mystery train

I took the train to work for ten years. Remember all those blog posts I made about my adventures — good and bad (mostly bad) — on the train? Well, they kind of stopped in 2017, when I no longer had a job that required me to take the train on a daily basis.

I am back among the "drive yourself to work" set and I rarely have the opportunity to take the train. And then there was the worldwide pandemic that brought nearly everything to a halt. Now, as things begin to reopen, readjust and get back to some sort of "normality" (whatever that means), my wife and I ventured into center city Philadelphia to see the iconic Christmas Light Show held annually at the former John Wanamaker department store, now operating under the "Macy's" name. Instead of driving, fighting traffic, paying an exorbitant amount for a few short hours of parking, Mrs. P and I decided to take the train.

It's comforting to see that SEPTA (the acronymed organization that operates the public transportation system in southeastern Pennsylvania) has remained its same, old, dysfunctional self.

Early on Saturday morning, Mrs. Pincus and I took the familiar stroll to the Elkins Park train station, located just down the street from our house. (It's so close, we actually use it as a landmark locator when directing people to our house.) Upon our arrival on the platform, I checked the SEPTA app on my phone and was not one bit surprised when I saw that our 8:29 train was already listed as 15 minutes late. Mrs. Pincus realized she should have dressed more warmly for the unpredictable weather that Philadelphia had been experiencing. She made a quick run home to grab a hoodie. I watched, in her absence, as the SEPTA app added more time to our already-late train. SEPTA was already meeting and exceeding my expectations for getting back to "how things used to be." Mrs. P returned, bundled in her newly-retrieved hoodie, to find me in the exact same spot — with no train in sight.

Eventually, our train arrived to take us on the short, twenty-minute journey to center city Philadelphia. Now, the Elkins Park ticket office is only open for limited hours during the week and never on weekends. Passengers without a pre-purchased monthly pass (the traveling category in which we now fall) can purchase tickets on the train from one of the hopefully friendly conductors. As the train pulled away from the platform, one of the aforementioned conductors (this one uncharacteristically friendly) made his way down the center aisle. He stopped at the folks seated right in front of us. They were also headed to see the holiday light show, so our fare would be the same as theirs. After paying, the conductor presented them with two cardboard "swipe cards" that, he explained, should be used to open the electronic gates to exit the station. As he took a step in our direction, the train slowed to a stop at the Melrose Park station. He raised a finger to us and informed us that he'd be back.

He never returned.

Instead, he stood and gabbed with a group at the front of our train car — laughing and gesturing — as the train stopped at the three subsequent stations before our Jefferson Station destination. I gripped a ten dollar bill, ready to pay since we boarded. Mrs. P and I shuffled down the aisle towards the exit doors. I sidled up to our conductor and whispered: "We haven't paid our fare yet." He smiled and tipped his head in the direction of the doors. Extending his open palm, he said: "Happy holidays!" implying that our trip was gratis. Except we were now without that special swipe card that would free us from the confines of the station, once we climbed the exit stairs from the subterranean platform.

Once in the bustling station, I observed a newly-installed (well, "new" since my last trip on the train over two years ago) bank of electronic turnstiles occupying the once-unobstructed exit passage. I, along with my wife and a small group of similarly bewildered commuters, examined the steel and glass barriers that separated us from the outside world. And he we were without a way to make them open and grant our freedom. Mrs. Pincus spotted a disheveled-looking fellow, his SEPTA-emblazoned shirt untucked from his wrinkled, ill-fitting pants, puttering around an Information Booth. 

"Excuse me," she began. The fellow looked up with a confused expression, as though no one had spoken to him in weeks. Mrs. P continued, "How do we get out? We were not given swipe cards by the conductor on our train." The man scratched his head and offered two options. "Well," he said, you can buy an exit card from that machine over there." He gestured to a large, refrigerator-looking vending machine with a very complicated-looking glowing blue screen. Our little group collectively cringed. We all turned back to the fellow, hoping that Option Two would be more appealing. "Or you can just push open the glass door at the ADA exit." (The ADA, of course is the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 that required all public area to be equipped with easy access for those folks in wheelchairs or other disabilities requiring special provisions.) Although we felt bad, we all silently acknowledged that we liked Option Two much better and would take full advantage of it. Like a mini parade, a dozen people walked single file through the easily-opened ADA exit... and no one said a word.

Our return trip home was equally as "typical SEPTA" as our morning adventure. Upon exiting the station earlier in the morning, I purchased tickets for our trip home and safely tucked them in my wallet. After a full, fun day of holiday lights, lunch with our son and his girlfriend, a stroll through the temporary Christmas shopping village set up around Philadelphia's City Hall, Mrs. Pincus and I walked back to the station to board a homebound train.

Our train arrived and we selected a seat. We talked in quiet voices as we rode. In my peripheral vision, I noticed a young man in a seat across the aisle slightly turning his head to listen to our conversation. We weren't discussing any sensitive or controversial topics. We were probably talking about our plans for dinner or what we were doing on Sunday. Nevertheless, this guy was hanging on to our every word. He even turned around further and chuckled to himself, as though he was an active an welcome member of our conversation. I recalled experiencing this on a daily basis when I took the train more often. My conversation, it seemed, was infinitely more interesting, informative and entertaining than those of my fellow passengers — and they weren't shy or discreet about hearing the full dissertation.

Ah, SEPTA. You appear to be adjusting to the post-pandemic world just fine. God bless you. Keep up the good work.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

what are you doing new year's eve?

Mrs. Pincus and I welcomed 2019 at the venerable Trocadero Theatre, a majestic (if just a bit seedy) venue in Philadelphia's Chinatown. The evening's performance was a triple bill featuring local hip hop duo & More, Nalani & Sarina, a five-piece band fronted by multi-instrumentalist twin sisters and, the icing on the cake, Philly darlings Low Cut Connie. The show kicked off at 9 PM and would burgeon on into the wee hours of the new year.

Anticipating the dreadful parking situation in center city Philadelphia – especially on New Year's Eve – we opted to take public transportation to the show. A branch of the regional rail that serves Philadelphia has a station just a few doors from our suburban home. Although I took the train to work daily for 12 years, I haven't been on the train in quite some time. Especially at night, when a whole 'nother group of people ride. Because of the New Year's Eve holiday and expected increase in ridership, SEPTA (the overseeing body that operates public transportation in the city and surrounding area) extended the usual service to accommodate late-night travelers. The ticket window at the train station near our house, however, keeps highly-unusual and very limited hours. They are never open on weekends and during the week, the doors are locked tight before the clock strikes noon. It being a holiday (well, a holiday eve, anyway), I didn't expect to see anyone selling fares until at least mid-week into the new year. We bought our tickets on the train when it arrived and settled into an empty seat.

The commute downtown is a short one, just under twenty-five minutes and then it's just a one block walk to the Trocadero. It couldn't have been more convenient. No fighting traffic, although Mrs. Pincus loves to drive. No worrying about the possibility of drunk drivers and no concerns about finding that elusive parking spot. (Actually, we passed several parking spaces on our short walk, including one that opened up just steps from the Troc's front door.)

The show was great, as expected. Adam Weiner and company even paused around midnight to lead the crowd in a countdown and treat them to a tinkling impromptu rendition of Auld Lang Syne before breaking into Suzanne from their latest release Dirty Pictures (Part 2). When the show was over, Mrs. P and I said our "goodbyes" to our son (who was there with his girlfriend and a few friends) and made our way back to the train station for the ride home. Despite the relentless drizzle that plagued the evening, the drunks were out in full force, reeling all over the sidewalks. We quickly made it to the train station and descended the steep stairs to the underground entrance.

It was a few minutes before 2019 was officially one hour old. I was surprised to see an alert SEPTA employee monitoring the turnstiles at such a late hour. I was even more surprised when he directed us to the open ticket windows to purchase fares prior to boarding the train. This policy is usually reserved for rush hour. But here we were, queuing up along with several other surprised late-night commuters.

Just ahead of us in line was a young lady and a young man both in their middle 20s and dressed as though they were at some sort of festive event for the evening. The woman was in a dark colored dress and she clutched a small purse in her hand. The man was in a light-toned suit which probably started the night crisp and pressed, but was now showing evidence of some heavy partying. His collar was undone. The knot in his tie was loosened and cocked to one side. His jacket was rumpled and not hanging comfortably on his torso. And he was alternately leaning to the left and right, as though he was straddling a teeter-totter. When the next ticket window was available, the woman walked forward. The fellow zig-zagged slowly behind her and then propped his shoulder against the glass, his head hanging down loosely on his neck. She requested two tickets to Hatboro (a suburb many stops past our house) and the ticket salesman obliged. Money was clearly exchanged. She grabbed the tickets and marched off, leaving her disheveled companion to stagger in her wake. She appeared very pissed off. Mrs. P and I purchased our tickets next and then proceeded to the train platform, which is even further below street level, accessed by more flights of steps. I spotted the couple stop by the SEPTA employee to have their tickets validated with a special hole punch prior to heading to the train platform. A few seconds later, we did the same.

On our way down the stairs, we encountered the ticket-buying couple again. He was having difficulty climbing back up – and then back down – the stairs. She was standing in the bottom stairwell with her arms folded sternly across her chest and an unpleasant scowl on her face. My wife and I quickly and precariously scooted past them and found a seat on the fairly crowded train platform.

After a short wait, our train arrived at a little after 1 AM and we boarded. We selected a seat and I placed our tickets in the little slot on the seat so the conductor would know we paid our fares. More folks filed in, including a gentleman in a Philadelphia Eagles jacket who was carrying on a very animated conversation with himself. Soon, we were joined in our train car by the inebriated fellow and his ticked-off better half. He lurched into a double seat by a window and she seated herself in the unoccupied portion, slightly turned away him.

When the train began to move, a conductor slowly ambled down the center aisle to check passes and collect tickets. He passed Mrs. Pincus and me, concentrating, at first, on those folks seated on the other side on the aisle. The man reciting the soliloquy flashed a monthly pass at the conductor and continued speaking something about what song was playing. (There was no song playing.) The conductor then stopped at the couple's seat and examined their tickets. He handed them back and asked them for the normal fare to Hatboro. Without a word or an argument of any kind, the young lady opened her purse and handed over several bills to the conductor. He handed back change and a long receipt into which he had punched a number of holes. Mrs. P and I exchanged silent glances. Not fifteen minutes earlier, we watched this couple buy tickets just a few feet away from us. We were thoroughly puzzled.

The conductor turned and was now addressing our side of the aisle. He smiled as he removed and inspected our tickets.

"These tickets are punched." he observed, pointing to the little holes in the tickets to make his point clearer..

My wife and I answered in unrehearsed unison. "Yes." we explained, "They were purchased up in the station and punched by an employee who wouldn't let us down to the platform otherwise."

The conductor frowned. "Well, no one told me that!," he announced to no one in particular.

He replaced our tickets, turned on his heels and headed back to the couple by the window. He startled them when he said, "You already paid upstairs, right? I owe you money." He peeled of a number of bills from a fat wad in his gloved hand and handed them to the young lady. Not a word was spoken. She just accepted the refund as though it was standard operation procedure. When the conductor moved on to the next car, there was no further discussion between the couple. He was fast asleep with his forehead flat against the window's thick glass. She was hunched over with her back to him, seemingly plotting an escape once the train doors opened in Hatboro.

The train pulled into Elkins Park and we exited. 2019 was off to an entertaining start.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I've been driving all night, hands wet on the wheel

I hate to drive. I always have. It's a chore and a hassle and I just don't like it. My wife, however, loves to drive. So, you might say we have a marriage made in Detroit.... or something like that. (We both drive Japanese cars, but, for the sake of a joke, you know what I mean.)

I drove to every job I ever had and hated every gut-wrenching, white-knuckled minute of it. I hated driving in bad weather, especially when it snowed. I am not a particularly good driver (oh, I'll admit it) and sometimes I have difficulty navigating slick and snow-covered streets. I am also fearful of other drivers who don't change their reckless driving habits to suit the weather conditions. 

In 2007, I started a job that allowed me to take the train everyday. That was great. My car sat in the same parking space nearly six days per week, while I sauntered, carefree, to the train station that is conveniently located at the end of my street. Even on weekends or evening events, I would opt to take the train when my destination was downtown Philadelphia (which it often was). Sure, I had my share of complaints about my daily train commute — passengers putting their bangs on the empty seat next to them, despite posted policy comes to mind — but, compared to driving.... well, there was no comparison.

Now, eleven years later, I find myself back in the fast lane. Sort of. I started a new job and I no longer will be taking the train to work. I drive. Luckily, my work hours allow me to leave my house and drive in the direction where I can see a huge majority of drivers from Philadelphia's northern suburbs inching their way towards the city. The traffic in the opposing lanes moves at a snail's pace as I happily zip along on the wide open macadam. I get to hear the morning show on my favorite radio station and it's pretty smooth sailing for the approximately forty-minute drive.

But, all things in this world are not perfect. Several times during the last two weeks, I have encountered a traffic stoppage due to a train crossing (how ironic!) and several drivers who were more interested in their cellphones than paying attention to the other cars on the road. I was behind a fellow on a single lane road who nearly hit the curb twice and crossed the double yellow line three times as he leaned over towards the passenger seat in his car, his head only popping up when he needed to make a quick steering adjustment. I was delayed this evening by an accident and a number of cars not wishing to yield to an approaching ambulance.

Perhaps, I will get used to being a regular driver again. Now that I think about it, I suppose it's people I have to get used to.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I'm going off the rails on a crazy train

I have a "love-hate" relationship with SEPTA, the entity that provides and operates public transportation in the Philadelphia and suburban area. It is one of only two transit authorities in the United States that operates all five major forms of land transportation (buses, trains [regional rail], subway and elevated trains, trolleys and trolleybuses). SEPTA, an acronym for Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority, does none of them well.

I have been a regular commuter on the SEPTA regional rail for over ten years. Sure, it's a pleasure not to have to drive to work and fight traffic, especially in bad weather (which Philadelphia gets a lot of). But. in those ten plus years, SEPTA has exhibited some of the most consistently worst service I have ever seen from a consumer-oriented company. My morning train — the one I take to work at the same time every morning — has never ever been on time. Ever. A SEPTA representative, who was handing out some public relations material one morning at the train station near my house, told me that "railroad standard" allows trains to be within six minutes of the scheduled time and still be considered "on time." I scrunched up my face and replied, "First - the standard is determined by the industry itself? Then why bother to make a precise schedule if the listed times are, in reality by your own admission, approximate times. Second - if the medical profession worked that way, a doctor could remove your kidney, but, since it's within the area of the appendix, it's still considered a successful procedure." The SEPTA guy laughed, shrugged his shoulders and handed me a pamphlet.

The staff on the trains are pretty rude also. They rarely announce upcoming stations. They snap at commuters with questions. They are the furthest thing from courteous. And they never apologize for the train being late, or crowded, or hot (in summer, when the air conditioning fails), or cold (in winter when the heat fails). My feeling is: they are already at work. What do they care if you're late for work.

So, with poor service, late trains and rude employees, SEPTA feels totally justified in raising fares and not doing a thing to improve themselves.

Yesterday was the clincher. I boarded my train at the train station near my suburban Philadelphia home. It was late, as usual. I found a seat in the last car and sat down. Something on the seat across the aisle caught my peripheral vision. I turned my head and saw a rather large key resting in the center of a seat meant to accommodate three passengers (a "three-seater," as we regular commuters call them). I instantly recognized the key as one used by train conductors to open and close the train doors, as well as operate other functions aboard the train. From my observations, it is an integral piece of equipment in a train conductor's arsenal and one that should be kept close at all times. By this one was alone on a empty seat in a train car conspicuously devoid of all SEPTA personnel. I immediate pulled my phone from my pocket to snap a picture and display it on Instagram for all the world to see. (I regularly chronicle SEPTA's and SEPTA rider's infractions on Instagram, mostly blatant violations of the "Dude, It's Rude" campaign that attempts — and fails — to discourage people from putting their bags, backpacks or briefcases on the empty seat next to them, while offering a gentle reminder that seats are for paying customers.) I quickly focused and got the shot, frantically tapping out a smart-ass caption to accompany the image. I chose to go with: "Is that the key to the entire SEPTA Regional Rail System just, absentmindedly, left on a seat? Ahh, SEPTA, it's a good thing you don't guard our nuclear weapons." Because my social media accounts are linked, my message appeared on Twitter, as well.

Well, SEPTA's social media account (for reasons only known to them) follows my Twitter account (@joshpincus for those of you who dare). Almost immediately, I was contacted via Twitter by one "KW" who was monitoring the SEPTA Twitter this particular morning. This was our exchange:

This little conversation shows SEPTA's sheer laziness and complete lack of customer service. Sure they are confined to 140 characters per message, but they didn't come close to the limit. They barked questions are me, a customer, as though I were responsible for their error. "What train? What car number?" Not a "please" or an "excuse me" or a "would you mind." The train number and car number are two pieces of information that are not easily ascertained by the general public. These numbers are usually posted on the lighted informational boards at the train stations (My station does not have one of these boards.) or on the SEPTA smartphone app. Train numbers are never used by commuters and are the source of confusion when SEPTA uses them in updated schedule and train arrival announcements. My admittedly rude reply ("I don't work for SEPTA") was still met with a pressing and impolite demand for these obscure identifiers. I finally conceded and pulled up the app on my phone to find which train number I was currently riding on.

The train pulled into Suburban Station, my destination for work. I rose to exit the train. A spotted a guy sitting in the seat when I had seen the key. He gathered his belongings (which were disobediently occupying the space next to him) and, in one motion, scooped up the key with his stuff. He palmed the key like a seasoned magician and scooted out into the train aisle just ahead of me. He left the train. He did not appear to be seeking out a SEPTA employee.

Will this guy be opening and closing the doors on tomorrow's commute? I don't know. Will he be making any unscheduled stops based on a whim? I don't know. Will that key be dangling from a chain, RUN-DMC style, the next time I see him on the train? Perhaps.

Do I really care? I do not.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

early morning strangers

Every so often, I ride the train to work with my friend Randi. I met Randi when our kids went to nursery school together, so I have known her for a very long time. A few years ago, Randi and her husband moved into my neighborhood and, coincidentally, we both work in the same office building in center city Philadelphia. Randi usually takes an earlier or later train than the one I regularly take, but, a few times a week, we ride to work together.

On our short commute into Philadelphia, we discuss a multitude of topics — religion, family situations, movies, television shows. This particular Monday morning, I was telling Randi about the Monster Mania convention, a twice-yearly gathering of all things horror that my son and I attended the day before.

I don't know why I continue to subject myself to this convention, but I do. And with much regret. I go specifically to add to my autographed photos collection, but over the years, the cost of admission and the autographs themselves, have become ridiculously overpriced. I really wrestle with myself every time a new roster of "celebrities" is announced. I assess the pros and cons of driving to Cherry Hill, New Jersey, finding a place to park in the small hotel lot, paying the inflated admission and then paying the exorbitant fee for an autographed photo. But, this past weekend's "guest of honor" — Danny Lloyd — was the clincher. Thirty-seven years ago, Danny played Jack Nicholson's enigmatic son in Stanley Kubrick's 1980 horror classic The Shining. After filming wrapped, Danny had one more role in a TV movie about Watergate nut-job G. Gordon Liddy, then abandoned show business and fell back into "real life." Now, at 44, he is a biology professor at a community college in Kentucky. Well, I don't know exactly what he's teaching in his class, but he sure learned how to get forty bucks for writing his name on a photograph of himself from his youth. I begrudgingly handed him two twenty dollars bills (Oscar-winner Louise Fletcher, who was also at this show, was only asking thirty bucks) and tried to make some small talk. I asked him if the Internet rumors about his not knowing that The Shining was a horror movie were true. He laughed and confirmed that Kubrick, a vicious taskmaster to the adult actors, was very protective of his underage actors (Danny and the Burns sisters, who played the ghostly Grady twins and were, coincidentally, seated at their own table to Danny's left). I asked if his students know about his former life as an actor (albeit two roles). He said some did, some didn't and most were not impressed and didn't care.

As I related my little weekend adventure to Randi, I noticed another commuter, just across the train aisle from us, was hanging on to every word I was saying. It was so obvious. He wasn't even trying to hide the fact that he was listening so intensely to our conversation as though he would be transcribing it later. I tried to subtly nudge Randi to covertly point the eavesdropper out. When the train stopped at our station, we all got off and I pointed the guy out as he hurried up the platform stairs.

The next day, I was standing on the train platform waiting for my morning train. Randi was not in sight on this morning, but that was not unusual. So, as I waited, I fiddled with my phone. Suddenly, in my peripheral vision, I could see someone approaching. I looked up and I was startled to see the eavesdropper from yesterday's morning commute standing less than a foot away from me.

"Hi.," he began, innocently enough.

"How're you doin'?," I mumbled, still trying to figure out what this guy wanted. I am, admittedly, very suspicious of people I don't know.

"I heard you talking on the train yesterday about The Shining." Well, at least he got right to the point. "I wanted to know if you ever saw the documentary Room 237? Have you ever heard of it?," he asked. Not only had I heard of the film, I had seen it. It is an independent production from 2012 that unobjectively relates several wild theories that The Shining is not merely an adaptation of a Stephen King novel, but an elaborate puzzle, cryptically alluding to either the systematic slaughter of Native Americans or an apology by director Kubrick for his collusion with NASA in the ruse that was the first moon landing or a symbolic tale of the Holocaust or a combination of the three.

But the real question was: Why did this guy care if I saw this documentary? Plus, he just admitted that he was listening to my conversation from the previous day.

This was weird. I, however, was uncharacteristically polite. I answered his question and engaged him in a little chit-chat about my views on The Shining and my conversation with the now-adult Danny Lloyd. A train pulled up to the station, thankfully bringing this awkward exchange to an end. I started towards the last car of the train and he called out "Nice talking to you!," as he headed in the opposite direction. I was relived that he didn't feel compelled to continue our tête-à-tête in a more intimate setting on the train.

On subsequent days, I have seen the eavesdropper milling about on the train platform. He seems to be purposely steering clear of me. That's just fine with me. His "striking up a friendship" skills are in need some refinement.

Oh, and Room 237 was absolute bullshit.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

are you ready for some football

I find myself eavesdropping on the various people who, like me, are waiting for the train to arrive and take us to work. I stand on the platform and watch the same faces I see every morning walk across the wooden planks — some clutching briefcases under their arms, some dragging large, wheeled cases behind them — and take the same relative waiting positions they take every morning (myself included). I don't eavesdrop on purpose. I am not particularly interested in the random, nonsensical chit-chat I hear. Some of my fellow commuters just talk so goddamn loud, that I can't help but hear every detail of their usually inane conversations. I often find it maddening, but I guess I also find it amusing — otherwise I wouldn't write about it so often. Or maybe I don't want to feel alone in my torture. Why should you miss out?

Yesterday was Monday, the day after Super Bowl 51, in which the mighty New England Patriots captured another record-breaking victory. I believe, if my knowledge of football is what I think it is, they have won every Super Bowl that has ever been played. I don't know. I could be wrong, but actually, I don't give a shit. I have never watched a complete football game in my life. Growing up, my father and my brother watched every sports contest that flashed across our television. Football, baseball, basketball. (My brother watched hockey alone because my father said it moved too goddamn fast for him.) Not me! I never watched any of it. I had no interest. Later in my life, I became an avid baseball fan, but that wasn't until the late 90s when my wife and I purchased Phillies season tickets so we could go to the All-Star Game in our hometown. We kept those tickets for eighteen seasons. But before that, I couldn't tell a home run from a field goal — and I didn't care.

I am not afraid to admit that I am not a sports fan. I have other interests to occupy my time. I know plenty of sports fans, some of whom can't understand how I don't care about three-pointers and clipping. They marvel at my belief that "foul" refers to my preference of language and "icing" is something that decorates a birthday cake. I am offended when some "dude" asks me if I know the score of a particular game just because I'm a guy and all guys follow sports and know all scores. Or when I tell someone I'm from Philadelphia, they immediately pummel me with questions about the Eagles. (Y'know, we have the Liberty Bell, too!) I don't pretend to know about sports and I certainly don't jump on the "fan bandwagon" if my city's team is doing well or during any sport's playoff time.

So, around 7:45 a.m. the day after the Super Bowl, I see some woman sit down on a bench at the train station and start a loud conversation about the game.

First Woman: Did you watch the Super Bowl? 

Second Woman: Well, we're not really much of a football family. Actually, we're not a football family at all. We watched the Super Bowl, 'cause... y'know. Jacob doesn't like football, but he's a Steelers fan and, evidently, if you like the Steelers, then you can't like the Patriots. They're like cross-division adversaries or something. So, we're not supposed to like the Patriots. But, I didn't even watch the whole game. I watched the first half and then I went upstairs and — y'know — did my own thing. I did some baking, too, because we all like to get together for Tu B'Shevat*.

By the time the train arrived, my head had exploded all over the platform.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* Tu B'Shevat, or "Tubishvat" as the guttural pronunciation goes, marks the season in which the earliest-blooming trees in the Land of Israel emerge from their winter sleep and begin a new fruit-bearing cycle. It's essentially Jewish Arbor Day, and possibly, worth a day off from work.

people gonna talk

Well, it's December and winter has hit the Philadelphia area. On most mornings, I will wait for my train out on the open-air platform. On days that begin with temperatures in the low 20s, I reluctantly opt for the warmth that the small ticket office offers. I say "reluctantly" because I really have to weigh the situation. Sure, I don't want to stand out in the cold and freeze my ass off, but do I really want to subject myself to what goes on inside the ticket office?

The office (which is only open Monday through Friday from 5:45 a.m. until 11:45 a.m. — and not a minute past!), is tiny, cramped and in desperate need of a good refurbishing. It is a sad, nondescript room with high ceilings, dated, cracked linoleum floor tiles and dingy cream-colored walls. Two adjacent walls have wooden, slat-backed benches that can accommodate three people, if they are courteous enough to occupy their allotted space. Otherwise, those taking refuge in the ticket office are relegated to standing around, scattered haphazardly like prisoners in the exercise yard. The ticket agent — a gray-haired woman in a heavy fleece pullover (no matter what the weather) — sits in a separate little area behind a half-wall of glass. Small as it is, it seems to have been outfitted with all the comforts of home — a microwave and toaster oven, a radio, a small television, three wall calendars, two clocks that display different times and a plethora of snacks all neatly stacked on top of a filing cabinet that looks as though it has not been opened in decades. On cold weather days, such as today, the waiting area inside the ticket office can get pretty crowded, putting standing space at a premium. Most people wait quietly, rubbing their gloved hands together to generate heat. Others, though, choose to loudly engage their fellow commuters in some inane chit-chatty conversation.

Conversation one:

Commuter 1: It sure is cold this morning.
Commuter 2: Yeah, it sure is.
Commuter 1: My office at work is always cold, too. Summer. Winter It's always cold.
Commuter 2: Mine is always hot. All the time.
Commuter 1: Yeah. I guess it's always one or the other.

Conversation two:

Commuter 3: Oh! So, how are you?
Commuter 4: I'm good. How is Jacob?
Commuter 3: Jacob is at college in New York. How is Jacob?
Commuter 4: Jacob is good. Jacob has a new job.

Conversation three:

Commuter 5: Did you park your car in the lot?
Commuter 6: No, they're vicious in that lot. If you have a new car, it will get scratched in that lot.
Commuter 5: I don't have a new car.

Conversation four:

Commuter 7: Is the next train to Jefferson Station on time?
Ticket Agent: I think so. I'm not sure.
Commuter 7: Well, is it reported late?
Ticket Agent: I'm not sure.
Commuter 7: Don't you get some kind of report or notice?
Ticket Agent: No, not really.
Commuter 7: Aren't you in contact with someone somewhere?
Ticket Agent: Not really.
Commuter 7: So, you don't know when the train is coming?
Ticket Agent: Well, you can check the schedule.

Since the trains are usually late (my train has not been on time in ten years), the amount of time spent standing that close to this mindless, thoughtless, nonsensical rambling can wear on one's nerves. So, I have to decide which is worse: listening to this relentless blather or risk frostbite before the train arrives.

After a few minutes, I always make the same decision. I weave my way through the close crowd and brave the cold.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a 
FREE DOWNLOAD 
at ge.tt or jumpshare.com for a limited time.

This year, it’s a whopping 71 minutes worth of Christmas cacophony that’s sure to ruin your holiday celebration within seconds. You get two dozen eclectic Christmas selections plus a custom full-color cover with track listings – all for you and all for FREE! (That’s right! FREE!) 

   

(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

big boss man

I just caught the late 4:45 train for my evening commute home.

SEPTA's train service (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority) has been running poorly all summer. In 2006, SEPTA purchased one hundred and twenty. brand-spanking-new new Silverliner V railcars for two-hundred and seventy-four million dollars. The cars were manufactured by the relatively-young Hyundai Rotem company of South Korea. SEPTA chose to purchase the cars based on Hyundai Rotem's undercutting all of the competition. The train cars experienced massive delays in production and delivery. But, better late than never, the cars were finally delivered and soon were gliding on the rails all over Philadelphia and its suburbs.

Until June.

A routine inspection discovered numerous fatigue cracks on the support trucks of every single Silverliner V in SEPTA's system. The beautiful new trains were immediately pulled from service and SEPTA began a frantic scramble. Timetables were altered, trains were borrowed from neighboring cities and delays were insufferable. All summer long, daily commuters have experienced nightmares in travel time and over-crowded train cars. SEPTA employees have been extra surly and belligerent. Another bonus to make the experience even more pleasurable.

If you follow my Instagram account, you know that it is chock full of pictures of people taking up more than their fair share of allotted space by placing their bags, backpacks, briefcases, food or any number of other items on the empty seat next to the single seat that their fare permits them to occupy. SEPTA has introduced the "Dude, It's Rude" initiative, reminding riders that one fare entitles them to one seat. Most people ignore the rules. Some even get testy when asked to move their stuff to accommodate another passenger. The policy is not remotely enforced by SEPTA on-board employees.

Now, with over-crowded trains, seats are at a premium. Yet, I still see many commuters spread out across two, or sometimes three, seats with their personal effects.

Today, on my ride home, I was joined by a man in the seat facing mine. With my messenger bag perched squarely on my lap, I silently read my book until the train pulled up into my station. This gentleman, my seatmate, sported a SEPTA employee badge dangling from a SEPTA lanyard around his neck. He wore a dark dress shirt and an expensive looking tie. This let me know that he was not a rank-and-file "train guy." This guy was a "main office executive" type. No sooner did this guy plop himself down in the seat opposite me, his knees bumping into mine, did he drop his bulky backpack on the empty seat to his left. He absentmindedly draped his beefy arm across the bag, blocking any access for another commuter to take a load off. He pulled a cellphone from his pocket and squinted as he thumbed the screen.

A representative of SEPTA blatantly breaking the rules that his company introduced. Average commuters are expected to follow the rules. SEPTA employees, especially the upper echelon, should lead by example, especially with limited seating available. I looked around and noticed there were people standing in several places throughout the train, gripping handrails and seat backs to steady themselves.

Disgusted, I rose from my seat as the train approached my stop. I grunted an "excuse me" and the guy swiveled his knees to make an exit path for me.

I stepped on his foot on my way out.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

red-headed stranger

This may come as a shock to you, but..... I am not a natural redhead. I know, I know — I should have prefaced my opening sentence with SPOILER ALERT, as is common internet etiquette, but, let's be honest, the color of my hair is pretty suspect.

Every six or so weeks, I find myself at a hair salon covered with a big vinyl smock. A young lady slathers my head with a mixture from a tube selected from the far end of their wall-length pallet of hair color. My particular shade comes from a supply that goes untouched between my month-and-a-half visits. After approximately an hour (including the application and a brief, motionless sit under the artificially-intense heat of a dryer plus a trim of what little hair I have left), the look that has become familiar to family, friends and coworkers returns and everything is back to normal. No more gray-tinged roots to throw off the delicate balance and long-time branding that is Josh Pincus.

One recent morning, I was at the train station at the end of my suburban street, awaiting another late train to take me into Philadelphia for work. I removed my cellphone from my pocket and punched up the inaccurate app that was created by SEPTA, the entity that operates the public transportation services in Southeastern Pennsylvania. Reading a report of a mere "two minutes behind schedule," I shoved the phone back into my pocket and waited. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a glimpse of bright red-orange on the station platform about ten feet away from me. I turned my head in the direction of the fiery color. Leaning against a railing that runs the perimeter of the wooden-planked platform, was a tall woman in a beige cloth coat, her gloved hand gripping the handle of a large, leather briefcase. Upon first look, she fit the description of thousands of women seen everyday in the workforce. Except this woman's head was crowned with a coiffure of blazing crimson. A startlingly unnatural color. A color that was very familiar to me.

The woman at the salon who colors my hair has assured me, on many occasions, that I am the sole consumer of that hue. Sometimes, we have even joked about it, sarcastically wondering why anyone else would ever want that color. But now, here I was standing less than a bus-length from someone who has raided my personal hair dye stash.

I thought for sure that everyone at the train station was staring at me and then shifting their eyes to the woman with the briefcase. It was different and way more uncomfortable than showing up at a wedding wearing the exact same dress as the mother of the bride. I knew there was whispering and covert pointing going on behind my back. "They must be related!," I imagined was the exchange in hushed tones between passengers standing along the outside darkened corners of the stone station building. The woman with the briefcase just stood, every-so-often turning her glance towards the empty train tracks, anticipating the arrival of the 7:52. She was oblivious to the silent mockery that flowed through the assembled crowd.

The train was taking forever to arrive. All the while, I could hear murmurs of conversation, snippets of which included "hair," "redhead," color" and "unnatural." I didn't want to turn around. I couldn't. Although I see most of these people every single day, I don't really know any of them. But there they were, passing judgement on me and my choices about my appearance. I couldn't approach the redheaded woman with the briefcase. I didn't know her either. Besides, that would just be weird.

Suddenly, the train pulled into view and chugged up to a stop at the station. Everyone made their way into a rough, irregular queue line and began to board. The woman with the briefcase took her place in line a few folks behind me.

The platform was now empty. Everyone who was waiting was now on the train.

And of course, there was no conversation about my hair, the woman with the briefcase's hair, or anything else related to the two of us.

At least, I don't think there was.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax

I got on the train yesterday, much like I do every morning. My morning train has been fairly crowded this week, ever since Mother Nature dumped nearly two feet of snow on Philadelphia (and its surrounding area) last weekend.  SEPTA, the entity behind public mass transit in Southeastern Pennsylvania, regularly struggles with equipment problems regardless of the weather, but the aftermath of the brutal storm wreaked extra havoc on their regional rail machinery and service. Most trains were short their standard amount of cars. Trains that typically run with four or five cars were now reduced to two or three. If you are the math wizards that I think you are, you understand that this situation greatly cuts down on the amount of available seats. With less seats available, obviously more passengers will be standing for their morning commute. (Not happily, I might add.)

My train eventually pulled up into the station (late, as usual - no matter what kind of weather we are having) and I boarded along with fifty or so of my fellow passengers I see nearly every morning. I walked the narrow aisle as the few available seats were filled in by those who boarded ahead of me. Proceeding to the last train car, I spotted an empty seat near the end close to the rear door. As I got closer, I saw the seat was occupied, on one side, by a gentleman in his forties. He looked like the kind of guy who reclines at the table in a corporate conference room with his index finger poised above the screen of his external-keyboard-equipped iPad, ready to make his presence at the meeting known by interjecting terms like "organic," "synergy," "thought leader" and "let's not reinvent the wheel" and then commencing with an attempt to reinvent the wheel. The other half of the seat, while expected to be unoccupied, was covered by a multitude of items belonging to Corporate Guy. These items — a folded train schedule, a yellow legal pad and various groupings of business cards — were strewn across the empty seat while he busily pored over the assemblage, arranging and rearranging the mess.

I stood alongside the seat, looking down. I was trying to glare his collection of paper products off the seat. When my telepathic powers failed, I cleared my throat and said, "Excuse me, please.," in the most polite voice I could muster at five minutes to eight in the morning. Corporate Guy looked up, loudly, almost theatrically, exhaled and   s   l   o   w   l   y   gathered up his paper belongings. I sat down and, as per my usual ritual, situated myself within the confines of the space allotted for one passenger on a seat on a train. I removed my current book from my bag and fumbled in my pocket for the small vinyl case that houses and secures my monthly train pass. I began to read, holding my pass out for the arrival of and inspection by the conductor. Corporate Guy, however, had transferred his activity to the workspace created by his right leg crossed over his left and laying flat, the knee creeping obnoxiously into my personal space. In my peripheral vision, I could see him furiously shuffling the cards, stacking and re-stacking them into assorted sized piles. He did this through two full station stops. Once he was satisfied with the classification into which he had determined for each card, he wrapped them securely with one of a handful of rubber bands he produced from a supply concealed within his heavy coat. Each bound pile was then flexed for a considerable amount of time between his fingers, as though he was about to use them to deal a hand of poker. He finally dispensed the cards into a backpack he had placed at his feet (but not before testing each and every one for its full flexing ability). He fidgeted more. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. He reached and groped inside his coat. The first few times his hand came out empty. The fifth or sixth time he did it, he removed a large greeting card and envelope. From the opposite side of his coat, he extracted a pen. Again, he crossed his legs to create a flat surface, presumably on which to inscribe the card. (And, again, that fucking knee was encroaching into my territory.)

As he fiercely scribbled ink across the blank surface of the card, his whole body rocked and jiggled, not just the executing arm and hand. I casually looked around at the other passengers in my general area. Each was sitting quietly. Each was still. Some fiddled with a cellphone. Others silently, almost motionlessly, pored over Kindles. Others read physical books or newspapers. All were barely moving, save for the occasional, nearly undetectable, page turn or finger flick. Lucky me, I found the seat next to the proverbial "whirling dervish*." I was tempted to turn to him and shout, "Sit still, for Christ's sake! What are you — four years old?" But, alas, I did not. I remained quiet and I continued to read, finding that I read the same sentence six times while I soundlessly berated this guy in my head.

Finally, the train rambled into my station. I stuffed my book back into my bag and I stood to exit. Behind me, I could sense that Corporate Guy was also readying himself to leave the train. The door opened and I stepped onto the platform, making my way thorough the crowd and towards the stairs.

I saw Corporate Guy heading in the opposite direction. Off to fidget and squirm next to someone else today.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com


*Although I have heard the term for many years, I'm not quite sure what a "dervish" is but, apparently, they whirl — and this guy was a-whirling.

that joke isn't funny anymore

See this transit pass? I have been buying one of these every month* for the past nine years. It entitles me to unlimited rides on the SEPTA Regional Rail systems for the entire month designated at the top of the pass (in this case "November 2015"). I ride the train to and from work five days a week. Sometimes, I take the train on weekends. Other times, I take the subway system for quick commutes within the city. My transit pass includes unlimited subway rides, as well.

For the past nine years, I don't believe that my train has ever been on time. Not going to work. Not coming from work and not on those infrequent weekend trips. The train is usually five or six minutes late. Sometimes longer. Sometimes, a lot longer. According to several inquiries to SEPTA (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority, the entity that runs the public transportation system in Philadelphia and its surrounding area), a train can be up to six minutes behind schedule and still be considered "on time." That is a rail system standard — a standard made up by the rail system. I told a representative from SEPTA that it's a good thing that doctors don't work within similar guidelines. ("Yeah, we'll try to operate within six inches of your heart. If we hit your lung, we're still considering that to be your heart".) It's very frustrating to have the train arrive late every single day. I know I get angry and I can tell by the expressions on the faces of my fellow commuters that I see pacing the train platforms daily, the feeling is shared. Sometimes, an announcement is made over the PA system, but the ancient equipment renders it incoherent. Frustrated commuters look at each other in wonder, hoping someone was able to decipher at least a few important words regarding the status of the next arriving train. Once the train does arrive, no words of apology are ever offered by SEPTA personnel. After all, the conductors and the engineer are already at work. They don't give a fuck if you're late.

Then there's this guy. 

He has been the regular conductor on my morning train for several months now. Every day, the train pulls up to the platform and I board, along with the regular group of commuters I see most mornings. Everyone silently selects a seat (if one is available and not blocked by some inconsiderate asshole's purse, briefcase or other type of bag) and then either reads, sleeps or stares into space until we arrive at their station stop. It's sort of a peaceful time to gather your thoughts before mounting the bustle of a hectic workplace.

But this guy.

Obviously, a frustrated performer, this guy uses the captive audience of the morning train riders to test out his lame attempt at humor, delivered in an unfunny deadpan monotone. Believe me, no one is in the mood for his childish wisecracks at such an early hour. Just take my ticket or look at my pass and be on your way. You don't even have to thank me for being a paying customer. He broadcasts announcements on the PA system from the seclusion of a small vestibule outside of the train car itself, then he enters the car and comments on the announcements, pretending that it wasn't his voice we all just heard. He does the same routine every morning and no one laughs. Y'know why no one laughs? Because it's not funny!

One morning, the train arrived (late) and a few people were walking across the parking lot on their way to the steps to get up to the platform. This guy announces that passengers not on the platform when the train arrives would not be able to board and must wait for the next train. Then, with no expression, announced, "I'm only kidding." I can't believe no one slugged him.

I suppose his little jokes would be funny if SEPTA ran an efficient transportation system. But they don't. Not by a fucking long shot! The train is late every, single morning and every, single evening. I know I am not alone in my anger. Co-workers from other suburban destinations share my experience and frustration. My son has given up taking a bus — one that goes right by his house — because of its unreliability. Instead, he has become a regular user (and advocate) for Philadelphia's new bike-sharing** program. He has said that even walking to work would get him there faster that waiting for a SEPTA bus that may or may not even come.  So, I am in no mood to hear the jokes of a system that can't get their primary function — on-time and efficient transportation  — in smooth running order. After all, the "T" in your name stands for "transportation." It is, quite literally, your middle name! 

You wanna joke? Get your shit together first. Then, by all means, joke all you want. You have my blessing.

In the meantime, SEPTA, invest in an accurate watch instead of a book of one-liners.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* Note: this was changed from "week" after it was pointed out, by a sharp reader, that I wouldn't be buying my monthly pass on a weekly basis, unless I was an idiot. She was correct on both points.

** I, unfortunately, live too far from work to ride a bike (if I had one), so I remain at SEPTA's mercy. 

strumming my pain with her fingers

I was on the train for my commute home from work. The train was fairly crowded, but I managed to find a seat. I reached into my bag and located the book which I am currently struggling to finish. (In case you were wondering, it's Dancing Aztecs, a 1976 sprawling and disjointed comic-crime novel by the prolific author Donald Westlake. I have read — and enjoyed — several of Westlake's efforts in the past. This one, however, is trite and contrived and feels like a homework assignment.) The train made its first stop at Jefferson Station and more passengers filed on and filled in all of the remaining seats. The surplus were relegated to standing in the aisles. A woman, who just boarded, stood just inches from me chatting on her cellphone. Maybe it was the close proximity or maybe it was the fact that she was not using her "inside voice," but I could hear every word she was saying. And, boy!, what she was saying!

Obviously, she was in the same line of work as I — graphic design. She was viciously complaining about a particularly irritating series of events that she had experienced at her job. Events that eerily echoed incidents that I have experienced over the past thirty-plus years as a graphic designer.

"...and then she asked me to make the document a PDF, and it was already a PDF!"

"It was the worst designed logo I ever did. Took me five minutes and that's the one they picked!"

"Nope! She didn't know what I meant when I said 'URL'!"

"They keep interrupting me with little jobs that they can do themselves and it keeps me from doing my actual work!"

"They know I'm the designer! What do they know about design?"

I tried not to eavesdrop, but I had no choice. If someone is standing next to you and carrying on a conversation in a loud voice, is it technically eavesdropping? I also tried not to force myself into her conversation. I had to restrain myself from nodding in agreement and interjecting, "Oh, I feel your pain, sister. I feel your pain." Then, punctuate my sentiment with a fist-pump of solidarity. But, that's not me. I don't do stuff like that. I don't talk to people I don't know. So, I went back to my book and she continued her rant.

As the train approached my stop, I returned my book to my bag and fumbled in my jacket pocket for my house keys. The train began to slow as it came into the station. I stood. She turned towards the exit as well. She was getting off at my stop, Should I say something? Should I let her know that she is not alone? Should I offer a bit of artist camaraderie? I inched my way up the aisle just behind her. She descended the train steps to the platform just ahead of me. And...

I didn't say a word.

When I got home, I told my wife the whole tale of what transpired on the train. My wife has heard me complain for thirty-two years over the course of a dozen jobs. She also knows me and my personality quirks and traits better than anyone else. "You didn't say anything to her, did you?," Mrs P. asked. Then: "Of course you didn't.," she answered her own question.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

down in the tunnels, trying to make it pay

"Buscar" is a Spanish verb that means "to seek.*" It evolved into "busker," a term for street performance for gratuities. You know, those guys you see on the corner in high traffic areas, a well-worn acoustic guitar slung across their midsection, passionately singing on their cement stage. Sometimes they accompany themselves on a beat-up violin or even bang rhythmically on an inverted plastic bucket. But they are always sporting an overturned hat or similar receptacle with which to gather small monetary donations from passersby.

A lot of famous people launched their careers by busking. As a child, B.B. King (then known by his real name Riley) played the blues on his guitar on the streets of Mississippi. While busking in Spain in 1962, young Rod Stewart was arrested for vagrancy and deported back to his native England. Tracy Chapman was an active busker in Cambridge, Massachusetts, while she attended Tufts University. Folk-punk pioneers The Violent Femmes were busking outside a theater in Milwaukee when James Honeyman-Scott of The Pretenders asked them to come in and play a set before his band took the stage.

Since I commute to work by train, I pass through the massive Suburban Station in Philadelphia twice daily. I routinely see a familiar parade of buskers both on the busy center city streets and in the train station itself. Despite the early hour of my arrival, I see a smattering of violinists, cellists and flutist set up in remote corners of the station. They feverishly draw their bows across those taut catgut strings or delicately blow into their respective mouthpieces. Judging by the amount of money accumulated in their hats (or cigar box or whatever), they have been at it since before the sun rose that morning. I've seen solos, duos and trios of velvety voices doo-wopping their way though a classic tune to the delight of the small audiences gathered in a semicircle around them. I've heard the unlikely combination of banjo and trumpet or harmonica and accordion playing harmoniously together or discordantly fighting for attention just a few feet away from each other.

There are some genuinely talented individuals singing on the streets and in the train station. I've heard voices and musicianship that rival — or even surpass — some that I've paid to see on the stages of some of the city's bigger venues.

Then there's this guy.

I see him nearly every day, though not always in the same spot. Sometimes, he's in the narrow walkway, blocking the path of customers exiting the Au Bon Pain. Sometimes he's in the cold, urine-reeking vestibule that leads up to the street level. Sometimes, he's hidden in the dark, vacant, tiled corner that seems forgotten in some renovation plan. That's the spot he seems to like best, because it's there that he plies his typical — and typically strange — performance. Seemingly oblivious to any potential audience, he faces the wall and angrily strums his splintered acoustic guitar. His deep, throaty voice ricochets off of every single surface, creating a malevolent, unpleasant sound. It is not the least bit musical, just a sound. His eyes are obscured by dark glasses, giving him a frightening and unapproachable appearance. He paces erratically like a caged animal, spitting out familiar lyrics to classic rock songs, although he has chosen to realign them along nearly unrecognizable melodies. Hearing only bits of song phrases as I hurry to catch my train, I've wracked my brain trying to identify the song in question, only to have it hit me twenty minutes later — the garbled musical refrain throwing off the familiarity of the lyrics.

I have never seen a dime in his upended hat. I have never seen him acknowledge a single passerby. I have only seen him howl his unintelligible versions of Lennon and McCartney compositions (at least that's what I think they were) directly into the grimy marble tiles of the train station, in a manner reminiscent of a troubled man practicing primal scream therapy, not one attempting to entertain an audience.

If walls could talk...

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*The word "buscar," in Spain, now refers to prostitutes.

let me please introduce myself

I left my house this morning pretty much like I do every morning. I descended the two steps that lead off my front porch and walked along the paved path that bisects my tiny front lawn. I stepped down two more cement steps and I was on the public sidewalk. I strolled down to the train station that is just at the end of my block. As I walked, I checked (like I do every morning) to make sure I had my phone (I did) and my monthly train pass (I did). I could sense that there was another pedestrian several feet behind me. This was not unusual. At this early hour of the day, my street is fairly active with commuters making their way to the train station. I turned my direction into the train station parking lot and continued up the slightly inclined blacktop towards the train platform. As I walked, I could hear the "thump-thump-thump" of a wheeled suitcase being pulled along the uneven sidewalk behind me.

I continued on to the platform. A small contingency of people had already gathered and more were joining them from cars parked in the lot and other routes from the network of sidewalks that terminate at the station. I walked to the far end of the platform and took the regular spot in which I stand to wait for my train. I pulled my phone from my pocket and tapped the icon of the SEPTA app. (SEPTA is the South Eastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority, who supplies a regularly-late train each and every morning). As I scrolled through the various pages of the app, checking on the status of my train, I could again sense the approach of someone.

"Hey since we live on the same street and I see you every morning, I thought it was about time I introduce myself." A short, gray-haired man stood just inches from me. He thrust his open hand in my direction, in anticipation of a consensual shake.

"I'm Matthew." he added. 

I couldn't clearly make out his face, as the bright morning sun was filling my line of vision with blinding light. I was also caught off-guard and I did something, given ample time to consider my actions, I would never ever have done.

I shook a stranger's hand.

"I'm Josh.," I heard myself say and, again, I was surprised to hear my own voice saying those words to a stranger.

"Pleasure to meet you, Josh.," Matthew replied. Then he walked off to reunite with his wheeled suitcase, the one he had been dragging on the sidewalk minutes earlier.

I will gladly admit that I am not the friendliest person that ever lived. Well, once I know you, I am friendly. Actually, I am a pretty good friend to people I know. But, getting to know me... ah there's the rub. I am cynical, sarcastic, suspicious and, yes, misanthropic. I don't like to talk to strangers. And, in a million years, I would never blindly introduce myself to a total stranger at a train station — just because I see them every morning on my street. I have seen a lot of people every single day for the past eight years of daily commutes on the train. I don't know any of their names, where they live, where they work... nor do I want to.

But, this guy... this Matthew.... does this mean he's my friend now?

I should have taken a later train today. Or stayed home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

deliver the letter the sooner the better

Email has cut considerably into the United States Postal Service's business. For goodness sake, the USPS lost two billion dollars in 2014.

Although I pay almost all of my bills online, I still mail a check or two over the course of a year. My wife and I, like most folks over forty, still mail actual, physical birthday cards to loved ones annually. So, there is still the need for the Postal Service. And just this morning, I attempted to put that need to use.

My train pulled in to Philadelphia's Suburban Station this morning around 8:15, like it does pretty much every morning. I exited the train and fumbled around in my bag for the birthday card my wife left — on my bureau next to my wallet — for me to mail. I climbed the stairs from the subterranean train platform up to the main floor of the train station, where, among the bustling coffee shops and newsstands, I would find a mailbox. I pass one every morning. It's right in front of one of four Dunkin Donuts I pass on my usual route to my office building. 

And — sure enough — there was the mailbox. But there was a guy standing right in front of it. Actually, leaning on it! He was a real corporate-type. Expensive-looking briefcase in his hand and an expensive-looking haircut on his head. He wore a tailored trench coat and was peering over the tops of his designer glasses, frowning as he thumbed through the contents of his iPhone. And he was blocking all access to the mailbox.

I approached him and the mailbox. "Excuse me, please." I said. I tried to force my lips into a smile.

He looked up from his phone with the most annoyed, the most evil scowl on his face. An expression that would be the result of someone asking if they could drop dog shit on your head or a doctor informing you of a surprise rectal exam. The disdain on his face was palpable. And he didn't seem to want to make an attempt at moving.

I raised the birthday card up so he could see I had something to deposit in the mailbox and I was not just asking him to vacate his staked parcel of linoleum tiled floor as a matter of aesthetics. Slowly — painfully slowly — he slunk over to the side of the mailbox, graciously allowing me to open the access door and drop in my card.

The train station is a huge building, three city blocks long and a city block wide. It is a transportation hub for 13 regional rail train lines, as well as the city's two subway routes. It handles approximately 25,000 passengers per day. Per day. PER FUCKING DAY! And the only place this guy could find to stand in the whole fucking building was right in front of a fucking mailbox?

I suppose this is what they mean by "going postal."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com