Man-Bagging it on the 4:10 to Cold Spring 10/21/11

I use a carry-all bag on the train. A man-bag if you will. It’s the most practical thing I’ve never purchased.

It’s one of those cheap canvas bags my wife purchased at the supermarket. It’s to encourage you not to use plastic or paper. I use it for everything but groceries. I’ve got everything in here: Kurt Vonnegut’s God Bless You Mr. Rosewater, three note books, pens, ipod, glasses, phone, tissues, pebbles (I have no idea, either), pretzel crumbs, Fig Newton crumbs, coffee stains. There may even be some evidence of drool in here.

I’m certain that if this bag were ever found at a crime scene, several fingers would be pointing back at me. I’ll be the one with the coffee container and a mouth full of Fig Newton’s.

I have several other bags at home, but nothing ever suited me. Too many flaps and zippers and hidden pockets. Simple man. Simple bag.

I’m in the quiet train today. After all these years of putting up with cell phone abusers, the Metro-North railroad now sees fit to designate one car, and one car only, to silence.

And now the passengers in the other six cars don’t believe the laws of civility apply to them.

The more the conductor makes his announcement emphasizing the wonderful qualities of the quiet car, the more the other cars think they can have keg and tea parties. Pissing off a lot of people seeking refuge in the quiet car. The quiet car is now jammed full of so many people seeking solitude that it’s standing room only. And it’s stressing me out. The stress factor can occur when the only seat to be had is the dreaded middle seat.

Picture yourself in the middle seat: rotund gentleman reading the Wall Street Journal on your left. Drooling old fart nodding off on your shoulder to the right. It’s enough to make a grown man cry. And if I ever get the middle seat, I will. I have tissues, you know.

In the mean time I grin and bare it, hoping some of these bastards kills one another so I’ll have something nifty to put in the train journal.

Yesterday, as I got off the train, I reached in the bag for my phone and came up empty. So I sat on a bench at the station and went through my things. I must have appeared like an old lady going through her purse looking for her heart medicine, because that’s how I felt.

There’s no way you can rifle through your man-bag and feel anything but your feminine side. I found myself looking up and saying, to no one in particular, “Oh, dear! I know I put it in here, somewhere.”

I did find the phone and felt ashamed that I cared so much to look for it. I never wanted to be one of those people, but here I am - wired.

“Where were you? I’ve been trying to call you!” she might say. “What’s the point of having a phone if you don’t even switch it on?”

My sentiments exactly.

Today is Friday. It’s the fourth installment of Writing on the Train. I was a slacker on Monday. So used to writing Abc things that I couldn’t focus.

Let’s walk down memory lane, shall we? Ah, it seems like only last week, in those early days of Autumn when the leaves were still crisp under foot, that I wrote things like, 'A black cruiser drove eighty feet.' Ah, the good old days! Now I sit here, hunched over my notebook waiting for people to slip on banana peels or who try to enter the lavatory after the beer swilling, rotund gentleman exits and watch their wretched expressions as they enter, holding their breath, hands firmly over mouth.

I don’t actually know if you can hold your breath and pee at the same time and I don’t ever want to be in a position to find out. The best I can hope for is that one of the breath holders passes out on the toilet seat, and the fire and police departments are summoned to break down the door and save the day.

Some way to start your day. Passed out on the toilet with dozens of oglers looking on and police helicopters hovering over the train because some idiot called in to report terrorist activity in the lavatory.

“He’s taking way too long in there!” they will have said to the police. “And why was he carrying his attache case? Hmmm?”

I know why he was carrying his attache case. It’s the best way to transport your canned beer. Lay them flat. Ice packs on top. Close lid. Ready for the day.

But nothing like that seems to happen on the train. Nothing but silence and the humming of my own brain.

My mind is so geared for the weekend that I consider this a non-working day. Oh, I do my work. I just act like I’m enjoying it.

“What’s up with you?” the boss will say.

“It’s Friday!”

“Well, why can’t you be more like this on Monday?”

“Because it’s not Friday.”

Tonight is beer and finger food night. No utensils needed. One hand for the beer. The other for the food. We may play some backgammon or drag out the ukes and guitar and annoy the neighbors. Or we might just plop our lazy butts in front of the TV and catch a movie. A mindless comedy or car chase. It doesn’t matter. Come Monday I can never remember what I watched, anyway.

“Hey, what did you guys watch Friday night?”

“I dunno. Something with Jennifer what’s-her-name and what’s his face.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw that. Not bad.”

My station is here and I'm off.

But I have a confession to make, before I leave. I’m writing the Friday portion of Writing on the Train on the 5:40 morning train.

Hey, it’s Friday!

Happy weekend to you all.