Good morning

It happens all the time. That New York morning where you rush, rush, rush to get out the door, grab an extra scarf because the temperature has plummeted an unexpected 10 degrees, speed through the meandering crowd, accidentally knock over an overripened plum from the fruit and vegetable stand, pick it up, smile at the vendor, and speed walk just fast enough that you could be running but you're not, because you're trying to look casual. After your heart beat quickens and your breath becomes a tad bit shallow, taking on the particular rhythm you had developed when jogging was a part of daily activity, you finally reach the platform.

And here you must wait.

For the train.

To come.

When will it come? How long will it take? Will it be the right train? Is there construction happening? If so will you find out about it in time to call into work and let them know before your phone looses service?

All of these thoughts start racing through your head until you start to break a subtle sweat and you're coaxing yourself to just breathe and not give a damn about a thing you don't have control over. Because you do have control over your own breath and how you feel about the situation. Who cares about the MTA. It is the one variable that unites New Yorkers. The variable that may always be a variable, but invariably will fuck with your schedule at some point during your commutes.

And at the last possible minute when you think you can no longer take it and the trains have all disappeared from the earth in one grand spontaneous combustion you hear a chug, a squeal, and a grinding. Two headlights pave their way through the Fall air.

The train has arrived. It is your train. And it's time to jump on.

Another charade of casual occurs as those on the platform line up, pretending they can take their time boarding the train, but at the same time terrified that if they dawdle the train will hurry past and they won't get a seat.

With a loud bing the train's doors slide open. A changing of the guard occurs as those who were inside march outwards and those hovering on the platform swing inside hastily, yet cool.

You've made it.

You're on the train.

Now the fun can begin.