And when you get on a late-night train home, you invariably share the ride with a menagerie of oddballs.
So tonight I get on a relatively empty car (one of the benefis of late-night train rides is you get a seat all to yourself) and take out my New Yorker for some nice light reading on the trip home. I'm enjoying yet another verbal evisceration of our butt-stupid president when out of the corner of my eye I spot The Conductor. And I'm not talking about the train conductor. This guy was just your garden-variety
Fortunately for The Conductor, my attention was diverted at the Belmont stop by the arrival of The Hoodlum. This wannabe-badass
At the next stop, Sullen Lady and her Pleading Boyfriend got up to leave. She'd been self-hugging and boyfriend-ignoring since the stop after I got on. But that didn't stop him from working to get on her good side
As the train pulled us out of their station and away from their Epic Drama, the door on the front end of our car slammed open, and The Maverick appeared. (You see, there are tons of signs forbidding people from traveling from car to car while the train is moving -- except in extreme emergencies -- but those rules don't apply to everyone. At least once a week, someone in The Maverick family makes a big show of emerging from one end of my car and clomping down the aisle only to disappear through the door at the other end. In the mean time, those of us who have been so unfairly prevented from embarking on such adventures look on and hope that this time -- oh please oh please oh please -- The Maverick will slip and be crushed to a painful, bloody death as he travels between cars. But we never get our wish.) Tonight, the part of The Maverick was dramatically played by a limping lothario in a knee-length duster and jaunty fedora. But he didn't smell bad, so he literally lacked the required air of authenticity.
Mercifully, by the time The Maverick had disappeared
And then I raced home to blog about it.