The 8:22 to Mt. Kisco. It’s been a long day, feeling even longer after the flood debacle the previous day. People are tired.
Not so tired is a nattering six-pack of 14-year-old girls returning home after a day in the city, chatting about music, mom’s Larchmont train pass, and boys–particularly one young male who’d recently confessed his desire to “get with” one of the girls on board.
The train ambles out of Grand Central and pulls into 125th ten minutes later. One of the teens leaps to her feet.
“It’s White Plains!!!” she howls.
Yes, the ten-minute express, Grand Central to White Plains. I’ve had dreams about that.
The girls bolt from the train, asking anyone within shouting distance if they are, indeed, in White Plains. Assured by all that they’re in fact in Harlem, they retreat to their prior seats.
The nattering continues for the next 22 minutes, until the train eases into White Plains. The girls prepare to disembark. Then confusion ensues. As they step off the train, two black males get on.
“We’re in Harlem!” one yells, and they all scramble back onto the train.
Repeatedly assured they’re not, in fact, in Harlem, the girls exit the train again, to the profound relief of everyone left on the 8:22.