Why Indeed

I’ve been thinking a lot about the summer of 2003 this last week. That July was the first time I remember hearing a song that has been recurring in the soundtrack of my life. It was a muggy night in San Diego, and Sarah and I had decided at the last minute to go to the outdoor concert. Over the next few months, the song became an anthem of sorts. I hear it now, and instantly I’m in my Subaru, heading south on 13th East in Salt Lake, trying to figure out how to get a job in Southern California; sometimes wondering what would happen if I just kept driving.

Before driving to Staten Island last weekend, I changed the CDs I’d had in my car for the last few months. On the way home, I found myself listening to this song that encapsulates my life yet again, drawn to it the same way I was six years ago. And I have to wonder, is it the song that brings these feelings flooding back, or am I drawn to this song because of what I’m feeling? I’m sure I’ve heard it in the years in between, but it hasn’t hit me the way it has this week.

Makes me think that this native is getting restless.

Strangers on a Train

After a lovely evening in New York City last Friday, I was delighted to find an empty row on the Metro North train back to Connecticut. I turned my iPod on, and by the time we were moving I was nearly asleep . . .

The next thing I knew a loud voice was coming over the seat back saying, “Seriously, you gotta turn that sh** off!” I was absolutely mortified. Had I just committed one of the deadly sins of mass transit? Could my fellow passengers actually hear the dulcet tones of the Beastie Boys? Was I listening to music at a volume so high that Christina would never speak to me again? I immediately paused the music and turned the volume down, but the shouting persisted. I took my earbuds out and quickly realized what all the fuss was about. Passed out in the seat in front of me were two people who had apparently set an alarm for 1:20am. A phone alarm. A loud, beeping phone alarm. And they were paying just as much attention to it as I pay to my alarm on a typical weekday morning. Which is to say, none at all.

Another passenger, I’ll call her Jane, took matters into her own hands—standing over them and doing her best to wake them without resorting to physical assault. Jane finally roused the woman just enough for her to assure Jane she didn’t have an alarm. Helpful. As the woman was drifting swiftly back to sleep, Jane immediately stepped in and gently coerced her into rifling through her companion’s pockets. No alarm in pocket one, so Rip Wan Winkle started to lean back. Again, Jane interceded and encouraged her to try another pocket. Apparently the alarm had been considerably muffled by the pocket, as now that the phone had been found and removed, it was distinctly louder. The woman looked at it as though she had never seen a phone before, but luckily, the increased volume of the beeping finally woke her cohort up. Jane instructed him to turn it off. He muttered something about the fact that the alarm was set so they wouldn’t miss their stop in Stamford. Stamford, as in my stop. Stamford, as in 1:56am. Demonstrating superb negotiating skills, Jane assured him that no one on the train would let them sleep through their stop, and then worked with him to figure out exactly how to silence that darned alarm.

As it turns out, they came mighty close to sleeping through their stop. Despite the best efforts of the people around them, they both fell back asleep no less than three times in the 90 seconds before the train pulled into the station.

And that is why I don’t dare sleep on the train. Unless I’m really really tired. Then I definitely don’t sleep on the train.