Saturday, October 08, 2011

Everything you always wanted to know about a train conductor *But were afraid to ask

Emily, author of the "I ride the Harlem Line" blog has recently been branching out (literally) and visiting, and photographing train stations on the New Haven Line.  Riding the red line must have got her thinking about me, since she recently sent me a list of questions about being a railroad conductor (in general) and this long neglected blog of mine (in particular).  Here's how the Q & A went:

Q:  There are a lot of different types of conductors - some like trains, and others just see it as a job and a means to a paycheck. You mentioned growing up near the rails, and had family members that worked for the railroad - were you interested in the trains as a kid? Are you a little bit of a "train buff"?

 A:  No, I'm definitely not a train buff. In fact, when I was growing up, I was deathly afraid of the railroad tracks.  I grew up six houses south of the tracks in West Haven, CT, and whenever a train went by, our house would shake.  It was as if we lived on the San Andreas Fault.  Guests would regularly hide in closets or stand under secure thresholds whenever the Turbo Train went by.

My grandfather lived next door to me.  He was a retired car inspector for The New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad. He always warned me not to go anywhere near the tracks, and he'd frequently tell horror stories of kids getting their feet stuck in track switches. Trapped like wild animals, they'd ultimately get run over by express trains whose engineers were going so fast they couldn't stop in time.  As if to prove him right, shortly after one Papa's warnings, a middle-aged neighbor was killed while crossing the tracks coming home from a bar late one summer night.  A few months later, on a cold winter's morning, I watched the railroad police as they searched the body of a neighborhood friend as his body lay frozen along the tracks at the end of our street.  He was always doing crazy things, and I later learned that he'd climbed the catenary pole and innocently touched a high voltage wire. I guess my grandfather knew what he was talking about.


Q:  Though it isn't nearly as true as it was in the past, there have been many "railroad families" - sons following in the footsteps of fathers and grandfathers in the service of the railroad. Since you had railroading family members, was this a career path that was encouraged for you and/or your siblings?

A:  I'm a fourth generation railroad worker, so in the back of my mind, I guess I always considered a railroad career an option. 
I shared a bedroom with my brother Brian who is eight years older than me..  He started as an fireman with Penn Central in 1974, and a short time later became a locomotive engineer for Conrail which eventually became Metro North.  I knew firsthand what a railroaders life was like..i.e. getting called for work in the middle of the night, long hours, working seven days a week. I wasn't sure I wanted that kind of lifestyle.  I graduated college in 1985, and still didn't know what I wanted to do with my life.  Brian told me that Metro North was hiring, so I sent in a resume. A few months later I got hired as an asst conductor.   At the time I thought a railroad career beneath me.   After all... I was a college graduate. I told myself I'd only stay until a real job came along. That was 25 years ago....still here... and don't regret it.

Q:  You mention that you got a job with the railroad "until a real job came along." Was there a particular reason that you decided to stay?

A:  I know it's cliche to say, but I truly am a "people person," and when you think about it, we carry some of the most fascinating people in the world. From the captains of industry, to Wall Street billionaires, Hollywood celebrities to street corner drug dealers (okay, maybe drug dealers aren't fascinating, but they are interesting). Our passengers come from all walks of life, and I love to chatting with all of them and learning their life stories.  Also, it's a steady job with good pay and great benefits.  I love my job....not many people can say that.

Q:  My favorite question to ask train conductors is "what is the craziest thing you've ever seen someone bring on a train?" The Wassaic portion of the Harlem Line has almost an "urban legend" that people bring their goats on the train. Have you seen anything nutty over on the New Haven Line?

A:  One afternoon a guy got on in Bridgeport and had something hidden under his leather jacket.  I watched as he sat down and pulled a baby bottle out of his front pocket.  I assumed he had a small child inside his coat and was keeping him warm against the cold winter winds...I was wrong.  When I approached to collect his ticket, a giant brown snout poked through his jacket zipper. I jumped back a step.  "What's THAT?" I shouted.  He chuckled, unzipped his jacket and produced a Wallaby!!!! (as in a mini Kangaroo).  I half expected him to reach inside the joey's pouch and produce his ticket.  "Where did you get that?" I asked.  "I picked her up at Kennedy Airport last week" he said, as if everyone owns a exotic animals. "Is it even legal to own a wallaby?"  I asked.  "Yeah" he answered unconvincingly. (BTW, I just Googled it.  Apparently it is legal).

Q:  As the "conductor to the stars" you've encountered quite a few famous faces while working the rails (though admittedly, I may be too young to recognize all of the names). Do you have a favorite, or most memorable, encounter with anybody famous?

A:  In the early 1990's, comedienne and ex-Saturday Night Live cast member Victoria Jackson used to ride my train on a regular basis.  She is as sweet and wacky as she appears on TV, and I always got a big kick out of talking with her. Our conversations weren't always light and funny though.  Sometimes she'd confide in me about the messy divorce she was going through, once telling me her husband was evil. Other times she'd complain about not getting enough airtime on SNL.  I felt bad for her, and  sometimes I'd pitch skit ideas to her (she never used them).
 One afternoon, Victoria generously offered to get me and my wife tickets to her show.  I told her that we'd love to go but my wife was 8 months pregnant and we'd have to make it very soon.  About a week later, Victoria called my home and told my wife that she had two tickets with our names on them waiting at NBC Studios. It was the last show of the season.  I called her back and asked what time the show ended, and if I would have enough time to catch the last train back to New Haven (01:30AM). She arranged that we'd drive to Westport, then take the train to New York from there.  She'd have her limo drive us back to Westport at the end of the night.


We did as she instructed and drove to Westport, then took the train into NYC.  Just as she said, there were two tickets waiting for us at 30 Rock.  The guest host that evening was John Goodman and Garth Brooks was the musical guest. We loved the show, but couldn't help but notice that Victoria was never on stage during the entire show...not once.  After the finale, we reported to the security guard as instructed and gave him our names.  He called upstairs to her dressing room, then nodding his head in agreement,  pointed us to a bank of elevators.  When we stepped off the elevator , we immediately heard  muffled sobs coming from one of the dressing rooms.  We knocked on the door and found Victoria slouched over a bottle of wine, with streams of black mascara running down her face.  She was crying her eyes out. She sobbed loudly, saying that Lorne (the show producer) had cut her out all her skits and she was going to quit show business.


 Victoria got the call that her limo was ready, so she led us, and the wardrobe women, the hair stylist and the make up artist downstairs, where we all piled in the back of her stretch limo for the ride home.  We shuttled through Manhattan dropping off the SNL crew members on their respective street corners.  Once we were on I-95, she got on her car phone and called her boyfriend in Miami (this was pretty amazing to me, cause this 1992 BC ...before cell phones). She cried all the way back to Westport, and in  famous baby doll voice, told her Miami cop boyfriend that she hated show business and was going to give it all up, move to Miami, and marry him.  She said she wanted to be just like the sweet railroad conductor and his adorable pregnant wife who were sitting across the seat from her.
And that's just what she did.  She quit show biz, moved to Miami, married the cop and had more children.  I guess we inspired her.

Q:  For every famous person you've encountered, you've met quite a few more "ordinary" people. What is your most memorable encounter with a regular "run of the mill" train rider?

A:  My most memorable "ordinary" passenger was probably the extremely grouchy woman who often rode my evening rush hour train home.  This curmudgeon complained every time she saw me, and for some reason, she always seemed to sit in my car.  She'd complain that the train was either too hot or too cold.  The PA was too loud or she couldn't understand my announcements.  She groused about the  train being dirty or that it smelled like a urinal.
 One particular night, she rattled off a laundry list of complaints as I stood patiently by waiting for her to finish.  She went on and on till the surrounding passengers began rolling their eyes.  Some commuters shook their heads and took pity on me. When she finally finished, I took a deep breath and asked, "Did you have a tough day at work today?" She suddenly burst out laughing, and I could see the tension leave her body.  "As a matter of fact I did... it was a horrible day"   she said with a big smile on her face.  She loved me from that day on, and I never heard her complain again...well, almost never.

Q:  Metro-North nights (especially on the NH Line from your stories!!) sound like they can be pretty crazy... yet you seem to prefer the evening trains. I know a conductor's schedule can be difficult with family - does the evening schedule help, or do you like the punishment from the crazy drunks?

A:  A female conductor friend of mine once said that in order to be a conductor on a late night train, you had to have come from a dysfunctional family.  Her theory is that we're survivors and we're the only ones who could put up with all the craziness we encounter. She may be onto something here.


As far as my schedule goes, I hate getting up early in the morning, and in the railroad world, in order to get home at a decent hour, you have to start work at in ungodly hour...like 4AM.  No thanks.  I've missed a lot of my daughters' field hockey/lacrosse games, and parent/teacher conferences (fodder for their therapists sessions someday), but I do get a lot of yard work done during the day.

Q: You've mentioned that you knew a conductor that had a complaint letter written about them because of chewing gum. I've heard some other complaint stories about a conductor that let a bug fly into the train, and that after collecting tickets would spend long periods of time in the bathroom (passenger didn't realize it was the cab!!). Has anyone ever written a complaint about you, or have you heard any other crazy complaint letter stories?

A:  In my 25 years as a conductor, I believe I've only have one complaint letter in my file...but it's a doozy. I heard it was double spaced and eight pages long.  It was sent to the the Railroad Superintendent, the President of Metro North, and the Director of the MTA. The prose was a group effort, written by a posse of obnoxious bar car patrons who thought Metro North rules didn't pertain to them (i.e.smoking on the train). I heard they called me a "fascist". 


I recently heard that a woman on the upper Harlem wrote a letter of complaint, saying she counted 183 automated announcements on her very early morning M-7 train.  I guess she shows up to work a little bleary-eyed.  Not sure how the railroad responded.

Q:  Have you gotten the chance to ride any M8's yet, and if so what do you think about them?

Yes, I've worked the M8's, and I like them.  They're shiny, bright and new...what's not to like?  I just hope I still like them were they're no longer shiny, bright and new.

Q:  Do people on the train ever recognize you based upon your blog? Are any of your passengers aware of it?

Once a passenger saw me walk by and he got very excited...almost star-struck.  "Is that Bobbyderailed?" he asked my assistant conductor. I was flattered that he recognized me, so I walked to where he was sitting and thanked him for reading my blog.  He showed me what he had just tweeted: "Wow!  Bobby from 'Derailed' is the conductor on my train."  I think I stood a little taller that night. 


On the flip side, I once overheard one of the female conductor sharing a funny story in the stationmaster's office.  It seems she had a male passenger on one of her morning trains and the gentleman had an  explosive episode of diarrhea in one of the train bathrooms.  He left the whole area a terrible mess, and at the last minute, he ran out of the lavatory with his pants still unbuckled and scurried off the train just as the doors closed.  She said she didn't know the guy's name, but she was kind of surprised cause he was one of her regular passengers.  "He sounds a little irregular to me," I joked.  I'm leaving out a lot of details, but her story was funny in a disgusting, over the top kind of way.


I took this story and embellished it a humorous blog post and did my best to portray the irregular passenger as weirdo...a real deviant of society.  I must admit, my story was pretty funny and it was a favorite of my readers.
 About a week later, the alleged deviant wrote a letter of apology to the female conductor.  It turns out he's one of my regular readers and he read, and recognized himself in my blog story.  He's also someone I happen to know and like (small world, huh?). To make matters worse, I learned he's battling colon cancer and has problems controlling his bowels. As you can imagine, I felt horrible about how I portrayed him...still do.



Q:  Was there any particular reason you started blogging in the first place? Does your family ever read it/what do they think of it?

A:  A few years back, my nephew's journalist fiance started writing a blog.  They lived in North Carolina and I had never met her, but felt I did since I read about the daily minutiae of her life.  I liked her blog so much that I started commenting on her posts on a regular basis.  Her readers found many of my observations humorous and some petitioned me to start writing a blog of my own.  I was working late night trains out of New Haven at the time, and I knew I had plenty of material to write about.  That's how "Derailed" was born.


My extended family loves my blog, since I often write about family lore.  My nieces and nephews tell me they've learned  a lot about our collective family history from my stories.  They often tell me to cut back on railroad stories and write more about the family.


I had to give my immediate family (particularly my daughters) veto power over of my stories, since I sometimes "over-share."

Q:  Have you ever thought of joining twitter?

A:  No thanks!  Facebook consumes too much of my life already.

Monday, February 07, 2011

Milford Station

I was recently contacted by a writer for Milford Living Magazine, asking me to write my ruminations on Milford Station, and how things have changed on the railroad over the years:

When I first hired out as a conductor on Metro North some 25 years ago, I had little seniority and was forced to work out of Stamford. At the time I lived in West Haven near the Woodmont line, and everyday I'd deadhead (ride the train when not on the clock) from Milford Station to Stamford Yard. All these years later, I still consider Milford as my home station.

I moved east to Clinton 11 years ago, and I now only catch quick glimpses of Milford from my train cab window. I've seen the once quiet shoreline town's mom and pop stores disappear. Upscale boutiques and chi- chi restaurants seemed to have popped up out of nowhere. Gone are the Capitol Theatre and Jake's Cafe (a railroad worker favorite). Fladd's Music, where I once took guitar lessons, is now a yuppie cafe. Even the High Street stop sign has been electrified and blinks its demand in LED lighting ( I hear it's the only one of its kind in the country). The city is beautiful, but it seems to have lost some of its small town charm to a more affluent Fairfield County vibe.

Milford's train Station has changed too. The New York bound side used to abut track # 3, but some years back, the railroad decided that they could save maintenance costs by eliminating a track from Woodmont to Devon. Track #3, which had intersected Milford Station, was removed from service and the New York bound platform was pushed south over the missing track bed. The platform now parallels track #1. West Haven is building a station now, and I hear rumors that they may be putting track #3 back in service. Maybe they should just put a giant concrete slab on wheels and push the platform back and forth at will.

Milford Station's eastbound platform has changed too. It used to fit only four train car lengths, meaning if a Milford passenger was sitting in the front or rear of an 8 or 10 car train, they would have to walk back or forward to exit the train. Inevitably, someone wouldn't hear the conductor's announcement, and they'd be carried by their stop, and end up swearing at the conductor in New Haven. Thankfully, some years back, the platform was lengthened to 10 car lengths, and now the only "carry-bys" are those passengers too glued to their cell phone, or their MP3 headphones to hear the conductor's station announcements.

It's hard to believe now, but 20 years ago the trains still had smoking cars. And because I was the rookie conductor, I was always assigned to the smoke filled cars (cough!!!) and came home reeking of nicotine. The railroad eventually banned smoking on board, but air pollution was quickly replaced by noise pollution. Requests like, "Conductor, can you tell that man to put out his cigarette?...were quickly replaced with..."Conductor, can you please tell that guy on the cellphone to keep his voice down?"

Yes, technology has really taken over. I recently was scouring the train for a copy of The New York Times, and to my amazement, I couldn't find one. It seems everyone subscribes to newspapers on their IPad or Kindle now (at least the ink doesn't rub off on your hands). I must admit, without all those newspapers underfoot, the trains are a lot cleaner... but it will be a cold day in Hell before I buy a copy of The New York Times.

Last week I climbed onto my 40 year old train in New Haven Yard, The cars were ice cold, and the Public Address system didn't work. When we pulled into Milford the doors refused to open. On the platform, a group of Laurelton Hall girls huddled together, giggling about Fairfield Prep boys. I walked over to the frozen door and gave it a swift kick with the heel of my boot. It slid open. It's good to see that some things never change.

Saturday, January 01, 2011

New Year's Eve...BY MYSELF!!!

I worked the last train of 2010 BY MYSELF!!!

In their infinite wisdom, Metro North’s planning department somehow forgot to assign me assistant conductors on a standing room only, eight car train on NEW YEARS EVE!!! (Normally I would have at least two assistants). To add insult to injury, the ticket vending machines on the platforms had a system- wide computer glitch and they weren’t accepting credit/debit cards…meaning tickets had to be purchased from ME!!! But being the excellent employee that I am, I collected tickets in all eight cars, only missing a handful of fares (Do I hear President’s Club nomination anyone?).

When I was boarding the train in New Haven (Did I mention I was by myself?) a nutty looking guy in a grey hoodie sweatshirt pushed by me. He stood out in my mind because he had the hood pulled over his head with the drawstring pulled tight (kind of like Kenny from South Park). This left just a small oval for his eyes, bulbous nose, and grey moustache to poke out into the cool December air. He also had something large and square tucked under his sweatshirt, looking not unlike a homeplate umpire on a cold game during the World Series. I remember thinking, “I gotta keep an eye on this guy…

When I started collecting tickets, I had to keep stepping over the legs of a group of drunken college students, who I later learned were from India. I know I’m stereotyping here, but when I think of Indian college students, I think… conservative, intelligent, studious, hard working, SOBER young adults. This group however was wild. The guys were chasing gulps of Red Bull (the energy drink) with shots of whiskey, and the more the women drank, the more amorous they became. The closer we got to Grand Central, the more cock-eyed they were.

Shortly after Stamford a young women approached me and pointed out the grey hooded sweatshirt man who was now panhandling from the other passenger. “Conductor….I may be paranoid, but that guy is hiding something under his jacket and he’s making me nervous. Sorry to bother you, but as they say…if you see something, say something.”

I told her that she was absolutely right to be concerned, and I was surprised that I hadn’t thought him suspicious myself. I mean, wouldn’t New Year’s Eve be a perfect time for a suicide bomber to strike a crowded train where the conductor is working the train BY HIMSELF???

“Sir,” I said, “would you mind showing me what you have tucked under your jacket? Some of the other passengers are concerned.”

“I don’t have to show you nothin’’” he answered.

“You’re absolutely right, but if you don’t show me what’s hidden under your coat, I’ll have to call the police. Then the train will be delayed and it will be a big hassle.”

After several seconds, he begrudgingly unzipped his hoodie, and pulled up three more layers of filthy, dirty sweatshirt until he finally exposed what looked like a floral chair cushion. My untrained diagnosis is that he is a paranoid schizophrenic and is using the cushion as a poor man’s bullet proof vest.

“Thank you sir. Sorry to bother you. May I have your ticket now?”

“Ain’t got one.”

“We take cash.”

“Ain’t got that either.”

“And where are you going tonight?”

“As far south as I can get.”

“Do you have identification of any kind? I can bill you.”

“The only ID I got are these here tattoos.” He pulls up his sleeves and displays his forearms.

I wasn’t about to read his tattoos, so I said, “Okay, take a seat, and please don’t bother the other passengers.”

At Grand Central, the Indian students staggered off the train. Two of the men had to be supported by their girlfriends just to walk down the platform. The girls were attending to their boyfriends by keeping them hydrated with bottled water. They looked like mother birds feeding their young, pouring H2O into their boyfriend's wide-open, drooling gullets.

“They’re not looking too good.” I said. “Should I call for medical attention?”

“No, thank you,” the girls said. “We’re already late for our party.”

I spend the next several hours drinking coffee in the conductor crew room in Grand Central. Ryan Seacrest is counting down the minutes on TV, while ABC shows an aerial view of the mass of humanity that stands only blocks away from where I’m sitting. Midnight hits and I text my love ones “ Happy New Year.”

It has been a hellish year in which my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer, and has had to endure several surgeries and chemo and radiation treatments that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I then think of the surgeries that still lie ahead.  Jill has been amazing through this whole nightmarish process and I know she'll continue to do great. She's the strongest person I know.

I turn from the TV and say good riddance to 2010 and look forward to a brighter 2011. Then I gear up to work the 2:03AM train back to New Haven… but that’s a whole other story.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Thursday, September 02, 2010

Physical Graffiti


This is worse than the time I dented my wife's newly purchased RAV4.

Fresh off the boat from Japan, some hooligan has already "tagged" one of the new M8 cars with graffiti.  It's not clear where the train was when the vandals struck.  Some say it was in the Brooklyn Navy Yard (where I guess it was unloaded).  Others say in happened in the New Haven rail yard (insert wisecrack about yard security here).

Let's hope the dope spray painted his signature on his "artwork" so the cops can find him easily.

I hear that a team of graffiti-removal specialist has already been dispatched to scrub down the side of the train. I wonder if they can pull a dent out of RAV4?

P.S.  Read comments for more information.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Monday, March 29, 2010

St. Patrick's Day on The Green Line

Glad to see that my Hudson Line brethren got to sample the hooliganism that's standard on the New Haven Line.

Friday, March 05, 2010

99

Bill, my assistant conductor and I are standing at the block in Grand Central loading our train and answering questions of the passing hoards of commuters. In the distance I spot a familiar face. He's hunched over, cane in hand, and hobbling down the platform. He's dressed in a wide lapelled business suit, and wearing a wide red tie. I point the gentleman out to Bill and tell him how I've consistently seen this guy commuting over the past 24 years...and he'd seemed old 24 years ago.


"How old do you think he is?" Bill asks.


"Hmmm....I'm guessing 82."


"Maybe," Bill says. "At any rate...It's time for him to give it up."


"Yeah" I agree. "I guess some guys just don't know when to retire."


The old man is getting closer now, and a woman who appears to be in her early 60's comes trotting up behind him. She grabs his arm and leads him to the open door of our train. The old man looks perturbed by this and he jerks his arm away.


"Dad," she says. "Let me help you on the train."


"I don't need your help!" He shouts.


The daughter seems a little embarrassed by her father's public admonishment, but she ignores him and gently grabs his sleeve and leads him onto the train. A few seconds later, she returns shaking her head. She explains that her father is stubborn, but she'll forgive his acerbity since it's his birthday...his 99th birthday.


"99?" Bill and I both say in unison.


"Yep," the daughter laughs. "He refuses to retire, and even worse, he drives himself home from the train station every night."


I begin daydreaming, picturing the old man peering over his steering wheel while driving down the highway at 15 miles an hour. He's blissfully unaware that his right turn signal has been blinking all the way home.



"What does he do for a living?" I ask.


"He owns a bus company that he started when he was in college. He still wants be involved in the day to day operation and he refuses to retire."


In my daydream, the car turns into a bus. I do some quick calculations in my brain, and realize that he must have founded his company circa 1930. A crank now appears on the grill of my daydream bus.



When I collect the old man's ticket, I wish him a happy birthday, and tell him he doesn't look a day over 80. He smiles, chuckles and says "thanks."


"How long have you been commuting?" I ask.


"Sixty years." He answers.


"How much did a ticket cost 60 years ago?" I ask.


"I don't remember!" He answers sternly... as if to say, "I don't remember much of anything these days."


Later, I imagine myself collecting tickets when I'm 99. Again I do calculations in my brain. I add up the balance on my mortgage. My second mortgage. My daughter's college tuition loans, and I suddenly break out into a cold sweat. The scenario is all too real.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Three pilgrims driving through Rhode Island

We're driving my older daughter to Newport, RI to tour Salve Regina University, and about to cross the bridge into Newport when I launch into this monologue:

"This is Narragansett Bay...named for the Narragansett Indians who once inhabited this area."


My wife doesn't react, instead she reaches into her pocketbook and pulls out $4.00 for the bridge toll.

"Further to our east, lived The Wampanoag Tribe, led by their sachem, Massasoit. Massasoit felt threatened by the powerful Narragansetts, because his tribe had been decimated by a small pox outbreak (thanks to encounters with European fisherman off the New England coast), and their numbers had dwindled down to almost nothing."


My wife looks at the Google map directions and tells me to watch for road signs. I look in the rearview mirror and see that my daughter has plugged her Ipod earbuds in, and is missing my rousing history lesson.

"Massasoit needed allies against the Narragansetts, so he befriended a group of English settlers that had just settled in Plymouth. It was these settlers, or Pilgrims, who joined Massasoit and the Wampanoags in the first Thanksgiving feast."



"How do you remember these things?" My wife asks.



"Well...I just read a book on the Mayflower and..."



"Why didn't you major in History in college?"



"What do you do with an History degree? Well, now that I think about it... probably the same thing I did with my English degree...become a railroad conductor."

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

One off the disabled list...and another goes on.

This is the scene that unfolded in front of my wife and I, as we returned home from my "return to work" physical following double-hernia surgery.

11/10

"Achoo!" A man standing the vestibule convulses in a sneeze. He's carrying an armful of boxes, and is stricken so suddenly, he's unable to cover the burst that spews forward.

"HEY...TRY COVERING YOUR MOUTH WHEN YOU SNEEZE!" Shouts a man in a nearby seat. "I just got back from a week off being sick, and I don't need you sneezing on me."

The man with the boxes chooses to ignore the seated passenger's protests, and when the next station stop arrives, he steps out into a clear cool night...free to spew wherever he chooses.

"BARBARIAN!" The seated man shouts after him.





11/11:

Margaret is a 60 year old construction worker who rides my train on a regular basis. Like the lone apple amongst the three bananas in the old Sesame Street game..."One of these things is not like the other" Margaret looks out of place amongst the grizzled hard hats she boards the train with; looking more schoolmarm, less material elevator operator.

"Hey Margaret," I ask. "How are things on the elevator?"

"Oh...you know Bob. Not bad...

"No Margaret...Wrong answer!" I chastise. "Remember the answer we practiced?"

"Oh yeah...what is it again? Something about... up and down?"

"Ugh... Okay, let's go over it again." I instruct. "Whenever someone asks: How are things on the elevator? You answer...It has its ups and downs."

Margaret gives me a nervous smile, and I tell her that this joke is pure gold. "Think of it as one of the benefits of your job...a kind of perk, like an HMO or a 401K plan. It's kind of like when someone asks me 'Are you still working on the railroad?' I answer... 'All the live long day."

Pure gold!

11/16

*Names have been changed in the following story to protect the innocent.

Garth, my assistant conductor, approaches me with a weekly ticket in his hand. "Look at this " he says, holding out the ticket for me to inspect. I briefly peruse the ticket and see that someone has taken a magic marker and crudely altered its expiration date from 11/13 to 11/18.

Garth says that he told the ticket holder (a high school aged girl) that her ticket was obviously altered, and that she'd either have to pay the fare or get off the train at the next station stop. The girl refuses to do either, so I call for police assistance. The rail traffic controller tells me that the closest available police are in Westport. We're in Darien.

At South Norwalk, two stops before Westport, I notice three girls stepping off, and then back on the rear car of the train. Step off...step on...step off...step on...step off...etc. Finally Pam, a 61 year old assistant conductor, appears at the door of the rear car. From a distance, I watch as silent words are shouted and fingers pointed. All at once the situation escalates. The girls (one being Garth's fare evader) rush Pam with flailing arms and swinging book bags. Pam raises her hands defensively, but the girls are on her like bees on honey. They slap, punch and pull at her with all their might.

Like a play by play announcer, I get on the radio and describe the unfolding situation to the rail traffic controller and say that we need police assistance at South Norwalk station.

Garth pokes his head out the window, just in time to see his fare evader (and two others) run into South Norwalk Station. I'm too far from the altercation to give chase and the perpetrators soon blend into the departing crowd of commuters, never to be seen again. Well almost... remember folks, this is 2009...and big brother is always watching. The MTA police have surveillance photos of the three girls running through South Norwalk Station and today they distributed "Wanted for assault" flyers throughout the railroad.

Unfortunately, Pam suffered two broken fingers, scratches, bruises and bumps. She is now at home resting comfortably. Godspeed Pam!

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Home for the Holiday


I spend a lot of time bashing the ne'er do wells who ride my trains, so today I want to praise Pvt. Luis Feliciano, Army-82nd Airborne. He was on my Waterbury train on Friday night, September 11th (of all days), returning from a stint in the God-forsaken mountains of Afghanistan. He told me that he was heading for his home in Winsted, CT for 30 days of R&R before reporting to Fort Bragg, NC.
"I'm surprising my wife" he said," she has no idea I'm coming home, and hopefully, I can talk her into coming to Ft. Bragg with me."
-
I thanked him for his service and asked how things were in Afghanistan. He said conditions were rough, considering we had to climb snow covered mountains, twenty five thousand feet up where the air is thin..it makes it hard to breathe. "We were trained for these conditions at Fort Drum," he said, "but nothing prepares you for those mountains."
-
When I asked if he'd seen any action, he nonchalantly said that he'd been in a few fire fights...only one scary one...but he acted like it was no big deal. He then changed the subject and asked how much a cab ride would be from Waterbury to Winsted. I was about to say that I had no idea, when another passenger, a fellow Army vet, chimed in saying that Winsted was about 30 miles north of Waterbury...and that a cab ride would cost a bundle..."but don't worry," he said, "cause I'm driving you home tonight."
-
I helped Pvt. Feliciano take his bags off the train, while the army vet got the car and a soft rain began to fall. A street lamp shone upon two silhouettes walking to a late model Ford and loading duffel bags into the trunk. I thought about Luis' unsuspecting wife waiting at home and the surprise that awaited her. I thought about all the members of the service who never made it home. I thought about the families of those lost in the terrorist attacks on that clear, crisp morn eight years ago. It was September 11th...and I got a sudden lump in my throat.

Saturday, September 05, 2009

National Geographic Presents...The week in review

08/29:

An agitated man meets my train in Waterbury and asks what the fare is to Bridgeport. I tell him that it’s only $2.25 and he looks relieved. He tells me that his wife is six months pregnant with their first child and she was just rushed to Bridgeport Hospital with labor pains. He then offers a little too much information, reporting that her doctor just implanted a stent into her uterus to prevent the baby’s head from pushing down on her cervix.

“It’s called a pessary,” I say. “My wife had one when she was pregnant with our youngest daughter.”

“And everything turned out all right?” He asks.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s no big deal.”

“Thanks conductor…. you give me hope.”

OB/GYN advice…Just another service we Metro North conductors provide.

08/31:

Like a pollinating honeybee, a young man is flitting from one female passenger to another. I watch as he briefly hovers over each young flower, each time briefly showing them whatever he’s typed out on his cell phone’s display screen. Once rejected, he buzzes off and lands on the next available petal. Just as I’m about to reach for the Raid, he spots me and flies my way. He points to his ear, grunts, and shows me his disability card. He’s a deaf /mute. He then shows me his cell phone’s display screen:

I am single…do not wish for relationship…but I would like to get together with you…

Boy this guy must be desperate, I think, but then I notice something written in small print at the top of the screen.

How much for disabled fare from WTBY to STAM?

I find a slip of paper, and scribble… $2.50. He says “Thank you” in sign language, then zips off to sip the sweet nectar of a new and unsuspecting blossom.

09/01:

When I was in 5th grade, Sister Adele introduced our class to the reference room of our library at St. Lawrence Grammar School. Before long, we boys discovered a pile of National Geographic Magazines hidden in the deep recesses of a corner bookshelf. Huddled in pods, we’d pour over the well-worn pages of the African tribe pictorials like Anthropologist studying for our doctoral thesis. Margaret Meade had nothing on us. Here we’d see multi-tasking, bare breasted women nursing their young, while carrying clay pots of water atop their heads. Tribesmen were bejeweled and covered in war paint, sitting by campfires, sharpening spares before the big rhino hunt, some flashing toothless grins at the strange and foreign camera. This is how I envisioned the denizens of the African Continent. But Mayan says I have it all wrong.

Mayan is a 40 something nurses aide who rides my Waterbury train. She originally worked as a journalist back in Africa, but says it was a dangerous job where criticizing the government could cost you life and limb. She said she now regularly works 100-hour weeks to help support her two sons and fifteen brothers and sisters back in Nigeria.

One day Mayan told me that Nigeria is a polygamist society and that her father had four wives.

“Wow,” I said. “Four wives. That must be great.”

“Really?” said Mayan, seeming surprised.

“Yeah”, I mean, what are the chances that they’d all have headaches on the same night?”

She laughed a deep hearty laugh, glanced at my name badge, and in a thick African accent said:

“Oh, you bad man…Mr. Mc Donuff. McDonuff…That Irish?”

“Yep.”

“Then you like the Guinness?

“No…I don’t drink.”

“What?” She seemed shocked. “I’m more Irish than you. I love the Guinness. We Africans love the Guinness.”

“Really? I said. “I thought you only drank milk from cocoanuts.”

She laughed again, saying that we Americans are so self-absorbed that we know nothing of other people’s culture.

“Do you like the country music?” she asked.

“You mean like “Ladysmith Black Mambazo?”

“Nooooo!” She laughed again. “Like Kenny Chesney, Randy Travis, Reba McEntire?”

“Wait a minute…you mean to say that Africans listen to American County Music?”

“See what I’m saying about Americans….Yes, we Africans love the American Country Music. In fact, Dolly Parton… She is very big over there.

“Dolly Parton is very big everywhere.” I said.

This took a minute to register, and then she let out a big hearty laugh.

“Oh… you are bad man.. Mr. Mc Donuff.”

“Okay, I said. “When you Africans are drinking Guinness and listening to Dolly Parton, are you usually naked and sitting around a campfire?

“What! She laughed again. “Where do you Americans get these crazy ideas?

I was going to tell her about Sister Adele, 5th grade and the National Geographic pictorials, but she had shattered enough myths for one day and I moved onto the next passenger.

-The next passenger was a woman, Bible in hand, holding a revival meeting in the head car. She shouted that we were all fornicators who needed to be saved from are sinful ways. She implored Jesus’ name several times, saying that the wages of sin were heavy and we would all suffer eternal damnation and perish in the fires of Hell. She testified that her husband was in captivity (i.e. jail) because of his lust and fornication. I was about to step in at this point, but the woman was on a roll. Besides, I remembered her from a month earlier when she sang gospel songs all the way from Bridgeport to Waterbury. I recall that I interrupted her during a rousing version of “Amazing Grace” and asked her “pipe down.” She did momentarily, but then raised her palms, stared up into the fluorescent lights and broke out into “Nearer to Thee” as a tear rolled down her cheek.

Sometimes it’s easier to walk away.

09/03:

“Yo, conductor…remember me?”

I didn’t at first.

“Yeah man I’m the guy with the pregnant wife from last week.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, “How are things going?”

“Not so good. We lost the baby.”

“Oh, I’m very sorry.”

“Yeah so am I.” His eyes now filled with tears.

“Well…you can always try again.”

He wiped a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand, then said, “Yeah, I’m good at the trying part.”

Grief counseling…just another service we Metro North conductors provide.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Dominick Dunne 1925-2009

News came yesterday of the death of bestselling author Dominick Dunne. He was of 83.

Mr. Dunne had been an occasional passenger on my train, and I wrote about him back in May of 2006. Here's the link: http://bobbyderailed.blogspot.com/search?q=dominick+dunne

We've lost two of my favorite writers over the past couple of months; first "Angela's Ashes" author Frank McCourt, now Mr. Dunne. I was fortunate enough to have met both of these fine gentleman. I'm sure St. Peter is being charmed by these two wonderful story tellers.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Trespasser Gone Wild and Ashleigh

If you happened to be listening to the railroad radio channel at 8PM on 08/13/09, this is what you would have heard:

Train 1107: Metro North train 1107 to Central District G...


Rail Traffic Controller: District G to 1107...you called?

Yes sir. I just spotted two trespassers by the side of the tracks in the vicinity of Catenary 874...just west of Milford station. Over...

You got a description. Over...

Two Caucasians, maybe in their 20's. One male. One female...blond...and she's topless. Over...


She's what? Over...


Yeah, I just got a quick glimpse...but she appears to be topless. Over...

Roger. I guess today's your lucky day.

Train 1107 was just two trains ahead of mine and we were rapidly approaching caternary 874. "Did you hear that transmission?" I asked my engineer over the PA. Then..

Central to train 1591 (the train immediately ahead of mine).

Metro North 1591 to G...go ahead. Over...

Be on the look out for two trespassers in the vicinity of cat 874. One male. One blond-topless female. Over...

Rogggger! (chuckles)

And let me know what you see. Over...(I've never heard an RTC express such interest in a trespasser before.)

(ha! ha!) Train 1591 to Central G. Over...

Go ahead 1591. Over...

Yeah...they're still there...caternary 874. She flashed me just as we passed.

Roger. Central district G to the train 1109 (my train). Be on the look out for trespassers in the area caternary 874. One male Caucasian. One female Caucasian, blond- topless.


"I'm glad he cleared that up." I said to my engineer. "I wouldn't want to confuse this topless woman with a brunette, or African American one."


Safety is always my first priority, so I positioned myself at the barrell end door window at the front of the train...uh, for safety sake...yeah, that's it...for safety sake. "Caternary 877-876-875" I was counting down. My heavy breathing fogged up the window and I had to wipe the condensation from the glass. "Here we are ...caternary 874 and...and...and...nothin'.

Train 1109 to Central G. There are no trespassers in the area. Just two Metro North trucks.

I turned to my engineer and asked, "since when does the track department chase trespassers off of the right of way?"


08/17/09

After a month of service disruption, the Waterbury train returned to service, and as if to welcome me back, the very first customer I encountered paid the $2.25 fare with 225 pennies.


08/19/09

I was boarding the train in Grand Central, when a woman who looked exactly like former MSNBC reporter Ashleigh Banfield ran past me. A few years back, the bespectacled Banfield was the hot rising celebrity journalist, and her reports were all over the cable news channels. But then she criticized NBC and ticked off the studio brass. They fired her, and now she works for Court TV (Tru TV).

When I collected the woman's ticket, I thought that I was mistaken. Now, up close, this woman looked too young and blond to be Asleigh..

"For a minute there, I thought you were Ashleigh Banfield." I said.


"Yeah," she said. "I've heard that before."


"But you're much younger."


"Bless you." She said.


The woman's husband was sitting next to her, he looked up, laughed and said, "You're kidding...right? This is Ashleigh."


"Wow. You're younger than you look on TV."


"Well," she said. "I like to tell people that I'm 50 ( she's 41), then they think I look great for my age."

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Maybe Obama will invite me over for a root beer (I don't drink)

This whole Henry Louis Gates/Officer James Crowley controversy has got me thinking about two incidents that happened to me several years back.


Some 18 years ago, I was collecting tickets on an early morning train when I came upon a bench/row where all three seats were occupied by passengers. Being observant, I noticed that I had previously placed two seat checks in front of two of the passengers here. This meant that there was a recent arrival and someone owed me a ticket. I used logic and assumed that the gentleman sitting on the aisle was the last to enter the row...therefore, he was the one who owed me the fare.

"Tickets please!" I addressed the well dressed African-American businessman in the aisle seat. He ignored me.

"Excuse me sir...can I get your ticket please."

The man slowly folded his newspaper and looked up at me with daggers in his eyes and smoke coming out of his ears.

"Let me ask you something conductor...There's three of us sitting here." He pointed to his two seatmates, a white woman sandwiched next to him, and a white man whose face was crammed against the window. "And yet... you only ask ME for a ticket."

I'm a little slow, especially at 6AM, and I wasn't catching his drift. The woman seated in the middle seat nervously rummaged through her pocketbook and handed me her ticket.

"That's right," he repeated, now knowing he had an audience. "There's three of us sitting here...and yet you only ask ME for a ticket. Hmmmm....Why is that???"

I finally realized that he was accusing me of racial profiling.

"Sir." I felt insulted. "I asked you, because you're on the aisle and I assumed that you must have been the last to enter the row."

"Yeah," he said. "You and I BOTH know what you assumed." With a snap of his wrist, he unfolded his newspaper and continued reading.

I stood there hurt, stunned and amazed and I didn't know what to say next. I finally blurted out... "You're paranoid" and I walked away.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that racial profiling doesn't exist or that it isn't a major problem in the minority community. I'm just saying that sometimes...sometimes...sometimes a guy is just trying to do his job.


The second incident happened over 20 years ago. It's a tale about my short lived life of crime. I've covered the story before on these pages, so instead of repeating myself, I'll give you the link from my archives:

http://bobbyderailed.blogspot.com/2006/06/breaking-and-entering.html

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Car plunges onto tracks in New Rochelle



Thanks for the link Marcellus.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Helter Skelter


It’s Friday afternoon and I’m standing outside a Connecticut Transit bus in Waterbury. A little guy who’s covered in paint, maybe 60-years old, approaches me. He looks a lot like mass-murderer Charles Manson.

“Yo dude!” He says. When’s the next train to Derby?”


“There is no train,” I explain. “They’re doing track work on the line. You’ll have to take this bus.”

He takes a puff of his cigarette, chokes back his alcohol tinged breath and asks, “Yeah…but when’s the next train to Derby?”

“Oh…sometime in mid-August” I say.

He exhales, blows smoke in my face and says, “Yeah…but really, when’s the next train?”

We went on like this for several minutes till I finally lost my patience, raised my voice and said, “Listen…either get on the bus or stay here.”

Charlie doesn’t like my attitude, but he finally puts out his cigarette and climbs on the bus/train. He sits down next to me, and the smell of smoke and stale beer permeates the air. His cell phone rings:

“Yeah…I’m on my way,” he yells into the phone. “I’ll be there in …” He turns and asks, “how long till Derby?”

“About half an hour.”

“Yeah… I’m on my way…I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Charlie pushes the end button on his phone, apologizes, and explains that he’s a painting contractor and his crew is working on a house in Derby. He complains that they’re dogging him, since they’re only painting a five room house…and it’s taken almost three weeks… and they’re still not done. He says that all of the crewmembers are homeless, but he’s worked out a deal with the homeowner that allows them to stay in the house- free of charge- while they’re doing their work.

“No wonder it’s taking so long,” I say. “If I had that deal…I’d be painting with a toothbrush.”

“Yeah, I know” says Charlie, “But three weeks is long enough. I need to get paid. So today… I’m paying them a little surprise visit and I'm gonna see what's up.”

Charlie’s phone rings again: “Yeah…don’t get nervous…I’ll be there in like 15 minutes.”


“Sorry about that,” Charlie says, “but the crew’s picking me up at the station, and they’re a little nervous.”

“That’s not much of a surprise visit,” I say.

“Yeah…well” he stammers. “I have to make do. The cops took my license a few months back. All because of a burned out tail light.”

I sit there waiting for part two to this statement. Something like:

“All because of a burned out tail light …and a blood alcohol level twice the legal limit.”

Or

“All because of a burned out tail light…and a dead body in the trunk.

But no part two is offered, and I’m afraid to ask any more questions. Instead I imagine different contractors plying their trade from a Connecticut Transit bus…maybe a mason storing bricks in the overhead rack…a carpenter piling 2x4’s in the aisle…an electrician with romex wire wrapped around one arm while pulling the stop cord with the other.

I awaken from my day dream and say, “It must be hard to be a painting contractor, and have to rely on public transportation. I mean, what if you were a plumber? Where would you put your pipes?”

Charlie ignores me and his phone rings again. “Jesus Christ!” He shouts.

“Yeah…I’ll be there in like five minutes. Don’t forget to caulk the nail holes on the molding. Just take a wet a rag and wipe off the excess.”

Ten minutes later we pull into Derby Station where Charlie’s minions are anxiously awaiting his arrival. They seem happy to see him…maybe a little too happy. A bearded man greets him with an “I’m not worthy” bow, while a braless woman bounds out of an green Chevy van with a ladders on top. She plants a big wet kiss on his mouth.

I check their foreheads for swastikas.

Charlie’s “family “jubilantly jumps into the van, and it recklessly swerves in front of our bus. It’s then I notice…a tail light is burned out.


Monday, July 20, 2009

The month in review

6/20-Train 6362-

So this guy approaches me as I’m making my pre-departure announcements on a jam-packed Stamford local train in Grand Central. He complains that the train is crowded, and says that a woman in the next car has packages on the only available seat on the train. He says that he politely asked her to remove her belongings, but she patently refused. I tell him that I’ll talk to her, and he follows as I walk to the next car to confront an attractive, nicely dressed, Asian woman.

“Excuse me ma’am… but this gentleman would like to sit here and you’re bags are on the seat. Can you please remove them?”

She’s looks out the window and pretends she doesn’t hear me. Again I repeat my request.

“Hello…Can you please remove your bags?”

“No,” she says finally. “I’m tired and I need my bags here.”

“We’re all tired ma’am…Especially this gentleman.” I point to my left… “That’s why he wants to sit down.”

“I’m sure he can find a seat elsewhere.” She says defiantly.

Surrounding passengers overhear our conversation and they look astounded by this woman’s attitude.

“Listen,” I say. “This gentleman wants to sit down…and if you’re not willing to remove your bags, I’m going to charge you for the obstructed seat. And… if you refuse to pay… I’ll call for the police and have you removed from the train.”

With that the woman snatches her bags off the seat, turns, glares at me and says: “You’re only picking on me cause I’m Asian.”

The surrounding passengers break out into laughter. “Oh give me a break!” Says an Asian woman in a nearby row.

“Is that the best you got?” I ask.

“Yep!” She says sheepishly, now realizing that she may have overplayed her hand by pulling the race card.

With that, the male passenger plops down in his seat, and the car breaks out in thunderous applause.


6/25-5:51PM-Train 1464- Grand Central-Two minutes before departure time:

Ring-Ring-Ring! I answer my cell phone:

Me: Hello!

Wife: Channel 8 just came on with a special report, saying that Michael Jackson has died of a heart attack.

Me: No way!

Wife: There are conflicting reports…but channel 8 says he’s dead.

Me: Wow!

I grew up listening to Michael and I’m truly stunned. His song catalog begins playing in my head.

It’s now 5:53PM, leaving time. I make my final announcement, and look out over the unsuspecting passengers, none of them knowing that the world has changed forever. I briefly think of sharing the news over the public address system; a news bulletin of sorts…. hot of the presses. I eventually think better of it, deeming it too unprofessional. But still, I have hot news and I feel an obligation to share it…even if I have to use non-sequiturs.

“Tickets Please!” I shout. “Thank you…Thank you…Hey buddy, did you know that Michael Jackson just died?”

“That will be $3.00 extra ma’am…and did you hear that Michael Jackson just passed away?”

“Really?” They say. “Where? When? How?”

I puff out my chest and say thing like, “Well I don’t have all the details, but…”

Other passengers peer over their newspapers… “Who died?” They ask looking shocked.

“Michael Jackson” I answer proudly, now shaking my mournful head for added effect. “A real tragedy...and so young.”

I’m starting to take perverse pleasure in sharing this shocking news.

As I progress up the aisle, passengers begin getting tweets, texts and emails from family and friends telling them of Jackson's untimely death. Others have discovered the news on their laptops through websites like TMZ and Perez Hilton. The further I progress up the aisle, the staler my news gets.

Damned technology!


07/02/09- train 1464:

My train is deadheading (no passengers) from South Norwalk to Bridgeport when we get a call from the rail traffic controller in New York. He asks us to bring our train to a safe stop and wants my engineer and I to inspect our equipment for evidence of a “possible hit.”

Apparently, a homeless man has just been found decapitated under the platform at South Norwalk Train Station and the RTC believes that our train may have hit him. We were one of the last trains through the area and it’s possible that we could have hit someone and didn't even notice.

After taking a hold on the adjoining track, we inspect the engine and brake shoes for blood, hair, or other body matter. Luckily, we find nothing but a starling with its feathers flattened against the engine’s air hoses. I climb back on our train, radio in hand, and hear the train that's immediately behind us report “hit evidence” on their equipment.

Five minutes later, I back my train out to Jenkins Curve. Here the tracks are elevated and overlook the outfield of Harbor Yard Ballpark in Bridgeport. Baseball great Tommy John manages The Bridgeport Bluefish minor league baseball team. It’s the 7th inning stretch and I watch as three

grown men dressed as hot dogs race down the first base line.


One minute I’m looking for body parts…the next I’m watching racing weenies.

I have a strange job.


7/09/09-train 1464-

We’ve just left Grand Central and I’m collecting tickets, when a businesswoman asks if I’ve met “the stewardess” yet. “Stewardess?” I ask.

“Oh…you’ll see,” she warns. "She’s one car up.”

I look forward and through the window I see a short, impish looking, middle-aged woman with dyed blond hair. She’s standing in the aisle and all passenger eyes are turned toward her. She turns, spots me, and comes racing back.

“Hey darlin” she says. “What are you called?”

“I’m the conductor…Can I help you?”

“What’s that on your face?” She asks, then rubs my cheek with a manicured fingernail.

“A bit of poison ivy,” I say.

“Bullshit!” She screams. Startled, I jump back. "You cut yourself shaving."

She then shifted gears and went in a whole different direction:

“I’ll have you know that I’m a porn actress, and I was in the movie “One Night in Paris” and I made $100,000. All my friends here (she points to the passengers), they was in the movie too. These woman, they’re jealous cause they only made $1000 and the men…they did it for free.”

“Really?”

“Yep…and I can see you’re jealous too. Now let me see your pecker…go on …whip it out.”

“No ma’am,” I say. “I think you need to take a seat and stop bothering people.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Where you going today?” I ask.

“Toronto.”

“Well then you’re on the wrong train.”

“Really?” She seems surprised.

She then becomes distracted, and starts staring at a pretty young lady who is one of my regular passengers.

“Hey,” she says, “You see that blond bitch over there…the one with the sunglasses on top of her head.”

“Yeah.” I say playing along.

“Those are my sunglasses and that bitch stole ‘em from me.”

With that, she goes racing toward the woman and starts screaming at her. “Those are MY sunglasses…give ‘em back, bitch.” The girl looks terrified…and I realize that this woman is not only a danger to herself but others as well. I get on the radio.

Me: Metro North train 1470 to district E. I have a mentally disturbed woman on board and I’m going to need police assistance.

RTC: Standby.

While I’m waiting for the RTC to respond, a businessman approaches and says that earlier, the woman was lifting her shirt and exposing herself to all the male passengers.

RTC: There are no police in the area… The closest cops are in Stamford.

(Stamford was 15 minutes away)

Me: Okay…I guess it’ll have to be Stamford.

The woman finds her sunglasses in her pocket, and apologizes to the blond bitch. She then moves to a group of male passengers who are standing in the vestibule area She yanks a Budweiser from one guy’s hand, chugs it, and throws the empty can over her head…narrowly missing a pregnant woman and showering surrounding passengers in beer foam.

“Hey! Stop that.” I demand.

“F*&K YOU!” She says.

Next she finds an abandoned can of Red Bull. Chugs it, throws it to the floor and crushes it below her foot. She then spits on the floor and smears the yellowish-green puddle with the sole of her shoe.

“Please don’t spit.” I say.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “ I ain’t got no AIDS.”

She then begins ripping the pull cord from a windbreaker that is wrapped around her waist.

“Gordie Howe is my father.” She says, apropos of nothing.

She takes the cord and begins wrapping it around her waist like a belt.

“Gordie Howe the hockey player?” I ask.

“Oh he can’t play hockey for shiiiittt!”

Suddenly, she runs to the head car of the train and I follow close by. “Hey everybody,” she shouts. “This prick is stalking me.”

She stops her march, turns and announces “I am a porn actress and I was in the movie One Night in Paris. I earned $100,000 for my performance. She points to a college-aged girl who was sitting near by:

”You was in the movie too, weren’t ya…tell ‘em.” She points at me. “Don’t be shy…tell ‘em.”

The girl seems nervous, and nods her head in agreement.

“Ha! Told ya.” She looks vindicated.

“By the way…did I tell you that Gordie Howe is my husband?”

“I thought you said he was your father?”

“Oh…never mind.”

My new friend tugs at the cord she’s fashioned around her waist and announces:
“Folks…I’m gonna strip for ya now.” She then removes her belt and lifts her t-shirt exposing her drooping breasts. Luckily, we’re pulling into Stamford and four MTA police officers are waiting on the platform. They interrupt her performance, each grabbing an arm and removing her from the train without incident. We pull out of the station and I watch as an EMT wheels her stretcher down the platform.


And how was your month at work?

Wednesday, July 08, 2009

Train vs. Tornado

My bet was on the train...boy was I wrong.

Saturday, July 04, 2009

200000

In December of 1990, my wife and I purchased a brand new 1991 Acura Integra. It was one of the best purchases we ever made.

Yesterday the ol' Acura hit a new milestone and I captured it on my cellphone video camera (it was filmed on a deserted country road.) Please excuse the wind tunnel noise you hear, but the car windows were open since the air conditioning compressor is shot. I thought about playing "Star and Stripes Forever" in the background as the odometer turned (for dramatic effect) but then I remembered that the radio/cassette player got fried last year when I spilled a cup of Diet Coke all over the dashboard. The car also has a cracked windshield and plenty of dents and dings, and my daughters refuse to be seen in it. But hey... it's paid for.

My friend Frank always criticizes me for buying Japanese cars. He calls me "unpatriotic" and "un-American " and he says that I drive a "rice burner." Well Frank, when Detroit starts making cars as reliable as Honda and Toyota...I'll be happy to buy one.