Everyone was trying to get on the train as if it were the last chopper out of Saigon. Each car resembled a Hefty garbage bag that had burst, with people spilling out onto the platform like litter. Presumably, these individuals knew that after the doors shut, they would still not be inside the train. It’s a thin line between faith and stupidity. Faith is an essential part of existence. Once it becomes blind, that’s when things get problematic.
It was a chaotic scene, but still preferable to the impatient mass of humanity upstairs, waiting for any updates on their rides out of Manhattan. Delays and cancellations were getting to be an everyday occurrence lately, which was the last thing we needed. Even in relatively normal times, New Yorkers tend to be on edge. These are no longer normal times. You have to be careful in this sleazy, psychotic Morning Zoo DJ dystopia we’re all a part of now. A Buddhist would be tempted to punch somebody.
The 5:47 was among the many trains that were cancelled. Those of us who were planning on taking it were told to head to track 15 for the 5:55. Getting there, you had to go through everyone else waiting for their delayed and cancelled trains. It was a daunting experience. All it would take is one idiot, and Penn Station suddenly turns into Killing Joke’s “Frenzy.”
The hardest part over, the next challenge was walking down the stairs with the entire track 15 pack. Actually, “trundling down the stairs” would be more accurate. On the other staircase, some people were headed up, shaking their heads and reporting to all of us, “Forget it. You ain’t gettin’ on.” This was when you could first see the overflow from the cars onto the platform. I walked all the way towards the back of the train to see if all the cars were impenetrable. The doors of the last two were shut, but inside, there had been plenty of room to stand, with some seats available as well. Even better, there wasn’t a line waiting for the doors to open. Turns out the “forget it” crew forgot to check all their options.
One of the conductors poked his head out the window. Myself, an older man who had a gruff Robert Loggia vibe, and an early 20-something guy looking like he just arrived from auditioning for a New Kids On The Block jukebox musical, were attempting to get his attention. The three of us shouted, “HEY! OPEN THE DOORS! THERE’S PLENTY OF ROOM!!” The conductor just blankly stared back at us. Who knows what was going on in his head? Perhaps this random assortment of men perplexed him?
Mr. Loggia said, “I got this.” He walked over to the window and spoke with the conductor. You couldn’t hear the conversation, but it appeared to be one-sided, consisting of Loggia gesticulating, and judging from the exaggerated expressions on his face, yelling. Meanwhile, the conductor continued to stare blankly, then nodded his head when Loggia was done. By now, more people were discovering the last two cars, while another conductor walked towards where I was standing. He opened the door, let myself and a few others in, and that was it. The rapidly growing crowd were understandably annoyed, with a few yelling, “COME ON!!” It felt like I had been given the privilege of entering Studio 54.
While motoring down the aisle, the conductor kept pace behind me, repeating, “Keep movin’, keep movin’.” The encouragement was appreciated, but redundant, as keep movin’ is exactly what I was doin’, until I stopped to stand by the door. As the train pulled out, one of the conductors joked, “The slow boat to China … excuse me …,” and then announced all the stops. Smart move. Humor is a good way to assuage the agitated.
You’d never know that the majority of the train was like Bosch’s paintings of Hell. We fortunate few had lucked out with a smooth, relaxing ride … oh no. The train stopped at Woodside, and that’s when I realized the Mets had a game earlier that day. A small army of fans led by a tall bald man with extreme body odor who yelled, “The Mets lost!” (spoiler alert) entered the car. Thankfully, the guy walked down the aisle to a different area, no doubt grossing out everyone in his vicinity.
A few semi-drunken guys in their early 20’s kept giving each other “bro hugs” for no apparent reason, and seemingly having a contest on who could talk the loudest. It would be easy to make a snarky Nickelback reference, or any other shit band the media associates with the bro lifestyle. But the truth is you’re just as much likely to find dudes like these at a Neil Young or Pearl Jam show. Acting douchey doesn’t preclude you from liking (or making) good music. Besides, while obnoxious, they were an episode of William F. Buckley Jr.’s Firing Line compared to the general moronic malevolence the (non-fake) news has presented to us day after day in 2017.
To give you an indication on how crowded it was, the guy directly in front of me was close enough that we looked like Hall & Oates on the cover of H20. I would sometimes look to the side, so we weren’t just awkwardly staring at each other. Unfortunately, he would occasionally blow his nose, which meant that my main challenge for the ride home was to avoid getting his snot on my face. Not exactly a moment for the highlight reel.
As the train pulled into Rockville Centre, my mental jukebox responded accordingly, and I started to hear Tommy Lee’s bittersweet Old West saloon piano and the vicious, victorious guitar of Mick Mars that can make grown men feel compelled to shout “YEAHHHHH!!!”
Home sweet home.
Matt Leinwohl