The ticket collector walked calmly to the first row, yet as the train rolled into Short Hills, the first station out of Summit, he had not moved. He was a tall, mustached man with calm eyes, and he swayed back and forth as he looked down at the first passenger. The other ticket collector, a short, squat woman, had marched to the other cab as soon as the train pulled away from Summit, segmenting the aisle. Like dust, the passengers’ chatter was lifted as she marched, and settled back down when she closed the door. Short Hills, the first station out of Summit, was a red-bricked building, moated by tan pavement, and as it pulled away the Manhattan skyline came into view. It was etched onto the hat of the first passenger, which was now visible as he had stood up and was pointing repeatedly at his yellow ticket.
The mustached ticket collector had not moved, while the sweaty passenger, in a baggy purple shirt with short dreadlocks sticking out of his hat, pointed to the yellow ticket earnestly. As if the ticket collector did not see what the passenger was showing him. As if there was more.
The train has pulled in and out of Millburn, with its trim greens surrounding the red bricks. The Morristown station was called, and the mustached ticket collector was shaking his head, calmly and evenly. But soon the female ticket collector, who had been called at the previous stop, entered at the other end of the cab. The Morristown sign, in brick lettering, froze at the window, and the female ticket collector marched briskly down the aisle. The passenger was only given one more opportunity to point at the yellowing ticket in his fist, when the conversation became audible.
