Working from home but missing Metro North.
Tag: commute
Walking Cross-Town. With Time Lapse.
Photographs, Yes… Love ’em.
Time lapse photography, not so much. Haunting. The clouds zipping by, dragging me along, hands desperately clutching the relentless spinning flywheel of Time, all slipping from my grasp.
This same morning walk to train. This same Metro North train. This same commute. This same cross-town walk.
Always black shoes. Always dark socks. Always conservative neck tie. Always black coat. Always black brief case.
That overhead drone, its dark eye, rotating, whirring, peering downward, tracking my steps. My progress.
13 years ago, it was the first train, always the first train, the 5:07 am to Grand Central. DK and the Traders. I take the aisle seat for quick ejection. I graze through the morning papers, The Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Financial Times. Eyes active, skimming, inhaling pages, hungry. I shift to the pile up of late afternoon and overnight emails. Respond to the Team – they begin to roll out of bed, checking their smartphones. DK’s emails flashing, flashing, flashing...Unread. Years of the same Strategy, pull them along in my wind tunnel. He’s up, he’s moving, and they’ll follow along, or….they won’t.
Train arrives at Grand Central. I’m up, and Ready, standing in the vestibule. The hiss of the doors, and I’m off. Accelerating down the tunnels. Passing other Suits. Pulse up, heart racing, I make the turn in the tunnel and approach the escalators to the exit: Escalators are for pu**ies. I take the stairs. 75 of them, straight up. Fearless, I gobble them up two at a time, brushing by walkers on the right. Get to the top, breathless, I jog to catch the open door onto the street, catching the Walk sign, 5, 4, 3….
I’ve figured out the pace, the precise cadence to catch the next cross street Walk sign. Foot steps brisk, moving. Brief case swings in right hand, there are re-grips but the smooth, cowhide leather never leaves the firm grip of the right hand.
Eyes are locked on next street, the next cross walk, the next Walk sign. The mind, in parallel, rifling through the morning calendar. The office, ETA of 12 minutes, if I hit that street and that street and that street, just right.
And more often than not, I would hit it just right.
13 years ago, and now, This Week. Continue reading “Walking Cross-Town. With Time Lapse.”
Riding Metro North. With El ConVirus.
El ConVirus.
Platforms sparse.
Wide berth between waiting commuters.
Subways with empty seats during Peak hours.
Hands tentatively reaching for hand rails, door handles.
Hand shakes replaced with knuckle bumps and elbow touches. Followed by Smirks. The new greeting code. Disquiet.
Travel curtailed, discontinued. Conferences cancelled. Large meetings shifted to conference calls.
Corporates scrambling to pull together Business Continuity Plans. First one, then two, then more work from home, with sniffles, with flu, with Something.
Fear spreading like Bay Area fog.
I twist in my earbuds, fire up Audible Books on Tape, and settle in for the commute home.
75% through Colum McCann’s Apeirogon. “Apeirogon, a polygon having an infinite number of sides...Combing the signals like moisture from the air.”
A cough. A sneeze. Duck for cover.
Combing the signals like moisture from the air.
Photo: Pierre Bacus via Aberrant Beauty
Riding Metro North. Searching, for Important.
Jenny Offill : “To live in a city is to be forever flinching.”
Tuesday morning.
A brisk walk to train station. 32 F feels like 26 F. No snow, no slush, no sleet. Dry. January. I’ll take this all day, all winter long.
5:48 am train to Grand Central.
Plenty of empty seats.
I slide by her into a seat next to the window.
She offers me a smile, and tucks her legs in to let me pass.
I nod, offering my thanks.
She’s reading a soft cover book, verses of some sort. I can’t make it out. 98% of the rest of us are heads down into our gadgets.
She’s wearing a long (long), black puffer coat, that drapes down to the top of her black boots. A black knit cap. A knitted scarf wrapped around her neck. She’s in her late 60’s to mid 70’s would be my guess. She turns the page. Why am I so distracted by her? Her elbows and knees are tucked in, and she’s sitting comfortably in her lane. Lady @ Peace comes to mind.
But for the industrial heaters blowing warm air through the ceiling vents, the train car is silent.
She gets up in anticipation of her stop.
The vestibule is crowded with passengers waiting to get off.
She waits quietly at the back of the line. Continue reading “Riding Metro North. Searching, for Important.”
Riding Metro North. No Wings.
Tuesday.
Low 30’s F.
Walking to catch the 6:16 a.m. train to Manhattan, irritated that I have a late jump, and finding a seat is now a 50% probability. $15.25 for a ticket, and I have to worry about getting a seat.
I’m 1000 ft away from the stairs to the platform, and the cyclops eye beams through the morning fog illuminating the track. This is followed by a short horn blast signaling its arrival at the station.
It’s 3 minutes early.
I run.
I catch the train.
NO SEAT.
I stand for 55 minutes.
I’ve started a new book by Niall Williams titled “This is Happiness.” And this ain’t bloody Happiness. Continue reading “Riding Metro North. No Wings.”