Brother, were we humming. The 8:17 pulled in at 8:16 and change, we hardly suffered from the usual crawl through the Grand Central underbelly, and we were stepping off the train fully three minutes early.
Now that’s a way to start a work week.
Ah, but what troubles awaited at the 6 train. If I wait five minutes for the 6 in the morning, it’s surprising. So I was extra surprised when 10 minutes passed; after all, that’s nearly 31 1/2 half minutes in commuter time (duh, multiply by Pi).
As the bodies amassed on the 42nd Street platform, agita growing with each passing minute (and each passing express train across the platform), I saw another first: a man (large, well-dressed, black) chastise another man (greasy, bespectacled, resembling an unemployed I.T. worker) for standing in the “Trains Stop Here” box in the platform (the “crease”, in hockey terms).
Eventually, the 6 shuffled in and as many of us poured in as we could (as the reunited Police once sang, packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes). But hopes of a record commute–and a truly excellent week!–had already been dashed.