There are two kinds of people who use their cell phones on the train: those who deserve to have their lungs torn out by my jagged fingernails, and those who should have their genitalia removed with a rusty tweezer.
At some stops not all the doors open. This is on purpose. I think it’s a safety thing. Often when customers are inconvenienced these days, it is an offering to the Safety god. Before these stops when not all the doors will open, the conductor will announce that only the doors on, say, the third and second-to-last cars will open. Such an announcement would be helpful if it came as the train was going around a big bend, so that one could count to see which car one is on.
Otherwise, it’s not so helpful. Fortunately, there’s always one or two nerds who know exactly what car they are on, so the rest of us just follow them to the open doors. This, by the way, is a beauty of markets — they work pretty well even with limited information.
I’m not sure I’m happy with the fact that I recognize this.
News Flash From My Train: Marge from Burke likes to keep some band-aids handy in her oversized bag.
I learned this because Ted from Manassas had a mysterious hand wound that prompted Marge to offer her remedy. As Ted applied his bandage he marveled at the brilliance — and breathtaking convenience — of carrying a supply of bandages in one’s oversized bag that one crams against the leg of a fellow passenger who is just trying to write his novel so he can stop riding the godforsaken train. This perky conversation gave Sam from Burke an opening to remark on the fascinating title of the paperback Marge was clutching in the hand not overflowing with bandages, “The Earl Grey Killer.” Well this just led to a rollicking good time, as Ted and Marge and Sam bantered back and forth about which teas they like best, how good it tastes with just a pinch of honey in it, and lots of other insights that I missed as I tried for ten minutes to type a single blessed sentence.
The point is, if you are just going to talk about tea, why bother? How can the energy required to open your mouth possibly merit the psychological gain from learning that Sam likes just a swig of milk in his? Perhaps we are just starved for human contact. Not me. I get more than enough on the freaking train.
