sang, “Good morning.” And he had a decent voice. Even as he checked the tickets, he kept singing these little made-up ditties... “Ticky, ticky, ticky, do you have a ticky for me?” That really pissed off the all-business types.
That’s one of the few things that made my journey enjoyable: watching other people’s reactions to the singing conductor. Most people didn’t know what to make of him. This wasn’t normal behavior. He wasn’t supposed to be singing. That’s not how you do it. It’s really funny to watch people when they witness something they don’t understand.
Most of the conductors know that what they do is not brain surgery. They check tickets, they announce station stops, and they check more tickets. And they’re okay with that. Everyone has his or her role in life. And the role of certain commuters, myself included, is to see how much we can get away with. Not intentionally, of course. It’s just that those monthly tickets are expensive, and nonrefundable if lost or stolen. Plus, after everything we have to put up with, including overcrowded trains, broken-down trains, floaters, late trains, etc., we feel vindicated when, every now and then, we get an opportunity to screw the system.
Here’s how it works. As a routine commuter, it’s highly possible that you could forget your ticket one day. Most of the conductors will let you slide—if they recognize you. Some will let you slide even if they don’t recognize you—but very few. So it all depends on how good you are. Let me explain.
The correct way to act when you don’t have a ticket is to shuffle through your wallet or train bag frantically as the conductor approaches. You act as if you’ve been searching for the ticket ever since you sat down. You should appear anxious (because you’re wondering what the hell happened to it), angry (because you can’t believe it’s not with you), and helpless (because you don’t have enough cash to pay the $47 fare). Your hope is that the conductor will see how upset you are and grant you immunity from paying. Once he lets you off the hook, you should praise him for his kind and generous nature, and remind him again for the 18th time that you know you have the ticket somewhere. Once he is out of sight, you can stop the charade.
A commuter friend of mine once had to resort to more desperate measures when she lost her monthly ticket, a grave error because it cost $265 at the time. And even if she had a receipt to show that she paid for it, the conductors wouldn’t have accepted it. So there she was, the 25th of the month, and she wasn’t about to shell out another $265 for five lousy days.
Luckily, she rode the train with her husband, so she had an advantage. Every morning as the conductor came by to check her ticket, she rummaged through her purse, bitching and moaning that she just couldn’t find it. Not wanting to hold up his appointed rounds, the conductor told her that he’d catch her on his way back. Then, as soon as he was out of sight, my friend’s husband (who was seated directly behind her), passed her his ticket and she was back in business. This elaborate scheme worked for two very important reasons: One, my friend encountered a different conductor almost every day, and two, the conductors aren’t that smart.
Sometimes the train stops for no apparent reason. After about 10 minutes, one of the conductors will come on the P.A. and say something brilliant like, “You may have noticed we’re not moving” which is usually followed by one of three things: (a) The engine has died; (b) a train in front of us has died; or (c) Someone has been hit by the train and has died.
Feeling hot! hot! hot!
One of the other 57 annoying things we have to put up with is the climate inside the train. We’re told that there is no thermostat to control the temperature. So either the heat is on or it’s off. Same with the air conditioning. Unfortunately, the rocket scientists at Amtrak decide to turn on the air and the heat based on the calendar date, not the current weather conditions. So if we just happen to have a very warm day in March, the heat is still on, roasting us to death. (I once sweated off 13 pounds during a Trenton to New York run.)
Get back in line
Part of what makes the commute so repetitive and frustrating is the endless number of lines you must endure each day. It starts in the morning, waiting to enter the parking garage. We inch along as each driver rolls down their window and flashes their special magnetic card in front of the scanner to gain access. Now, this whole megillah would go more smoothly if everyone had their windows rolled down and their cards ready beforehand, but that would require too much effort. Drives me crazy. Don’t they know I have a train to catch?!
Then there are those idiots who leave too much room between themselves and the scanner, so we have to wait while they stretch their arms out of the car in an effort to reach the scanner. Assholes. So we sit and wait, watching the gate rise and fall until it’s finally our turn.
Once you enter the train station, you wait in line to buy coffee or a newspaper. Then, once the train approaches, you wait in line to board the train. After you arrive at Penn Station, you wait for each schmuck in front of you to gather his newspaper, coat, hat, and colonoscopy bag to exit the train. Then, you wait to ride the escalator upstairs to the main level. Once upstairs, you wait in another line to leave Penn Station. Ok, now you’re on the street. You can relax for a few hours, unless you want another cup of coffee, or a nice pastry from the street vendor. Then it’s back in line.
When it’s time to go home, you do the whole thing again—but in reverse. Wait in line to board the train. Wait to get a seat. Wait to get off the train. Wait to walk up the stairs. Wait to walk into the parking garage. Wait to get out of the garage. And so on. It’s all a game. Whoever can keep it together the longest without freaking out is the winner.
The most bizarre ritual we’re forced to endure occurs during the Christmas season. As Penn Station fills to capacity with shoppers, out-of-towners, and the regular slew of daily commuters, we’re forced to listen to holiday music. I can live with that since it’s only once a year. But when we’re pushing and shoving each other to catch our trains and they start playing “It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” I want to punch someone in the face.
I often look around at the others standing in line with me while I’m waiting. No one ever smiles. They just march along like robots, going through the motions. Get in the train, get off the train. Walk up the stairs, walk down the stairs. And they all have that same pathetic “this-is-my-life?” look on their faces.
I’m convinced that commuting sucks the life out of you. It doesn’t happen overnight. But over time, it slowly eats away at you. Eroding your grey matter. Robbing you of a few hours here, a few days there. Weakening you to the point where you find yourself driving to the train station in a daze one day at 6:45 a.m. only to find nobody else is there. Then you realize it’s Saturday.
The good, the bad, and the very ugly
It’s always a gamble who you end up sitting next to. Sometimes you get lucky and have a perfectly normal person with whom to share your journey. (Of course, this seldom happens.) Other times, you wind up sitting next to someone or something that defies the laws of nature.
I’ve identified the five basic types of seat companions. There are many more, but these are the main characters you are most likely to encounter on any given day:
Mr. Talk-A-Lot - Usually an older man who just likes to pass the time. He’s basically harmless, but he does all the talking with little interest in what you have to say. This type is physically draining, because you have to act as though you’re listening to every single word. If you try to feign sleep, he just talks louder.
Mr. Take-Up-All-The-Space - This is the guy who had to win every game in kindergarten. He’s very competitive and doesn’t like to share. He likes to read the newspaper with both elbows out and insists on keeping his legs spread wide apart, even if they encroach into your personal space. You can’t win, so your only hope is to turn to him and softly ask him if he's found Jesus. There's a 75% chance he'll switch seats.
The Player - You can always spot this type because of his darting head. Whenever an attractive female passes by, he leans way out into the aisle to examine her posterior and takes a good, long look. Sometimes he'll smile and nod in acceptance, other times he'll just growl softly to himself. But what's funny is that he doesn't have a chance in hell with any of them.
Mr. Narcolepsy - Sitting next to this guy can go either way. Sometimes he falls asleep right away and remains quiet for the entire ride. Other times, he starts snoring five minutes into the trip. You’re screwed if he snores unless he happens to lean over and make contact with you. Then the ICC (International Commuting Committee) allows you to poke him. That’s usually enough to buy you a few minutes before the concerto begins again.
The Social Club - This gregarious group immediately commandeers the coveted first four seats upon entering the train. These people are loud and obnoxious, regardless that other people may be trying to work, or more importantly, sleep. What’s particularly annoying is that they talk just loud enough so that everyone else can hear their latest accomplishments. “I just sold 1500 shares of Google...wow, did I make a killing!” Or, “I’m having to micro-manage those idiots down in marketing because they don’t have a clue!” A disapproving glance is not enough to deflate this group. Your only hope is to find another seat, or preferably, another train.
Have a nice trip
In closing, I wanted to leave you with some great nugget of wisdom gleaned from my many years of commuting, but all that comes to mind is something that each conductor would say when we arrived at the station: “Watch the gap between the train and the platform.” That seems to say it all. But if you really want my advice, take the bus.
