Manners on the Train
A few weeks ago, after peeling myself out of bed at 5:45 a.m., dragging myself to the Southeast (formerly Brewster North) train-station for a 7:12 train, I was asleep again. I nodded off with my new leather briefcase under my arms. and a magazine curled in my clammy hands. I was barely rustled when at the Chappaqua stop, a youngish lady sat next to me. The train rocked me back to sleep instantly. She fell asleep, and at some point, unconsciously, she leaned over to my unaware shoulder.
As my travelling companion and I were awakened, after a good 45 minute nap, we looked at each other. “Here I am sleeping with another woman”, I thought. She smiled. I smiled. We both stretched and smiled, with a gauzy look that said “Mmm, that was a nice nap.”
It was an intimacy by space and circumstance only, and as we shuffled off the train, into the brisk walk that characterizes New York subterrania, a pang of guilt hit me. Wouldn’t a proper gentlemen have at least asked for his sleeping partner’s name?
It was too late, for I was headed for the Shuttle to Times Square. She, ahead of me now, scampered to the 4,5,6.
My small conscience crisis was not due to any deliberate sin. The collision of human nature, mass transit and the rigors of wage slavery made us into “temp” sleeping partners.
I hope I discharged my temporary duties well, and that she wasn’t slighted when I didn’t ask for her name. Being from Putnam County, I’m only just getting used to these new social arrangements.
Michael Brendan Dougherty
in The Big Bagel
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