The Characters of My Line

Shame on me for my blogs being sparse. I'll make up for it I swear.

Some more Metro-North Commuter Rail Characters:

A ratty little woman with very long hair. This hair is very stringy, and all different lengths. She is soo skinny, without much muscle in her legs. She always wears a suit with the jacket way too big and pants way too small, so she looks like a corporate football player with her triangle shoulders and petite stick legs. She compliments this ill-fitting outfit with dark stockings, and yes, sneakers.

Why do women wear sneakers with stockings? My old principle used to do it as well; reasoning that she was on her feet all day. Then why not relax the dress code and wear designer jeans, a simple tee shirt, and then the sneakers... thus looking uniformly chic. I don't care how much you paid for your Armani, if you've got big white sports kicks on, there is no redemption.

Next, Mr. Diet Pepsi Man. Every morning, after locking up my ten speed at the communal bike lot, I walk up to the platform to join all the coffee-cradling commuters. Except for one slightly potbellied fellow. Rather than the Green Mountain and New York Times, he holds a Diet Pepsi and New York Post. Who reads the Post? And drinks Pepsi for breakfast? I admit to being hooked on carbonated aspertame as well, but not at the break of dawn for crissakes. But it suits his dryness. I can see the tiredness, or blandness, in his eyes. Must be a computer programmer or something logical. He wakes up alone.

My favorite buddy is the Slick Phonebooth Guy. There is perhaps only one car in the pathetically small collection of running MTR trains that hosts a phone booth with a courteously strampotin pull-down seat. I've had the pleasure once of sitting in it, using the convenient counter as an arm rest, and the walls as a barracade from the breath of other passengers. However, what was an even greater pleasure was to sit across from the usual Phonebooth Sitter on several occasions. He is dressed to the tee in a perfectly tailored suit. His slightly-longer than nape-length hair is highlighted and slicked back. He is bronzed. His shoes are shined. He sits with confident as he goes through his paper, usually balancing his elbows on his comfortably spread legs and leaning his weight onto them as opposed to the usual commuter poise of thrusting the pelvis, or more so gut, forward in the seat, to appear casual but come off as gross. That's why Slick Phonebooth Guy is my celebrity. He knows what class is.

Let me add here my annoyance with men spreading their legs open around my crossed legs if they are sitting across from me. Granted, it is a wonderful exercise of muscle control, for my fear of making thigh contact. But how cocky is that? Denying me my fair portion of space, and then rather than scooting over to split the communal area in half, surrounding mine with the continual threat of uninvited intimate contact.

The last character who stuck out was Inflato-Man. Mind you, I had just come from seeing Supersize Me, and once again feeling revolted by American obesity, crap food, gluttony, and sloth. There he sat, taking up two seats. Snacking on a huge cookie. I love cookies. I could eat a handful of them if given a supportive opportunity. In fact, I myself had a cookie in my backpack, which I was contemplating eating. Granted, mine was a homemade sugarless flourless cashew oatmeal cookie, but a cookie nevertheless. I immediately lost my appetite, punishing myself for his bohemethness. What keeps me from being him?

I'll tell you what. He has a bowl cut. He reads "Trains for Recreation" magazine. He was wearing a collarless tee-shirt, suggesting that he is a blue-collar worker or in a job where he can take a Thursday off. These three clues encourage me to assume that he is not as interested in the Progressive Life as I am. I know, that's jerky of me. Maybe he does some awesome things for the community. Perhaps he makes sick children joyful with his trains. God bless 'em if that's the case. Either way, he should cash in his 400-calorie jumbo chocochip for a homemade sugarless flourless cashew oatmeal cookies, cuz the world needs people like him around.