Anyone in the commuting game has nicknames for their fellow platform-standers and train-sitters, Hatchet Face and Fatty McButterPants and Papa Smurf and other things you wouldn’t want them to know about.
Well, we’ve got Little Red Running Late.
Little Red Running Late is a very sweet woman who, as the name may indicate, is quite literally running late most every morning, with a ginormous wheelie suitcase in tow. (Also as the name may indicate, she has bright red hair, and a face to match when she’s huffing and puffing on the platform.) As I’m usually running late too (Big Reddish Running Late?), there have been a handful of times that I’ve helped lug her suitcase up or down the steps as the train approaches. Other times, I’ve whisked by her on the road approaching the station, feeling a bit like a soldier leaving a wounded brother in arms to fend for himself in the face of enemy fire.
Anyway, I was running late today for the 8:16. My outlook was iffy; the clouds were heavy and the Doors’ “The End” happened to be on my iPod. Just as Mr. Mojo Risin’ paid a visit to his brother, a blue SUV pulled over next to me. I’m new in town and know next to no one. There have been a few instances where kindly neighbors–some whom I’ve met, some whom i haven’t–have offered a ride to the train.
I sheepishly walked over to the SUV. It was Little Red! “Hop in!” she said, or something to that effect.
We both made a joke about cutting it close each day–essentially all we really know about each other–and she informed me she’d drop me off while she tried to find a parking spot.
As I stepped onto the street, I made a half-joke about holding the doors for her. Moments later, the train came. I looked for her chugging up the road, or bolting down the stairs, but didn’t see her.
Thank you, Little Red, for that selfless act. I hope you found the 8:43 satisfactory.