Those Switches are Bitches

We were cruising along 0n the northbound 5:27, en route to our families, dinner, nightly dose of Brian Williams, martini, or whatever it is you do when you return to your domicile.

It was a little shy of Scarsdale when we slowed down.

If ever you have to slow down near a station, Scarsdale is a pretty good pick, with trees and rushing water and a quaint Tudor-style village that matches the station. But you don’t really want to slow down anywhee–you want the family, dinner, Brian Williams, martini, etc.

The slog continued past Scarsdale and into its less moneyed/more diverse sibling Hartsdale. Still shy of Hartsdale station, we slowed to a stop. I shot The Missus a quick email, telling her I was running late, and to keep my dinner warm, my martini cold, my Brian Williams on the DVR. (That’s not really my evening routine, so I’ll stop mentioning it.)

The loudspeaker crackled with the news at 6:04, which is typically when we’re nearing Valhalla.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” went a woman’s voice with a hint of an accent, perhaps Indian. “The reason we are going so slow is a switch failure. The problem has been collected–I mean corrected. We have a few trains ahead of us. We should be moving shortly.”

I emailed The Missus with the update.

A pair of heavyset female tourist daytripper bookends in the three-seater in front of me rolled their eyes; apparently this was the cherry on top of a crappy day in the Big Town.

“Ever see the movie The Out of Towners?” she said. “Where everything that can go wrong does?”

Her mate nodded her assent.

We finally crossed into Hartsdale at 6:06, and spent the next nine minutes crawling into White Plains. We were cranky, hungry, tired.

By 6:26 we were finally in Hawthorne, some 16 minutes after our scheduled arrival.

I schlepped home on the bike. Dinner was cold. Fortunately, it was salad.

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This entry was posted in Hartsdale, Hawthorne, The Missus, White Plains. Bookmark the permalink.

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