Wednesday's Child on the 4:10 to Cold Spring 10/26/11

I miss the bar car on the train. They discontinued it a few years back. Don’t remember why. I imagine the same reason they don’t have a smoking car anymore. Bad for you. Others just love telling you what’s bad for you.

I loved it. It was smoky and festive. I no longer smoke, and I don’t drink but on the weekend. But I remember a time when I took advantage of the goings on in the bar car.

So much so that one day I came home and found my things stuffed in garbage bags and neatly stacked on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see.

Back to the bar car.

I’m not nostalgic for the old days. I believe in: that was then and this is now. So onward and upward. The good old days are what lay ahead.

Back to that bar car.

Passengers on the bar car seemed to drink as though the railroad has the very last stash of alcoholic beverages and they have to take advantage of it because it won’t be here tomorrow.

So passengers drank - on an average one hour commute - what would normally be an evenings worth of booze.

I wonder how many divorces went home in those station wagons after they left the train?

Fortunately, I avoided that by following one simple rule: If there’s fire in her eyes when I’d get home, I probably fucked up pretty good.

My belongings have not been back on the lawn in ages.

Today I do valet work at the social club where I spend a lot of my time. I may have to press a suit, iron a shirt, shine shoes, sew a few buttons or throw some things in the wash.
It’s a great gig. I just pretend to be tending to my own things and the day usually goes by without a hitch.

Then it’s off to the front desk where I’ll man the phone, taking room and dining reservations. Order theater tickets (War Horse is the popular show at the moment), Reserve cars and get an earful when ever any of the above goes wrong.
I’ve had this routine since June of 2001. Less then three months on the job when the World Trade Center was attacked. I remember standing at my desk watching the news when the second plane hit.

Surreal was a much over used word at the time, but an accurate one.

Here was something happening not three miles from where I’m standing and I, and everyone around me, stood mesmerized by images on a screen.

If I were watching this scene played out in a movie I’d be wondering why everyone wasn’t closing up shop and going home, but we didn’t. Surreal indeed.

I have an old rhyme running through my head and it’s bugging me because I can’t remember it accurately.

Since I don’t have access to the great big Google machine in the sky, I’ll have to fake it. I’ll start with Wednesday. Whether I get it right or not.

Wednesday’s child has far to go.

That was obviously written before unions and the two day weekend. It should be:

Wednesday’s child is well on its way to the weekend.

Before our present day concept of the weekend there was only the dreary Sabbath. What a somber affair that must have been. All that kneeling and praying and not a Sport’s Bar in sight.

Let’s back track to Monday and work our way through the week.

Monday’s child is full of face.

Not quite sure what to make of that. How about:
Monday’s child is full of beer fumes, nachos and football rage from the previous days outing on the couch?

Tuesday’s child is full of grace.

I don’t think so. Tuesday’s child is full of Monday. Because as we all know Monday is the longest working day of the week. But I’m afraid that’s something Einstein was better equipped to explain. Me? I’m at a loss.

Wednesday’s already been covered. So let’s move on to Thursday.

Thursday’s child is - as a matter of fact I don’t know what Thursday’s child has to offer. In my Googleless state I can only hope Thursday’s child is having a nice day and I’ll have to make something up:

Thursday’s child is on her third martini after finishing that real estate deal that will afford her a lifetime of three day weekends. Way to go, Thursday!

Friday’s child is anticipating happy-hour with the new office bombshell. Apparently the office hasn’t had a bombshell since 1954 and are so excited they’ve forgotten that ‘bombshell’s’ went out the the eight track tape player. The code word now is ‘hotties.’

Saturday's child is, oh, something, something.

Saturday’s child is hiding under the covers. It seems Saturday’s child lives alone, yet there seems to be someone else sharing his bed and he doesn’t remember who. Shame on you Saturday’s child.

Saturday’s child gets a panic text from his best buddy asking if Saturday’s child has seen his Grandmother. “I can’t find her anywhere. And haven't seen her since yesterday’s wedding! You two were talking it up pretty good. Did she tell you where she might have gone off to?”

Saturday’s child crawls under his bed and pretends he’s never been home.

Sunday’s child has taken a beaten all week and wishes to be left alone.

That was some week.

On the train I usually squirm away from anyone who runs out of breath from the act of sitting down. I’m not CPR savvy and would probably break someone's ribs or a collar bone in my efforts at resuscitation. Thus being sued and losing all hope for a proper retirement.

I started what I think might be a great novel. I already have my opening and closing. I simply have to figure out the middle.

It goes like this:

It opens with, “I don’t care if you are with the mob! Go fuck yourself and take your buddies with you!”

It ends with, “I think I miss my legs the most.”

Goodnight from Cold Spring. I hope you all have a grand day ahead.