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.
“Sir.”
“Sir,” she said again, evenly, as the mustached conductor, hands folded behind his back, took a large step backward.
The man quickly pulled out his cell phone and stepped way from his seat, grinning and pointing to it, as well. The Morristown station sign stayed in display.
“Sir. Sir. I’ve got a thousand people here who need to get going, OK? I’ve got all these people…no! no, you listen. I’ve got all of these people here…”
He did not put his phone down, but continued to move toward the open door.
After three minutes stopped at Morristown station, the tone quickly changed. Three minutes is quite some time to be stopped for a fifty-five minute train ride, one of eighteen throughout the day. A line had been crossed between discussion and argument, between persuasion and confrontation, and soon the conversation turned to punishment, and there were no more Sirs.
“Get the fuck off my train! No! Get the FUCK off my train!”
As most heads had now popped up, trying to get a view of the man and the ticket collector, a grinning skullcapped man jumped out of his seat, walking right past the female ticket collector who was calling the Morristown police on her radio.
“You’d done it now! Ha Ha! Yup, yup. The police is on your ass now! Yep!” the skinny black man said, tugging his white skullcap with delight. A large woman in a purple dress stood behind him, demanding why the man would not let the train move. It was an amazing thing that the man still argued, still believed, that even at this ridiculus time, that he could be heard, and that he could persuade the ticket collector to keep him on the train.
“Yeah! Yeah you get the fuck off the train. That’s right! That’s right.”
The female ticket collector had a large grin on her face, and marched off quickly, once the train began running again. The mustached man sighed, shook his head, and began collecting the rest of the tickets. He was congratulated for his patience against such an unreasonable person, and he nodded and smiled warmly.
Our roles, not the rules, determine when we get on and off, said a large ponytailed man loudly as the train rolled on. There are many ways to ask to stay on for the ride, even without the fare. But if these pleas are rejected, the rejection is final and shall be respected. Final, the fat man said with a wink, until one finds a more symathetic collector.
