For the first time since beginning to take the train in and out of the city, I prayed for a track condition or the striking of an unauthorized person on the track. Anything to delay the train, spend two, three, maybe four hours on the train instead of one. Everyone would grumble and curse and yell that they needed to pick up their kids or they needed to get home to dinner or they spent 3,000 dollars a year on this bullshit! And I would smile knowingly at them, shake my head as though I shared their pain. We would be united in our unification, our hatred of the LIRR, except inside I’d have erupted in tumultuous applause for the worn track or the unauthorized person who died just so I wouldn’t have to get home on time.
As always, the Long Island Railroad proved to be completely unreliable and pulled into Deer Park station at exactly 6:55. Walking to my car, I started to panic. Full blown panic. I am normally a runner – one of the people that gets up at Wyandanch and stands at the door, impatiently tapping my leg, waiting for the train to pull into the Deer Park station and the doors to open so that I can burst forth, entering the race of the other 5 or 6 runners that throw themselves down the platform stairs and across the parking lot to their cars. But I couldn’t run. I couldn’t even get out of my seat and nearly missed the Deer Park stop.
I walked slowly to the car and got in. And sat there. Part of me wanted to run home and defend her. Tell him to get the fuck out. Maybe I would push him. But another part, the part that kept the hand that held my keys frozen to my side instead of inserting them, igniting them and peeling away – that part wanted to never go home again. That part wanted to go to sleep and just forget about it.Just reviewing The Beach on Shelfari and adding Raven. Then, back to writing for at least the next half hour.