Getting to work everyday in the 1970’s required taking the
Long Island Railroad to and from New York City. It was a little tough because
you got up early in the pre-dawn and raced to find a parking space in the
parking lot of the train station, if you used a major station. I used both the
quiet little hamlet of Bellport, and when I knew I was going to be late, the
Patchogue R.R. Station. I got a container of coffee and maybe something to eat,
and then a newspaper to cover my fingers in newsprint, found a seat and waited
for someone who was weight challenged to find me along the way and sit next to
or on top of me.
I would read the NY
Times until I got close to Jamaica Station, where I would then nap until
getting to Hunters Point Avenue where I got a subway train (No. 7, Flushing
Line) switched at Grand Central for the E or F train to Lexington Avenue. Climbing
the subway steps to the street at 50th and Lexington Avenue, I would
walk the few blocks, dodging pedestrian and car traffic alike until I reached
my building on 54th and Lexington Avenue. As I walked this route, I
would look for a ‘nut for the day’, some individual who demonstrated why he and
I should both be put away where we wouldn’t harm ourselves. Usually he was a
religious nutcase handing out pamphlets about eternal doom and my need for
salvation. I of course was NEVER disappointed.
Then every so many years a railroad strike would loom and a
need for alternate plans were set in motion. Being how I was a friendly chap, I
made friends on the railroad easily, and along with male friends got into a car
pool. We each took turns driving, and along with three others, poured into my
car at least once a week. Driving a 4 and ½ seat Camaro, was crowded but no one
got pregnant. It made for passing time and mileage, even if we sat still, well…
fun! Cigars and cigarettes were lit for the long haul and never did anyone
complain. These rail strikes usually occurred in late fall and would
occasionally slide into the New Year.
This led to new friends: new social commitments and I loved
the camaraderie. But everything we did became a way to link, certain expressions,
inside jokes and rip roaring sidesplitting stories became a norm. I would
listen to the media and feel sorry for those commuters who struggled, had a
hard time of it and did it alone. In fact, when the strike was over, I for one
missed the fun, but we grew as a group on the same train car every day on our
way to work.
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