Author’s note: For 10 months I traveled to work in New York City from my home in southeastern Connecticut. Notice I used the word “traveled” and not “commuted.” The difference, to me, is mileage and duration. My daily “commute” was three hours each way, including a 45-minute drive, an hour-and-40-minute train ride, and subway rides across and uptown. Occasionally, I took notes on the people sitting around me on the train. What follows is the seventh of several stream-of-consciousness entries I made in an untitled journal.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Lumbering they came onto the train. They are turned on, fully awake, already well into their routines. Rodent automatons. And here they come again, sweating from the burden of their girth. They sit but are not still, rooting through bags for their computers to get plugged in, Velcro straps tearing away from one another, logging on, at the office here until they get there.

This morning’s torture was a racket of metal and wood. A woman counting change. Either she is rich or kept forgetting how much she had and had to start counting again. Another woman digging through paintbrushes and putting on her workaday face, rouge, blush, lipstick, eye shadow.

This afternoon it was the motherfucking bell. Six times the bastard conductor rang the bell, last call for the 5:38. Yes, we know. Now drive the fucking train. Fuck the stragglers.

A fat woman in a white blouse just sat down next to me, yawning, shoving her stubby fingers into her BlackBerry, now clutching her bag to her chest like a flotation device.

Oh how I need to get off this goddamned train. Permanently. Fuck this lousy commute. This ride is theirs.

The fat woman just sucked down half a bottle of water in the most unladylike manner I have ever seen. Like a farm animal.

So, here we go again.

E**** M***** is sitting across from me, paying her bills. At least that’s the name of the woman whose bills are being paid. The ID card hanging on a lanyard around her neck indicates as much. Her checkbook is kept in a plastic bag in her purse. The purse was designed by Michael Kors. E**** is looking at her BlackBerry. The fat woman is talking on hers, which is not a BlackBerry at all but a device manufactured for Sprint. She keeps looking at the space between the train cars like she’s thinking about jumping. It turns out she was just closing the door so she could better hear the person on the other end of the line. She just asked whomever she is talking to if he or she had eaten dinner and if there is any left for her. Lasagna. Seven-hundred and fifty calories per serving. I remember that from when I was young, whenever it was that I learned a little something about nutrition.

Every time the train goes around a curve the fat woman rolls into my space, into me. Yes woman, have more lasagna.

E****’s checks have a UNICEF logo on them. On her lanyard is the globe symbol the organization uses. I think it’s safe to assume that Ms. M***** (she is not wearing a wedding band) works for UNICEF. She is probably 60 years old.

The fat woman just took out her laptop. On the screen is a photograph of what I assume is her young daughter, wearing a Cinderella gown and tiara and clutching a Minnie Mouse doll.

If our elbows touch once more the fat woman just might lose hers. Yes, have more lasagna. She is not wearing a wedding band. I don’t know if that has anything to do with lasagna. She is checking her Hotmail account.

“Hi, N**** and T***** !” That is how she is greeted when she logs on to her e-mail account.

Across the aisle sit three women. Two are working on laptop computers. The other is watching a movie on a portable DVD player.

E**** is on her BlackBerry.

Everyone around me is connected.

N**** is looking for Alicia Keyes tickets on Ticketmaster. The Security Check, that fuzzy little code one needs to type in to proceed, is “Mongoose 1,270.” N**** wants to see Ms. Keyes at the MGM Grand at Foxwoods Resort and Casino.

Now she’s looking for tickets to see Mary Poppins on Broadway.

E****‘s feet are on, but not in, her shoes. If I stomped on one of her feet I’d be arrested. She’s rooting through her Michael Kors purse. It’s the kind of purse women don’t have in third-world countries.

N****‘s new Security Check code is “Who Markets.” I’m hoping never to have to buy another ticket to ride this godforsaken train.

“Hay, prime Inwood.”

N**** has to refresh the page each time she searches anew.

“Hauser Victory.”

One of the three women across the aisle just answered her phone. She’ll be having chicken for dinner.

N**** is now looking for tickets on StubHub! (the exclamation point is the company’s punctuation).

The train just made its first stop. I’ve moved into a vacated seat and am luxuriating in what feels like limitless elbow room.

I’m having tacos for dinner.

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