The Filmmaker and the Publicist

Right as I reached the top of the train platform on Friday, I heard, “You look out of breath.  What’s your name? I’m Chris.”

I looked up and, as I suspected, it was my oddball train companion.

“Hi, how’s it going?” I must have given him a weird look because he said, “Wait, have we met before? I’m sorry if I don’t remember.”

As the train pulled up, I replied, “Yes, we’ve met a few times. I’m Blair.”

“Oh great,” he said, “than that means you already have my email.  Have you tried to email me yet?  Because if you have, I probably didn’t get it because I’ve been having email problems. So you might want to send it again.”

Me: “No, I haven’t emailed you yet, but thanks for the heads up.”  

As usual, he stood about a foot in front of me on the train, facing me.

“So, what do you do for a job?” he asked. He’s never really asked anything about me, other than if I wanted to hang out, so this took me a bit off guard. How much is safe to reveal to someone who seems harmless but could very well be carrying a severed human head in his bag?

“I work in public relations. You know, like publicity.”  Blank stare.

I thought for a minute and said, “Like, if you read a newspaper article and there is a person in there talking about something. I’m the one who gets that person interviewed for the story.” Blank stare.

He thought for a while and slowly began, “So….I’m a filmmaker.  I just haven’t made a film yet.  I’m trying to get funding from social security disability.  If that doesn’t work, I guess I’ll have to get a Hollywood studio to fund my film because I’m going to need a lot of awesome special effects. And then that means I’ll have to move out to Los Angeles.  The reason I’m saying this is because I’ll need an agent and a publicist.  And I’d like you to be my publicist.”

Blank stare.  Only this time from me.

Just Call Me Matthew

Last night during my run, I stopped by the train station to buy my weekly pass.  I handed the ticket guy a commuter credit card.

He said: “This is not your card. Can I see some ID?”

I calmly replied: “It is my card.  I’m in the middle of a run, and I’m not carrying ID. If you don’t give me the pass, I’m screwed for tomorrow’s commute.”

The guy looked down at the card again and asked skeptically: “Your name is Matthew?”

After thinking for a split second as to what answer will get me the pass, I casually replied: “Yes.”

Guy repeated in disbelief: “Your name is Matthew?”

Me: “Yes.”

I could see the guy mull it over, and watched as he formulated a plan in his head to disprove my identity. He grabbed a piece of scrap paper, flipped it over and slid it under the call window.

Guy: “Ok then, sign this.” At this point, I knew exactly what he was doing.  He was trying to see if my signature matched the one on the back of the card. Little did he know, it’s actually my signature on the back of that card.  I happily signed—my cursive "MC" matching perfectly—and slid the piece of paper back through the slat in the window.

He leaned back in his chair and, thinking I couldn’t hear him because we were separated by a thin piece of glass, said to his colleagues:  “Huh, what do you know.  Her name is Matthew.”

I Bet You Use That Line on All the Girls

Last night after I crossed the street on my walk to class, I randomly looked over my left shoulder, and to my surprise, there was this dude standing within a foot of me.  He looked like an average guy in his early 20s but just startled me because I didn’t expect to see him there—and so close.

I kept walking—thinking nothing of it—but he came up aside of me and sort of peeked around my arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. But I just wanted to tell you that you’re extremely beautiful, and I wanted to introduce myself.”

Me being me, I grabbed more tightly onto my bags thinking he’s trying to distract me while someone else robs me.  But he continued chatting, asking my name, where I’m headed, etc.  I chatted for a minute but then said, “Thank you for the compliment, but I’m actually late for school.”

He asked, “Can I call you sometime? I’d love to get together.”

I replied, “I’m married, sorry.”

He said, “Well if you’re ever looking for a second husband…”  I gave a courtesy laugh and walked away. 

While walking home with two classmates after school, I said, “You guys will never guess what happened to me right  in this spot on my walk in to school. This guy came up to me….”

“Oh my gosh, I know what you’re going to say!” shouted Kate. “Did this guy come up and tell you how beautiful you are?!”

I replied, “Yes! He came up to you too!?”

Kate said, “Yes! I got suspicious because I know I look like crap today, but I was having a bad day so thanked him for the compliment.”

I said, “Me too!”

Kate and I compared stories and descriptions of the guy, and came to the conclusion that it was the same guy on the same street corner with the same lines.

However, we’re still unsure as to what the heck he was doing—robbery, human trafficking, psychology study, honest-to-goodness trying to get a date?   Any way you slice it, I feel icky.

Cheese and Twig

So, today I'm the weirdo.  I'm commuting home carrying only a half-eaten block of mozzerella cheese in my hand.  No, wait...the guy brushing his teeth with a twig has me beat.

Pull-ups When the Train Pulls Up

So, there’s this guy who rides the El sometimes—he narrates the stops with the announcer, and then does a set of pull-ups.  Although I couldn’t pull out my phone fast enough to catch his narration, I was able to catch a few seconds of his workout regimen.

Man (in one continuous thought): “Doors opening! Doors closing! Ladies and gentleman you'll want to get off at this stop if you want to go to California, North Carolina, DC, Harrisburg or New Hampshire.  But, make sure you buy food before you get on the plane because it's really expensive otherwise. Boy, I need some energy." He proceeds to do pull-ups on the stainless steel bar. "I know, I know, I have issues, but I hope you all have a wonderful day!"

Teach a Man to Fish, and He'll Ask that Fish Weird Questions

On Friday evening, my friend and co-worker drove me to the train platform because it was freezing outside.  I said to her, “Whenever I walk, I’m always waiting across the street at the light when my train pulls up, so then I’m stuck waiting about 20 minutes for the next one.  Always happens!”  Low and behold, as she pulled up to the light, the train arrived.  She made a quick turn, and I sprinted up the stairs.  I heard the familiar beeping of the train doors closing, and I yelled in one last desperate attempt, “Wait!!!! Please! I’m coming!!!”  To my surprise, the train conductor opened the door and let me on.  I was out of breath and beginning to sweat, and then I heard, “Wow, you almost didn’t make it.”

What was said wasn’t weird by any means.  What was weird was that the person who said it spoke within an inch of my ear and had his entire body pressed up against mine, which triggered an immediate recognition.

I slowly shifted my eyes to the left, and as I expected, my train dude, Chris, was standing right next to me….well, right up against me.  Please note that the train was not crowded, not even a little.  He was wearing a giant fighter pilot hat, and his glasses were all fogged up.

I said, “Yeah….that was a close one.” When he made no attempt to remove his body from mine, I took a few steps backward and leaned against the steel railing.  He turned, took a few steps, and stood face-to-face with me, with probably about a foot between us.

Chris—“You want to know what song I have in my head right now?  It’s off the soundtrack from the movie Belly.”

Me—“I don’t know that song.” I found it hilarious that this little squirrely dude enjoyed the movie Belly.

Chris—“Oh.  Do you have a song stuck in your head right now?”

Me—“I normally do, but not at the moment.”

Chris looked down, took a piece of scrap paper and pen out of his pocket, and began writing.  I could already guess what he was writing down, and I was right.

Chris—“Here’s my email and phone number, you know, in case you want to be friends.”

I thanked him, took it, and put it in my pocket.  And I giggled a little to myself because I remembered that his email is mad-dog13@.... 

Chris—“So, I’m headed to First Friday tonight in Olde City.  Any chance you want to come with me?”

Me—“Sorry, no, I have hockey tonight. Thanks for the invite though.”

A guy standing near us pops his head right over Chris’ shoulder and says, “Hockey?! What kind of hockey do you play?”

Me—“Dek hockey.  Just for fun, you know, exercise and all that.”

Guy—“I love checking people! Where do you play, I’d love to play too.”

Me—“Oh, out in DelCo.”

Guy—“That’s just too far. I can’t be expected to go that far.”

Chris—“So, do you watch the show The Soup?”

Me—“Sometimes.”

Chris—“I was watching it this week, and in one segment they put this couple up on screen, and I had no idea who they were. I was hoping you could tell me.”

Me—“Shoot, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t see it.”

Chris—“Well if you could go home and watch it and get back to me with an answer, that would be great.”

Me—“Ok, will do.”

So far, the conversation was a bit odd as expected, but not as intrusive or weird as it normally is, well except for that whole body-contact thing. As we pulled up to the station, I turned toward the door.  Of course, he leaned up against my back.  When the door opened, I jetted out making my way toward the El. I got on a few seconds before the doors closed, and sat down on an inside seat….always risky when Chris is following somewhere behind me.  Fortunately, the neighboring seat remained open.  About five stops later, someone sat down and I could feel eyes on me.  I looked to the side and it was Chris. 

Chris—“Hi again.  I’m reading The Onion.  Would you like it next?”

Me—“No thanks.” Coincidentally, I was reading The Onion online right at that moment. 

So, at this point I knew he was going to First Friday and therefore would be getting off at my stop. Unsure of how to handle this, I asked him to let me up the stop prior. He stood and walked right toward the train doors. I got up and turned left, toward the opposite end.  I leaned against the stainless steel bars and when I looked up, Chris was standing right in front of me.

Chris—“So, have you reconsidered?”

Me—“Reconsidered what?”

Chris—“You know, ditching hockey and coming with me to First Friday.”

Me—“Nope, sorry, I’m going to hockey.”

Chris—“Well, is First Friday on the way to hockey.”

Me—“No, sorry. Have fun though.”

Chris—“Well, make sure that you watch The Soup and let me know who that celebrity couple is.”

Me—“Ok, will do.”

Young Love…or should I say Young Turmoil

By Guest Blogger Michelle Vroom

http://lifeasavroom.blogspot.com/

I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped on the train. There was screaming. And you’re not supposed to hear screaming at 7:30 in the morning. You’re supposed to hear silence. The sound of people attempting to wake up and start their day. Some aren’t even awake yet. But you’re definitely not supposed to hear screaming.

At first I couldn’t tell where the screaming was coming from. The girl who was emitting those horrible noises was crouched low in her seat so you could barely see the top of her head. Therefore it took me awhile to locate the source. Once I did, I realized we were all in for a wild ride.

The girl was barely 20 and was dressed in ripped clothing. Her hair was covering her eyes and she had a nasty sneer on her face. The guy sitting next to her, taking the brunt of the abuse (and in my opinion, was asking for it with some of the comments he was making) was also very young, but a little bit more pulled together.

I was sitting in the seat in front of these two yahoos and it quickly became apparent that they were having some sort of a lover’s quarrel. It went something like this (only envision screaming):

“You don’t care about me AT ALL!” – the girl

“What are you talking about? Lower your voice!” – boy

“Here I am, having to go into the hospital for SURGERY and you’re not even being supportive!” – crazy chick

“How am I not being supportive?”

“How dare you say those things to me, you f***ing ***hole!” – foul-mouthed girl

Silence on the boy’s end. Smart move, dude.

“We are OVER. Do you hear me?” – girl

“Fine. Like I care.” – guy (not such a smart move)

Girl starts crying. Lot’s of crying. Then the back of my seat starts moving and I realize she’s hitting him. Oh lord…first the yelling, now physical abuse? I looked around quickly to see if there were any young children in the vicinity and there weren’t. Whew.

“When this train stops at Suburban, I’m leaving you. Don’t even try to follow me. I’ll go to SURGERY by myself.” – hysterical girl

“Stop that. You’re not going to walk all the way there by yourself. Besides, I’ll just follow you anyway.”

“No you won’t. Do you hear me? No you f***ing WON’T.”

At this point, the train was creeping along as slowly as possible. All I wanted to do was get away from these nut jobs, but I was at the mercy of SEPTA. Then, as we were about to head to Suburban, the train doors wouldn’t close. All that ringing, the lovestruck teenagers’ yelling…it was too much for a Tuesday morning. I almost slapped both of them and said, “Knock that off. Knock that off RIGHT NOW.” But to be honest, the girl seemed a bit unhinged and I wasn’t sure what she was capable of. In this situation, it’s best to be quiet. Even the train conductors were following this rule – not a single one came around to check tickets during the entire ride.

Eventually we made it. I have no idea if they actually went to her surgery together or not. Frankly, I don’t care. There are so many other things wrong with this picture. SEPTA is difficult enough to ride on a daily basis. But to ride it with two screaming teenagers? Never again. If I ever walk onto the train and hear screaming, I’m getting right back off and calling a cab. It’s just not worth it, people. Not worth it at all.

Crack Can't Get You Out of a Scabby Situation

I got on the El at 69^th Street Station and sat down in a window seat.  I couldn’t help but stare when a young guy sat down facing me with a massive head of curly hair, a fitted Rihanna t-shirt, very tight shorts and giant purple rhinestone earring— just interesting to look at. Because I was inspecting this guy, it took me off guard when a man’s voice to my right asked, “Excuse me, but is it ok if I sit next to you?”  I was confused because no one in the history of the El has ever asked anyone if it was ok for them to sit down in an empty seat.

I looked up, and to my surprise, saw one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen. There even seemed to be a beam of light shining through the window on him. I think I might have smiled and definitely blabbered something like, “Yes, sure, yeah you can sit down. Go ahead. Yeah, sure.”

I scooted over and jammed myself against the window for some reason to give him more room, which was not necessary because I was only taking up my seat in the first place.  For some reason I found this really hilarious and started laughing. 

The handsome man then took out his laptop, placed it on top of the satchel on his lap, and started typing.  The only problem was that he thrust his elbows out, taking over half my seat with his arm. Then he started rubbing his left elbow against my arm as he was typing away—I’m still unsure if this was intentional.  Unfortunately, he had a giant scab on his elbow, which I could feel as he rubbed up against my right arm.  I was horrified and moved my arm over.  He then moved his elbow over.  I moved my arm up and over, and he followed with his elbow. I had nowhere else to go! I started laughing again because I thought, why does this stuff happen to me?

All of a sudden, the woman sitting behind us picked up her phone and said loudly, “My kids better have gotten that crack.  They ain’t coming home without that crack. That’s all I gotta say about that.” At this point, I was too alarmed to look back to check out this woman behind me.

A few stops later, the woman got up and off the train, and the handsome man sitting next to me said, “Excuse me, but did you just hear that woman talking about her kids getting crack for her?”  I looked him in the eyes, replied with a simple “yes,” and then totally lost it laughing aloud like a mad woman because, well, only me.

Boys will be…Pterodactyls

I left the office about 5:30 and began walking to my train stop.  As I neared the bus lane behind the elementary school, which I always use as a shortcut to the train, I saw three teenage boys leaning against the fence—all probably about 15 years old.  I could see them whispering and looking my way. 

One of the boys suddenly ran out into the middle of the road and stood looking at me.  All of a sudden he put is arms up like clawed wings, contorted his face and let loose a loud pterodactyl-like screech.  He repeated the screech several times as I walked by, now flapping his arms, and waiting for my reaction. 

I turned back around toward him and said, “Kid, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that if you’re trying to weird me out.”

Too bad I wasn’t wearing stilettos.

During my commute home last night, a guy got on the train at 30^th Street. He was probably about 40 or so, wearing a dark green t-shirt, and smelled like wet newspapers, old cigarettes and sweat.

When he sat down, he took up his seat and half of mine (the seat in which I was already sitting).  He was a bit bulkier, so I always like to accommodate if I can, but trying my hardest to melt into the train wall was not helping me escape the smell.  Also, it didn’t help that he kept reaching into his pocket, thus simultaneously elbowing me and rubbing his sweaty arm against mine. 

We arrived at the stop before mine, and I said, “Excuse me sir, can I please get by?”  No reaction.  I say a little more loudly, “Excuse me, can I get out, mine is the next stop.”  No reaction. 

Then the thought crossed my mind—I’m such as ass, maybe he’s deaf!  So I start waving my hands in front of his face to hopefully get his attention. Still nothing.  I then thought to myself—I’m such an ass, maybe he’s deaf and blind!  

Nope, neither. I quickly realized that he was looking down, writing a text message and completely ignoring me.  Others started to notice that I was trapped, so the man standing next to our seats said loudly, “Sir, can you please let her out? She has to get off the train!”  Nothing.

In one last attempt, I yelled “Sir I need to get off the train! Please get up!” He looked up for a brief moment, said “Oh,” but didn’t bother to get up.  He continued typing and slid his legs to the side so that I had to climb over him.  I was not about to miss my stop, so I climbed over him like a sherpa.   

Too bad I wasn’t wearing stilettos.

Some Bunny

The businesswoman standing behind me in the Amtrak line is eating a giant, full-size carrot like a rabbit.

Baby, You Are Sexy

I wound up taking a late-morning train due to a doctor’s appointment, so when I got on, there were plenty of open seats.  I sat down near the door.  Across the aisle, a woman had parked her massive stroller in the wheelchair accessible area and was standing above her son who looked to be about 2 years old.  Sitting right in front of the stroller was a very thin woman with long pink braids and tattooed arms.  The woman leaned forward and started playing with the boy, complimenting the mother on how well-behaved and happy her child was.  It was clear that the two women did not know each other.

The tattooed woman said that her stop was approaching.  She leaned her head a bit more into the stroller and said, “You are one sexy baby.”  I looked up from my book thinking that maybe she was now talking on her cell phone, or perhaps to a friend or boyfriend who had stepped unnoticed onto the train.  Nope.  She was talking to the toddler in the stroller.  She repeated, now addressing the mother, “Seriously, your baby is sexy.  Just sexy.” The mother didn’t say a word—she just looked at the woman and then at me.

“You stay sexy, baby.”  And she got off the train.

The Red Pee

Yesterday evening I ascended the stairs toward my train platform. Quite humid with cloudy skies, but in general I was very happy to be getting some fresh air and a bit of sunshine.

As I reached the top, I looked down and noticed a man—red hair, bright red jacket, slightly burly, a bit disheveled, probably mid-30s—standing on the ground in between the platform and the tracks.  Unusual for someone to be standing where you might actually get hit by a train if it were to arrive.  After a few seconds, my eyes focused, and I realized what he was doing. He had his dong (yes I said “dong” –I find it far more hilarious and far less offensive that other phallic nomenclatures) out in plain sight and was peeing on the side of the platform.  He stared at me, and I stared back at him.  Excuse the quip, but it was like staring at a train wreck—no one else was around, and I couldn’t look away. 

He made no facial expression nor movement to cover himself—or to finish up for that matter.  As my train approached, the conductor began blowing the horn.  I found this unusual, as they very rarely blow the horn on my route. I realized that she was actually blowing the horn at the man, trying to startle him and get him to zip his pants.  She stopped the train at my platform and stared out her window at the man, continuing to blow the train’s horn.  The man—mid-stream—shuffled around the other side of the platform, partially out-of-sight; well, except for his bright red jacket.

While disgusted and disturbed, I couldn’t help but also be impressed as his time spent urinating was reminiscent of Jimmy Dugan in A League of Their Own.

The Dwarf Train (not to be confused with the Short Bus)

Glancing around the train this morning, I couldn’t help but think of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I could easily fit every commuter into one of the seven categories.

Sleepy: The tired head-bobber. These commuters miss their stop at least once a month and arrive to work late with wrinkled clothes and drool-stained collars. I know because I work with several of them. (For the record, I have never fallen asleep on the train.)

Happy: The perky, needs no caffeine and always wakes up on the right side of the bed commuter. They never have a case of “the Mondays” and are the people I want to punch on a regular basis.

Dopey: The dwarf to collectively describe every high school student on the train. I’m sure my teenage conversations were equally brutal to anyone who had the misfortune of overhearing… and for that, I am retroactively sorry.

Grumpy: All of the not-yet-caffeinated commuters. (myself included)

Bashful: The tentative lurkers who are afraid to sit next to anyone and spend at least three stops wandering up and down the aisles until an empty row becomes available. To them, I say: grow a pair or buy a car.

Doc: You can spot them from a mile away in their scrubs and white coats. I never mind if one of them ends up next to me… perhaps I will get smarter and/or healthier via osmosis.

Sneezy: With my itchy eyes and sniffles, this is definitely me during allergy season. It is my sincere hope that my incessant A-CHOOs will prevent any of the first five dwarfs from wanting to sit next to me… but if there is a Doc anywhere within arm’s reach, beware. I will totally steal your Zyrtec.

Submitted by guest blogger Mia Angiolillo

Skirting the Issue

Leave it to the rain to bring all the wack-a-doodles out of the woodwork on SEPTA.  Until today, my daily commute has been surprisingly uneventful, which, if you’re a regular on the R5, is the most you could hope for.

After getting settled on the outside seat of my two-person row (yes, I am that anti-social commuter who will make it as difficult as possible for you to sit next to me), I looked up and gawked. All of my mother’s years of “it’s not polite to stare” went out the window. I looked. I looked away. I looked again.

There, seated across from me was a disheveled man in a baggy tank top and a loose-fitting hemp skirt. SKIRT! On a Wednesday morning at 7:30, no less.

At first, I thought he was on an incredibly unfortunate “train of shame” ride home from a Flintstones themed party and his foot-powered car got towed by the Philadelphia Parking Authority. But as I looked (gawked) further, it appeared that, perhaps, this was how he dressed all the time.

From his scruffy beard to his shoes that looked like leather pouches loosely fitted around his feet to his four large bags made from coarse woven fabric, I wondered WHO this skirted nomad was and how he ended up Paoli/Thorndale bound.

The bearded lady who escaped from the circus?

An overgrown dyslexic man-child who confused SEPTA with SHERPA?

Bin Laden’s now unemployed pasty stunt double? I don’t think we’re in Abbottabad anymore, Toto.

Regardless, I hope he is headed to a better place than wherever it was he came from. He sure looked like he could use a good night’s sleep, a pair of trousers and a hearty meal… I wonder if he likes skirt steak.

Submitted by guest blogger Mia Angiolillo

The Man Who Wanted to Sit Down

On the ride home last night, a couple got on the train at about 52^nd street.  A tall string-bean of a man was pushing a woman in the largest wheelchair I’ve ever seen.  They were both wearing Phillies t-shirts, clearly on their way to the ballgame.

There was a women dressed in scrubs sitting in one of the seats that face each other and can be folded up to fit a wheelchair. The man asked, “Would you mind if I take this seat?”

The woman gladly got up and stepped over by the door.  The man then sat down in her seat.

She looked down, bewildered.  I could tell that she was contemplating whether or not she should inquire.

“Excuse me, but I think I’m confused,” she said. “I thought that you were asking me to get up so that you could fit the wheelchair into the space.”

He replied, “How would the wheelchair even fit in this space?”

“Here, get up and I’ll show you.” He rose and she folded up all three seats.  He said, “Oh, I had no idea.”

She said, “I thought that’s why you asked me for my seat.”

“No, I just wanted to sit down.”

Train Weirdo Returns, and Totally Redeems Himself

As the train approached the platform, I jumped out from under the shelter and into the rain.  Just as the train came to a stop, my long-lost Train Weirdo came trudging up the stairs and got on the train right behind me.  I was soaked, running late and tired, so I was in no mood to converse. With my peripheral, I could see him looking at me, but I kept my head down to my blackberry. There were only four of us on the train, and we were all standing up front—an elderly woman, a guy in his 40s, Train Weirdo and me. With all the swinging and swaying on the express train, the elderly woman dropped her cane on the floor.  The guy and Train Weirdo just looked down and stared at the cane, making no move to pick it up.  I looked at both of them with a “really?” expression.  

In my heels and dress (while holding my cell phone, umbrella and giant satchel), I bent down to pick up the woman’s cane.   It wound up getting stuck in between the metal bars so there was a bit of a struggle, on top of dealing with my existing physical nuisances. After dislodging the cane and handing it to the woman, I stood up and Train Weirdo was standing right in front of me.  Ok, I admit that calling him Train Weirdo is just rude because he means no harm, so let me call him by his name—Chris.

I stood up and found myself face-to-face with Chris.  I was taken aback so I couldn’t think of one word to say. “You have a giant moth on your head,” he said calmly. My head was wrapped in a scarf to protect my hair from the rain, so it was not unfeasible that I was unable to feel the giant insect sitting on my coif. Before I could open my mouth or extend my arm upward, he reached for my head.  He grabbed something and held it up in between us.

“Oh, looks like it’s just a little piece of nature or something,” he said.

“Yeah, it must have fallen out of the tree outside my office with all this wind,” I replied. “Thanks.”

“I like your outfit,” Chris said. “I mean, what’s your name? I mean, I’m only asking what your name is because I want to see if it matches your outfit.”

Blank stare. "What does it look like my name should be?"

“Like, I feel like with that outfit that your name should be Verdania or something like that.”

I looked down at my outfit trying my hardest to figure out what he meant.  “My name’s Blair.”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound anything like Verdania,” he said. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“What’s your name?” I asked, knowing full well that his name is Chris based on our past encounters.

“Chris,” he replied. “Are you headed back into Center City?”

“Yep.”

“You know, Britney Spears is coming back on tour, and I bet her show is going to be awesome. Tickets go on sale on Friday I think,” he said.

At this point, our train was coming to a stop at 69^th Street Station, so, as much as I’d honestly liked to have kept talking about Britney Spears, I had to say “bye Chris!” and ran off to my transfer.

Now, I’m really regretting missing out on a conversation about Britney Spears with Chris.  Maybe some other time.

I Bit It

As I entered the train station at 2^nd & Market, I could hear my train approaching.  I knew I could just make it if I made a run for it.  I ran down the flight of stairs and sprinted toward the turnstiles, ticket in-hand. Then, I saw the glisten of the freshly mopped, blue tile floor about two seconds too late.  Thanks to the insufficient traction on my commuting flats, I was suddenly on my butt speedily sliding toward the giant silver turnstiles. My knee and shin bones quickly met the hard metal with a loud thud.  

At first, I thought I broke my leg—or knee.  A woman coming through the turnstile in the opposite direction next to me stood there, looked down at me for about five seconds, and then kept walking without saying a word.  Thank you for your concern, no, I’m fine!  At that point, I might have still been able to hobble onto the train but one, my leg was in a lot of pain and two, I was really embarrassed.  I had fleeting thoughts of people saying “that was the worst fall I’ve ever seen!” or just laughing at me until I cried. Plus, I’m like a toddler in that whenever I hurt myself, I can hold myself together until someone asks if I’m ok.  I decided to avoid humiliation and wait for the next train

I swiped my pass and limped over to the bench, trying to force back tears. I got on the next train and sat down in an open seat next to the control panel.  After a few minutes, I smelled something burning.  One of the train conductors walked over, opened up the panel and said into her walkie-talkie, “Uh oh, the inserters are all burnt out.  Get on the loud speaker and tell the passengers that I need to fix these before we get moving.” Icing. Gravy.

Somehow my train made it to 69^th street on time, and I was able to limp-run to my transfer. Right now, I’m sitting at my desk watching my leg swell. This is going to be an awesome day.

The Grooming Car

My boss (Anne) and I took Amtrak up to NYC for a client meeting on Tuesday.  Wanting to be able to do work during the hour and a half train ride, we sat in the Business Car.  Anne opens up her laptop and starts working on a project, and I take out some files for review, not paying much attention to the other travelers.

Anne leans over and  whispers in my ear "What is that girl doing?!"  I look across the aisle, and this young professional has a hair-straightener plugged into the outlet (where most business travelers plug in their laptops), and she's smoothing out her coif. 

At the same time, there is a youngish businessman sitting directly across the table from us. He's on what seems to be a very important phone call, until we hear him lower his voice and say,"I'd like to reschedule my facial appointment."

Anne types something on her laptop and tells me to lean over and read it:
"I think we inadvertently sat in the Grooming Car."

Girls Will Be...

I get on the El this morning, and my train is filled with hipster kids. Some look like they rolled out of a dumpster, some look like they rolled out of Boy George’s closet, so I can’t help but look around.  Two kids right in front of me are particularly intriguing.  The girl is dressed like a Polish immigrant—babushka on her head, scarf covering her face, wool military-style jacket and clogs—so until I hear her speak, I honestly think she’s a foreigner.  The boy she’s with is quite the portrait—he’s wearing a multi-colored patchwork hippie-meets-Bill Cosby jacket, a hot pink flannel shirt, skinny acid wash jeans, construction boots and is carrying a bag covered in peace signs and crossbones. He’s got a John Conner haircut (circa Terminator) and a pedophile mustache. In a very soft, feminine, high voice, he says to the girl, “Our train has been stalled for 10 min. I hope we don’t miss our bus.” 

I immediately realize that this boy is not a boy at all.  This boy is most certainly a girl—with a mustache.  If androgyny is hip, then I was totally hip when I was 13 years old and was continually mistaken for Taylor Hanson.