It was quite a refreshing display of generosity on the 6:33 to Mt. Kisco yesterday.
The Missus was checking out the Arctic Monkeys in Central Park (if you’re over 40 and/or reside in a flyover state, you may think that has something to do with visiting a zoo), so she passed Little G off to me like a Cold War secret in Grand Central.
Little G enjoys visiting the city of his birth. It’s not hard to imagine why: in five minutes, he witnesses everything he’s seen in children’s books over the last year–screaming firetrucks and ambulances, trains, taxicabs, fuzzy rodents on the hunt for a tasty snack.
I took Llittle G over to Bryant Park, thinking we’d get a chance to play on the lawn. Alas, the tents were set up for Fashion Week. We scored a table along the walkway, and Little G enjoyed watching the models stroll by en route to the show.
We didn’t leave much time to make the 6:33, and boarded with about three minutes to spare. If it’s just me, that’s fine–find an aisle seat near the back of the train, drop myself into a fold-down seat, or even stand with the other stragglers/claustrophobes in the vestibule. But with a 20-month in tow, well, it’s a different story.
A lady at the edge of her five-seater sussed out our predicament and offered up her seat, indicating we could make do with it and the open one across the aisle. That seemed complicated as Little G was bolting down the aisle, so I politely declined.
Walking back toward the vestibule as the train took off, a man in another five-seater gave the universal hand signal for ‘take my seat.’ He had an end seat next to an open seat; it was perfect. I thanked him profusely as he set out to find another.
Alas, the predicament was only half-solved; one must also make peace with the fellow denizens of the five-seater, who would surely be kicked, slobbered upon, and generally driven nuts for the next 40-odd minutes.
They were two guys of around 40, wearing suits, vaguely Latino. They promptly diffused the awkwardness with smiles and waves and jokes about Little G being a future corporate guy riding the train. I told them I’d prefer him be a ballplayer, but would try to be supportive either way.
Later, when Little G grew bored, we borrowed the Post belonging to the guy across the aisle, and killed a crucial five minutes with that.
Finally, the conductor came around, grab my monthly from Little G, pretended to stamp it, and gave him a ticket in return–all which went over really well.
Heckuva ride. I didn’t have an anxiety attack, Little G stored up a few more memories, everyone wins.