The Connection

For many of us the commute is never as simple as go to station, get on train/bus, sit down, arrive at destination.  No, for many of us the commute involves a walk, a bus, a train, another train, and another walk, or some variation of the like.  The commuting veteran knows that the key to any multi-stage commute is timing those connections.  Most of this is done beforehand but of course there are times when some last second adjustments have to be made.

3 minutes is all I had to make it from this train, which was still slowly approaching the station, up some stairs, up some more stairs, through a turnstile, down some stairs, and onto what I assumed would, by that time, be a moving train. The lumbering locomotive screeched to a halt, the sound mimicking my own agony, as it reached the platform. I secured my bag with the strap set across my body, if it was to go down there was no going back to pick it up. I tightened my grip around the three and a half foot golf umbrella I was carrying. It had seemed like a brilliant idea when I left the office for the pouring rain but now it was just going to slow me down.
         

          

I clearly was not alone.  The man next to me stared out the window, a look of unadulterated determination in his eye.  I pointed out his loose shoelace and with a silent but thankful nod he addressed the issue.  The woman behind watched intently, worried this man would not tie his laces by the time the doors opened.

           

After what seemed like hours but was merely seconds the doors opened.  Like thoroughbred racehorses bounding forward after the gun, crowds of commuters rushed the doors to the stairwells.  Raincoats left unbuttoned were flowing in the wind with a majesty not unlike that of the Caped Crusader heading heroically to battle. 

            

We hit the stairs.  The few who made it to the escalators gracefully ascended upwards as those of us relegated to the stairs were putting two, even three, steps behind us in a single stride. 

            

With both flights of stairs cleared people began fumbling for their tickets, a rookie mistake made by a surprising number of veterans.  I had drawn mine before I even stepped off the train onto the platform.  I weaved through the crowd doing my best (but not completely succeeding) to avoid injuring anyone with my oversized umbrella as I blew by. 

            

Up ahead I hear the call of John Law, “Sir, no open containers in the station.  That has to go in the trash before you can pass through the gates.”  This wasn’t for me but for the very man whose askew lace I had pointed out what seemed now to be days ago.  I watched the man, without breaking stride, toss a half full Heineken 10 feet to the nearest trash bin.  Time froze, the shot was destined for the mouth of the bin. 

            

Except, it wasn’t, the half-full can struck the side with a loud thud.  The officer called to the man, yelling at him to pick up the can but it was too late.  He was already halfway down his second flight of stairs and I was right behind him. 

            

The platform finally came into view at the bottom of the stairs, and there it was.  I was going to make it.  The train was still there.  I darted through the first open door I saw as a teardrop rolled gently down my cheek.  I couldn’t believe my luck, not only had I made it onto the train but there was a seat.  I gave a small nod to the man with the disobedient laces and a quick glance out the window in a moment of silence for those who hadn't made it, those who had fallen victim to the wonderfully mind-numbing monotony that is the daily commute.