“First time pooping?”
The journey to New York City began on an inquisitive note. Saturday night during Halloween on the Long Island Railroad is usually going to be festive. However, this evening was special. It seemed everyone was either going to see the Grateful Dead offshoot Dead & Company at the Garden or headed to Citi Field for the World Series with the Mets. I was part of the former group, but as a long-time Mets fan, had the game recording on the DVR. The train was swarming with Dead Tie-dye and Mets blue and orange, both parties cheerfully mingling with one another.
Near where I was standing, a small line formed for the bathroom. A mother in her forties was waiting for her toddler to come out. The man at the head of the line had the look you see with a lot of middle-aged Long Island males; stocky, graying goatee and white baseball cap covering the few lonely hairs left on his head. He was responsible for the excrement query towards the mother that begins this post. She responded with a look of fear and confusion.
“Most kids when they poop on the train for the first time, they leave a big mess.” The mother gave a tired smile and mentioned it wasn’t the first time while silently praying her son would finish any second now. It was probably just a harmless exchange, but why was this grown man making fecal inquiries regarding the child of a perfect stranger? There are times when being friendly is just inappropriate affability.
At the conclusion of the stool study, a fortyish couple swathed in Mets gear hopped on from Lynbrook. Mr. and Mrs. Met were going to the game, and she would be running in the New York City Marathon the next morning. That’s a lot of activity in a short time frame, and with presumably no sleep. Hopefully, she would accomplish both things without adding brown vomit to her beloved blue and orange.
I knew her story, as upon entering the train, the couple immediately greeted the two women across from me and talked for a few minutes. It wasn’t apparent how these people were acquainted with each other, as they got on from different stations, but they were conversing like old friends. This was one of those times when it seems the world is like Cheers, where “everybody knows your name” — except yours. It’s as if there’s some sort of mass get-together that no one told you about. Of course, that wasn’t the case. And they seemed like perfectly decent people. However, the feeling of detachment one occasionally experiences from merely observing banal encounters becomes heightened when you’ve recently experienced the break-up of a long-term relationship. “We” suddenly becomes “I.” Happy couples can remind you of what was, while you’re trying to adjust to what is.
Despite this very brief moment feeling like a Smiths song, the night was more about rejuvenation than alienation. To reiterate, you had Halloween, the (semi) Dead at MSG and the Mets in the Fall Classic for the first time in fifteen years. And as the Bay City Rollers would have pointed out, it was all on a (chant with me) “S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y NIGHT!” Melancholy would have to wait another day.
As the train pulled into the tunnel, people started to congregate by the door, including the Shit Sleuth. He towered over another man, leaning towards him like Lyndon Johnson intimidating Senator Richard Russell, talking about John Mayer playing with the Dead. “A lot of people want to poof-poof John Mayer, but he’s a great guitar player.” He had meant to say “pooh-pooh,” but somehow came up with “poof-poof.” After a few seconds, he repeated himself slightly louder for further emphasis, “I mean, they just want to poof-poof the guy!”
While awkwardly expressed, he had a point. Mayer is a terrific guitarist … wait a minute, he wasn’t the Bowel Movement Shamus! Who was this guy?! I mentioned before that middle-aged males from Long Island can look similar, but this was absurd. He checked all the boxes; stocky, graying goatee, primarily bald with white baseball cap, and in this case, slight whiff of moron. The new guy was Tweedledum to the manure enthusiast’s Tweedledee; Poof-poof and Poop.
The train had now arrived at Penn Station. The doors opened, and poof-poof, we all disappeared into our respective Saturday nights.
Matt Leinwohl