The majority of my friends have at some point or another traveled abroad. They all talk about how unique their particular country of choice was; its culture, its people, all the life-altering lessons they learned while intoxicated and roaming foriegn cities with their equally as intoxicated friends. While this may surprise the two of you who read this, I too, am currently immersed in a culture very foriegn to most. I'm talking about a place with its own very specific rituals, a place where the people are unlike anyone else in the world, a place where the beer flows like wine..wait sorry, wrong place.
I'm talking about the LIRR.
For those of you not lucky enough to ever experience the phenomenon of the Penn Station switchboard, I mourn for your loss. Try to imagine hundreds of grown, supposedly mature adults, huddled together with their necks crained, staring at something vaguely reminiscent of the Wheel of Fortune board. Every train pops up here, along with the vital information of which track the train has arrived on. Jockeying for position is immediate and all consuming. In the ultimate NYC style, your age and gender matter not. Grandmothers will be shoved, young children tossed aside all in an effort to be in prime location. Far enough away from the board that it's still legible, yet close enough to the tracks that when your number blinks to life, you will be ahead of the stampede. No one dares to peel their eyes from the board. Stamina is tested. I've seen men break down thanks to a momentary mental lapse in judgement. After what seems like a decade at times, the number flashes on. I am in no way exaggerating when I say that total chaos ensues. Men in expensive power suits and women with $300 heels sprint to the dank tunnels of Penn station, never once looking back for those unfortunate souls who missed the signal. If you thought the Preakness was exciting, you'd be peeing your pants with glee.
Once in the tunnel, the commuters are in a dead sprint with one another. They weave around the disabled and slow with a grace usually uncommon in mere mortals. Once satisfied with their position these seemingly intelligent, once professional indviduals stand tightly clumped together inching as close as possible to the STILL CLOSED door of the train all the while "watching the gap" as is instructed every 3 and a half seconds or so by the ominous LIRR God. This uncomfortable little clusterf*ck (can you curse while blogging!?) lasts for a few awkward seconds, as everyone tries to pretend the guy behind them isnt literally trying to climb them.
The doors open, and 15 or so commuters attempt to get in a door meant for 3 at most. Men scramble to get the aisle seat, while most women lunge to be closest to the window. Though preferences may be different, the ultimate goal is the same. Do. Not. Sit. Bitch.
Remember when you were a kid, and no one wanted to sit middle? The youngest and/or smallest were generally defeated and silently resigned to the fact that they'd be wedged between two blood relatives. Well on the LIRR the fate of such a situation is far more serious. You will inevitably be stuck between a 500 pound man who appears to have sprinted to Penn while simultaneously jumping rope, and a Latina woman who is quite angry and on her cellphone "expressing" herself. Leg room is minimal. Arm space is non-existant, as is your dignity as you now wedge yourself against the sweaty vinyl and sit toe to toe with a perfect stranger whom you must stare at for the next hour and twenty minutes.
The rules from that point foward are simple. Do not talk on your cellphone, do not look at the laptop screen next to you, do not try to make conversation. Before the train hits sunlight again, a third of its passengers will be asleep. When the power clicks out and lights go off for the first time, another third will follow suit.
And sometimes, if you're really lucky, your 500 lb neighbor won't even drool when he finds comfort on your shoulder.
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