The Way It Is

Randy wanted me to meet him in Penn Station for an impromptu date one Thursday afternoon in July. I was scared to death—not of going on a date of course, but of getting on a train at Ronkonkoma and riding it to Manhattan—all by myself. I'd never done that before. Randy always, always takes me on the train when we go to the city; mostly because I'm the world's worst reader of maps and the most likely to get lost in any situation where directions are a must. I guess you could call me the world's most directionally challenged person—ever. Randy really wanted me to come though, so I mustered every bit of courage I could and asked Abigail if she would drop me off at the railroad station to catch the 3:15 train to Penn. She said yes and left me there shortly before 3 o'clock.

On the train, I found a two-seat spot and situated myself closest to the window. I piled my purse and newspaper on the empty seat next to me and hoped that everyone who passed by would take the hint that I wanted to sit by myself. Trains can be quite cramped at times, and I relished the extra space for me and my belongings. But my plans fell through. When the train stopped at Douglaston, a very tall and very large man got on board. Standing at the entrance of the narrow aisle, he scanned the train for a place to sit. I hoped with all my might that he would sit in one of the larger, empty seats—but he didn’t. He chose the small one—right next to mine. He stared at me; he stared at my straw handbag. I knew what he meant and moved my stuff onto my lap.

As soon as he sat down I could see that he was much taller than he actually looked. His long legs were now folded at the knee with one hanging over into my space. I hugged my purse and held my shoulder tighter against the window. I felt like a pile of summer clothes crammed into a closet corner, the season's straw handbag laid on top. I tried to do my crossword puzzle, but my elbow wouldn't fit in the little bit of space my fellow rider allotted me. I stared out the window and lamented the fact that I had at least forty minutes left to hug my purse while my new neighbor made himself at right at home sleeping, snoring, and taking up space. “Things will be better when I get off this thing,” I consoled myself.

When the engineer announced that we had arrived at Penn, the extra large passenger who stole my storage seat, got up without saying a word and exited the train. Falling in behind him, I stepped out of the car and onto the platform where hundreds, if not thousands, of people struggled for space to get through. I stood there, hugging my purse again and wondering how on earth I would find my husband. Then someone gently poked me in the ribs. “Let’s get out of here,” Randy said. “It’s way too crowded.” So it was, and so we did. In New York, that just the way it is.