When you're travelling on the train, and you cross the big blue bridge, you've officially made it on and off the isle of Manhattan.
Out the other side:
I know that none of these will win awards of excellence for their composition, etc., so keep your editorial comments to a dull roar. It's hard to compose and shoot on a rapidly moving train. I'm doing this for documentation sake. For out of town folks who think commuting is glamorous, let me assure you, it's NOT. I've seen ALL kinds of things, like raucous St. Patrick's Day celebrators, lots of sluttily dressed Halloween revelers, testosterone-filled high school punks chasing each other up and down the train, and one memorable event when an undercover cop pulled a gun on a traveller to escort him off the train (and this was pre-9/11, so it really got my attention). However, I was never so as uncomfortable as I was Monday night on the way home.
Most commuters know the unspoken etiquette. Although the seats are tight, you try to maintain as little body contact as possible, especially if it is a "mixed" seating arrangement. You try and be aware of the jostling and accommodate the other person. You deal -- you have to. To be fair, there are instances where people move their seats, but it's usually due to people needing to move cars to exit onto various platforms. I've never had to move my seat because I was uncomfortable, but I came very close on Monday. Just as we pulled out of the second train stop, my lovely solo ride was interrupted when a guy flopped down next to me. I thought little of it until suddenly I was "seat-squeezed." I tried to ignore it and to give the guy the cold shoulder, but it got worse and worse. Turns out the guy had passed out, as in, Gone. Out of it. No one home. Dead to the world. Snookered. Smashed. Blitzed. I'm pretty sure it was "drunk" and not "stoned," though I can usually smell the booze. He was so out of it that he was sliding out of the seat into the aisle, and really what's worse here, flopping onto me. One of his buddies from back down the car finally figured out something was wrong and had to come up and try to revive him. Let me tell you, the term "dead-drunk" takes on a whole new meaning when repeated slapping of the face, calling of a name, and hard poking and punching doesn't elicit a response. The buddy finally had to heave the dude out of the seat and cart him elsewhere. I say cart, but there was some limb dragging involved. I'm pretty sure the guy wasn't dead, as they would have stopped the train later for a "medical emergency."
I'm glad the buddy came up when he did because I had NO idea how I was going to get out of there, but I was already plotting which stop it was were I was going to bolt. There's not a heck of a lot of room to maneuver to begin with, and frankly, moving cars+swaying cars+ungraceful people (aka me)+no-room-due-to-drunk-dude would have equalled some very uncomfortable moments for everyone within eyesight.
See, doesn't that just sound fabulous? And my friends from a former job thought I would meet men on the train ... Ah, just another commuting story for the blog.
