It’s the Quiet Car. Quiet. There is no prohibition for dining in a Quiet Car. Or in any car for that matter.
You may be Pro-Life or Pro-Choice. You may be Vegetarian. You may believe in Global Warming. You may be a member of the NRA or for Gun Control. You may be for or anti Keystone Pipeline or fracking. Voucher or Public School. Whatever. As long as you aren’t in my face with your POV, I’m good. With one exception: Dining on public transportation. Don’t like it. Don’t do it. Find it deplorable.
6:35 p.m. Metro North departing from Grand Central Station to parts North.
It’s a six-seater, with four persons. Three people is manageable. Four is crowded. As the fourth piles in, the other three, me included, grumble. The commuter code is broken.
I’m knee to knee with a student, who has cracked open a pre-packaged salad, its perfume, sesame ginger dressing, spills into the cabin. She spreads out her napkins and proceeds to dive in with her plastic fork. Mixed mesclun greens. Julienne sliced red bell pepper. Water chestnuts. Baby Corn. All coated and shimmering in dressing. She catches me sliding my knees into the aisle. One Human feels discomfort in another Human. She wraps the dish in the plastic bag offering additional spillage protection and looks up. I grin. A sort-of thank you cheetah-like grin. Just one drop on me and there will be an explosion in this train car. She gingerly spears her greens and uses the plastic bag as a splash guard. Graying Mustachio Man looks unpredictable, eyes have that crazed look, best not to test him. [Read more…]