Dorothy, Miss Diva and Me

 The Waterbury Line has been shut down for the past couple of months and instead of trains; Metro North has been running Connecticut Transit Buses.  Metro North conductors ride these buses, answer questions, collect tickets, and act as company representatives. I've gotten called in on my day off to cover bus jobs several times over the past month.  Sure, I get a little bus sick winding through the curvy roads of the Naugatuck River Valley, but it's overtime pay, and with two daughters in college, I can't refuse the offer.

Last week, I worked with a 50-year-old African American bus driver, a woman who prefers to be called "Miss Diva." I never got her real name, but this moniker seemed to fit her perfectly.  She batted her false eyelashes as she pulled out a glossy index card sized flyer from her purse and handed it to me.  She pointed to the front of the card with a meticulously manicured index finger..."That's me!" she said.  There on the cover was a picture of an attractive black woman in a white halter-top dress.  She stood with one hand on her hip as her eyes flirted with the camera lens.  At the top of the card in big loopy letters, it read;  "Come celebrate Miss Diva's 50th birthday" and in smaller letters at the bottom it instructed: "Please wear white."

"Wow!" I said.  "This is just like those black and white parties that P. Diddy throws out in the Hamptons."

"Yeah...It's something like that," Miss Diva said coolly, and then she returned the flyer to her purse.

 Who is this woman?  I thought, and slowly, throughout the rest of the day... piece by piece, I found out.

Like most of us, it seems, a life in transportation wasn't Miss Diva's first choice. She told me that she went to college in Florida and studied journalism and earned her bachelor's degree.  Shortly after graduating she became a reporter, then an anchorwoman for a small television station in Tallahassee.  Soon after covering the live remote of the Ted Bundy execution, she got a call that her mother had taken ill in Connecticut.  At the time she was newly divorced and had a small daughter, but she uprooted her life and came to Stamford to nurse her mother back to health.  She got a part time job working as a journalist for the Stamford Advocate, but like most part time jobs, it didn't have health benefits.  Her mother, a retired Connecticut Transit bus driver, suggested she get her commercial driver's license and apply to her old company. "At least she'd have benefits," she said. That was 22 years ago.  Now she has the most seniority of the females who work out of Stamford Terminal. Therefore she calls herself "The First Lady"... "Just like Michelle Obama."

On our second to last run of the night, I stepped on the bus in Waterbury at leaving time when "Miss Diva" looked over her sunglasses and said to me, "Baby.... we got ourselves a problem". The divine Miss D seemed exasperated and gave her head two quick nods to the right, her large gold earrings swaying, as if to say get a load of this one.  The target of the nod was a petite woman who sat just feet away in the handicapped seats.

 "It seems," Miss Diva said, "That someone here don't want to shut her damn music off on MY bus."

"Someone here," the petite woman shot back, "needs to learn how to speak to PAYING CUSTOMERS!"

The petite woman, who I will call Dorothy, was wearing a hooded powder blue sweatshirt with the strings pulled tight around her face.  Her skin was tanned with deep crevices and I'm guessing her to be also about 50 years of age.  She was missing some teeth and looked not unlike the "after" on one of those "before and after" mug shots that the drug council posts on their public service billboards that warn of the devastating effects of drug abuse on your appearance.

"Come on!" I said to Dorothy in a friendly manner. "You know you can't blast your music on the train.... errrr.... I mean bus." I quickly corrected myself and took a seat next to her.  I went onto explain that the driver was just doing her job, and that although she may enjoy playing her iPod selections, not everyone shares her same taste in music, and the other passengers might get annoyed.

"You know, I'm not a piece of shit, " Dorothy said,” and I don't expect to treated like one." To add emphasis to her rage, she whipped off the hood of her sweatshirt, revealing an unkempt tuft of frosted gray hair with blond tips.  I couldn't help but think she looked a little like Woodstock from the Peanuts comic strip.

"I'm a good person," She continued. "I even volunteer my time to the Catholic church...just like Michelangelo did when he painted that ceiling. When we get to the Pearly Gates, God's gonna take a snapshot of our lives...and he's gonna judge us on the little things...LIKE HOW A BUS DRIVER TREATS THE LITTLE PEOPLE ON HER BUS!!!  St. Peter is either gonna let you in the gate, or YOU'RE GOIN' DOWN IN THE ASHES!

I asked Dorothy if she'd thought she'd pass judgment

"Yeah" She said.  "He's gonna say...DOROTHY...STEP RIGHT INSIDE!  I don't know about the rest of you folks on this bus though." She made sure she made this last statement loud enough for Miss Diva to hear.  Miss D chose to ignore her.

 Dorothy went on to tell me what a good person she was, and that not only does she volunteer her time to the Catholic Church...just like Michelangelo did when he painted The Sistine Chapel, but she also works as a clairvoyant who helps solve murders for the local police departments.  I had to stop her here...

"First of all," I said.  I don't think Michelangelo spent all those years on his back painting that ceiling for free.  I'm pretty sure the Vatican or the Medici Family paid him for his time."

Dorothy insisted that Michelangelo worked for free.   "Sure," She said.  "He might have gotten paid to paint the Mona Lisa, but he volunteered..."

'No," I corrected her.  "The Mona Lisa was DaVinci..."

"Oh, Right" she said..."The Da Vinci code."  I could tell she now thought me a smart ass, and she was beginning to tire of our conversation.

I then told Dorothy that my new favorite show was "Long Island Medium" and I asked if she was a Medium.  "No," she replied, now looking annoyed. "Because you look more like a small." I wanted her to chuckle, but apparently she was still peeved.

"I'm a clairvoyant,” she explained.  "I don't see dead people...I see the future."

"Really!  What do you see in my future?" I asked.

"I don't know you well enough to see your future. I'd have to know you for at least three months before I could read you."  This is what she said, but I got the feeling she was still mad at me for reprimanding her about her iPod.

"Okay then," I said.  "Do you know who killed Jon Benet Ramsey?" (The unsolved case of the 6 yr old beauty pageant queen who was killed in Colorado some years back.)

"Sure," she said. "It was a family friend."

"Her parents weren't involved?"

"No. They're both dead now anyway."

I hated to correct her again, but I told her that Jon Benet’s mother had died, but her father was very much alive and had recently gotten remarried.

"Oh, that's right.  He married Natalee Holloway's mother." (Wrong again, but I didn't have the heart to correct her.)  "I solved that case too,” she said.  The sharks got to Natalee long before the police could find her body."

"Then it wasn't the Dutch guy who killed her?"

"Yeah," she said, "It was the Dutch guy, but they'll never find her body on account of the sharks."(I now envision gnawed bones washing up on the shores of Aruba.)

"I also know what happened to Billy, the local guy missing from Naugatuck," she said. "Because...people on the streets talk." That's hardly being clairvoyant, I think.  That's just keeping your ears open.  I begin to open my mouth but then I think better of it.

As we pulled into Naugatuck Station parking lot, her stop, Dorothy had one last prediction.  "I'm sure this one here," now nodding to Miss Diva, "has the Po-Po waiting to arrest me." But she was wrong again.  Miss Diva was more than happy to let me handle the unruly passengers on the bus.  I guess that's part of the reason we're there.

As the bus pulled away from the station, I think of all the interesting people I'd met that day.  The tattooed mother of three who is a dead ringer for soccer star Mia Ham.  The nasty school marm type who refuses to give me her ticket before she boards the bus.  The divalicious bus driver who, if life hadn't intervened, could have been the next Oprah Winfrey or Wendy Williams. And finally, the petite clairvoyant woman who awaits her great reward in Heaven alongside Michelangelo.  None of us knows what the future holds.

Okay...maybe Dorothy does.

Once in a Blue Moon

Yes folks, we encountered a "Blue Moon" at the end of August (meaning the second full moon of the month...which is very rare.  It only happens once in a blue moon).  But I didn't have to look up at the evening sky to tell you that.  I just had to ride my train...or ask my coworker Paul.

Poor Paul, in the head car of our Sunday afternoon train to New Haven, he dealt with 6 drunk and disorderly passengers.  Then a 400 lb man in a johnny coat boarded the train and he was wearing a big sign that read "Just released from Stamford Hospital.".  THEN he caught an extremely amorous couple in a compromising position (use your XXX imagination). I asked him if it was his craziest day on the railroad. He said "No...that would've been the day a midget woman got trapped in the bathroom when a piece of sheet metal blocked the door. She had to climb on top of the sink, then jump on my back. She rode me piggy back style down the aisle as all the passengers cheered."

Maybe I didn't even have to ask Paul to know it was a Blue Moon...maybe I could have just ridden the Harlem Line. It seems that someone likes to talk loud on their cellphone but doesn't appreciate it when other people "shhhhh" him. (Don't watch if you're easily offended by harsh language).

The psychic conductor

I had to wake up a really drunk guy yesterday to get his fare. His ticket said he was going to Bridgeport, so I told him to stay awake or he'd miss his stop. He asked me to wake him up when we got to his station. I told him that I was a little busy so he'd have to stay awake. Sure enough, he was fast asleep when we pulled into Bridgeport...so I woke him up. I guess he didn't remember our previous conversation, since at first he seemed amazed that I knew where he was going, like I was a psychic or something.

  "Wow! He said, "Do you know me?"

 Then his attitude changed and he seemed annoyed, and acted as if I was racially profiling him since he was Hispanic, and I must have assumed he was going to Bridgeport. Ugh! Next time I'll let him sleep past his stop.

A typical day on Metro North

This video should be shown as part of conductor training at Metro North.  Conductor John (my 2nd cousin) shows an abundance of patience and humor when dealing with a fare beater who says she left her ticket on the seat and that someone must have taken it (this seems to be a very popular ploy lately).  Kudos to you John!

The closing line of the video is CLASSIC!

"It wasn't like it was Dave Matthews!"

Last week, my nephew Ryan (also a conductor) was walking down the pedestrian ramp to the lower level in Grand Central when he ran across a family trying out the "Whispering Walls." ( For those of you who don't know, the "whispering walls" is a structural phenomenon just outside the Oyster Bar Restaurant.  There, due to an arched ceiling, one can whisper into a corner and the sound waves carry to a partner(s) standing in an opposing corner(s).
Ryan thought it strange that the family had two NYPD officers escorting them, so he took a closer look and realized that the whispering father was none other than Sir Paul McCartney.  His new bride Nancy (a former MTA Board member) and young daughter Beatrice were standing in the opposite corners.  Ryan, knowing I'm the self proclaimed "Conductor to the Stars" and a huge Beatle fan, was more than happy to call me up and share the news (otherwise known as rubbing it in my face.)

"PAUL MCCARTNEY!"  I screamed.

Ryan, now feeling self satisfied, could sense my envy through the phone.

"What did you say to him?" I asked anxiously.

"Hi!"  Ryan answered matter of factly.

"And what did Paul say to you?"

Nephew seemed to think this a stupid question.

"Well....he said 'Hi!' back."

"Let me get this straight,  You meet Paul McCartney....and the best you can do is say...Hi!???

Ryan seemed unfazed, then answered.  "Well, he was with his family, and I didn't want to bother him, and besides...It wasn't like it was Dave Matthews!"

 Ugh!

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.

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.

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.

New Haven Register 11/25/10

Today the New Haven Register used a snippet of a story I told here a few years ago:

http://www.nhregister.com/articles/2010/11/25/life/doc4ceda2a0ecadd377187388.txt?viewmode=fullstory

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.

WPIX Report

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.

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.

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."

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!

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.

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.

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.

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."

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