An actual conversation between me and a passenger:
Passenger: Conductor...why is this car so hot?
Me: The air conditioning isn't working.
Passenger: Okay, next question...Why is that water dripping from the ceiling? (he points upward, where water droplets are hanging like stalactites, then down, to a puddle forming on the seat across from him)
Me: Hmmm....I would say that's condensation dripping from the air conditioning.
Passenger: But I thought you said the air conditioning wasn't working?
Me: It's not....That's why it's so hot in here.
It's a vicious cycle.
7/23, New Haven, CT:
When I signed in at the yard master's office, one of the female conductors (I'll call her Patty) was telling a story and she seemed disgusted. She said that a passenger on her morning train, a businessman, had an explosive attack of diarrhea in the lavatory. Apparently this guy left no surface untouched. He erupted on the floor, the walls, the mirror, the sink, and even the ceiling. At Stamford, the last stop, Patty (not knowing what had happened) began closing the train doors. The distressed man, hearing the bells ringing, ran for the doors with his pants still down around his ankles. Patty later found a trail of fecal matter running from the lavatory, down the aisle and out the door. When she reached the yard, she called the car cleaners and told them to bring mops, Lysol and hazmat suits.
As news of Patty's adventure spread, she began getting text messages from fellow conductors...things like:
"You don't have to put up with that crap."
"I bet you had enough of his sh*t."
"I hear you're knee deep in sh*t."
Patty said she felt bad for this guy, especially since he's one of her regular passengers.
"He doesn't sound regular to me." I said.
Train 1388:
While boarding the train in Grand Central, my coworkers and I watch a muscular man in a wife beater tee shirt, dance around the platform and pick up spent beer cans from the recycle bin. After digging through piles of refuse, he finds a can, shakes it, and then drinks whatever swill remains on the bottom. Disgusting!!!
7/24 Train 1583:
My assistant conductor tells me that radio host/Guardian Angel founder, Curtis Sliwa is in the third head car. Like Superman (minus the cape and tights) I turn into my alter ego, "The Conductor to the Stars." I feel it my duty as the CTTS to introduce myself and interview him for this blog.
Curtis is easy to find because he's dressed in full Guardian Angel uniform, i.e. red beret, red jacket. I'm a little disappointed because he's sitting in the window seat and is shielded by an aisle passenger sitting next to him. I go back to my cars, only to return a half hour later and find him fast asleep. Even "The Conductor to the Stars" doesn't have the cogliones to wake him. His loss.
7/25 Grand Central, 12:55 am:
A passion play:
From a distance, I watch as a drunk man in a conservative brown business suit pounds on the plate glass doors at Zaro's. The store is closed, but there's a clerk cleaning up inside . Pantomiming, the businessman points to a cooler of Heineken that lay on the other side of the glass partition. The clerk ignores his pleas at first, but the pounding gets louder and louder, and he finally looks up from his mop and mouths the word "closed."
The businessman's wife comes along and tries to pull him away from the storefront. I can't hear her, but I know what she's saying. She's saying..."You've had enough" and "I'm tired, and I just want to get home." The man turns his back on his wife and shows the clerk a $20 bill. The clerk, suddenly interested, puts two 12 ounce cans in a plastic bag and heads for the door. The businessman shakes his head "no" and slyly holds up three fingers. The clerk returns to the cooler and throws a third can into the bag. The wife looks exasperated. The clerk slides the glass partition open an inch or two, and a folded $20 bill exchanges hands. With the skill of an obstetrician, the man, ever so gently, delivers the plastic bag through the small opening, then walks away...contented.
7/25 Train 1388:
While collecting tickets, I notice an adorable three-year-old Asian boy out of the corner of my eye. He looks very excited to see me. When I get closer, he shows me that he has his very own metal ticket punch and he asks me for my ticket. I hand him a pile of seat checks and he shouts with joy. His parents speak broken English, but I understand that he "roves trains" and that he wants to be a conductor. I hand him another pile of seat checks. By the time we reach Stamford, the floor is littered with little round paper chads and the kid is demanding comprehensive dental and a 401K plan.
7/27 12:50 AM:
While walking through the Lexington Avenue passageway, a drunk, middle aged couple (are you sensing a theme here?) stops me and asks if the "The Graybar" is still serving drinks. I smirk and explain that "The Graybar" is not a tavern but rather an office building.
"Well then," they ask, "Where can we get a drink?"
I want to say, " try The Empire State" or "The Chrysler" but I lose my nerve and point them to the Oyster Bar.
