Fairfield: A Commuter’s Community (Pt. 2)

(Click to read Part 1 of Fairfield: A Commuter’s Community)

There Will Be Drinks
When we were first looking to move, my husband regaled me with glorious stories about Metro North: It is so much better than the subway! Not so crowded. Civilized. And since I believe everything my husband says, I had idyllic images dancing in my head. There would be free drinks—fresh-brewed coffee in the morning and tasty apps and fizzy cocktails on the way home. The train would always pull into the station on time and be just the right temperature inside. Sinking into the seat, you would feel as if you were in the plushest Lazy Boy chair ever. Commuters would be playing lively games of cards and Scrabble together, calling out to each other by name. Ooh, and each car would have a theme! There would be a 70s car made to resemble a disco. There would a “One Book, One Train” car, which would host book groups once a month. There would be the hip, artistic car that required a secret password and then the Type A Personality car.

So, on my first trip into the city on Metro North I assumed it was just an off day. Maybe the sound system was broken. Surely they’d get the air working right and mop the sticky, brown streams of dried soda off the floor. After all, the spilled soda suggested a fun, festive atmosphere, as I had imagined. Like a grown-up frat party, with soda and professionals.

On the second day, I was overcome by the noxious combination of an overused bathroom and stagnant, stifling air. On the third day, I was jarred by an unmistakable clicking sound; a woman nearby was clipping her fingernails. Not so surprising on the F train, but really? In Connecticut? I tried to focus on the beautiful scenery—here a marsh, there an expansive mansion. But this only made me realize that cars inching along I-95 were going faster than us.

Here, It Gets Blurry
As days blurred into weeks and weeks into months and then years, I started to accept the fact that I had been bamboozled. Acceptance is the first step, isn’t it? I found ways to pass the time, perusing the New York Times, reading novels, writing, catching up on sleep and my favorite—thinking about all the fun or important things I could be doing during my nearly four-hour round-trip commute. It didn’t matter that I probably wouldn’t be taking a spin class, pruning a bonsai tree, creating a feng-shui enclave in our house or having coffee with friends. All that mattered was the fact that I’d be opting out because of my own laziness, busyness or disinterest. NOT because I was stuck on a slow-moving, ancient train that had been in service since the Stone Age.

But now that I am unemployed, riding Metro North has become a novelty. I fear that I’ve become the annoying, pleasure-seeking commuter. Yes, that person: the one who wears comfortable shoes and chats with the conductors and passersby. The one who nonchalantly steps off the train if it’s too crowded, waiting for the local with seats aplenty. My smile may give me away or maybe it’s the fact that I make eye contact with fellow passengers. Whatever it is, avert your eyes at all costs, unless you want to exchange recipes or chat about the latest playground gossip.