Sometimes I think that NJ Transit has designed the Shore Line to be a test of commitment – for convicts-in-training. Those who have ridden the entire length of the line – from Hoboken to Bay Head – know full well that the four-hour trip is excellent preparation for those weighing the pros and cons of a life of crime, wondering whether or not they can handle a stint in prison.
It’s easy to identify the individuals who have taken the challenge. Look around you. It’s not the woman whispering into her mesh-top duffle bag; there’s a dog in there. And it’s not the businessman with white sneakers peeking out from beneath his Wall Street Journal; he merely enjoys sensible shoes and a sensible read. Our suspects here are not the disheveled or disgruntled. A patchwork quilt of personalities and an autobiographical sketch are lying in their respective bags. They’re fine. Our suspects are, however, those who are traveling without any distractions.
For a long time, I was my number one suspect. If NJ Transit had indeed designed this test to identify possible sociopaths, I was concerned that I might qualify.
For months now, I’ve had one foot in my apartment in Hoboken, one foot in my family’s house at the Shore, and two feet firmly planted on the train platform each weekend. I’m still moving in, and I’m not sure it will ever end. I’ve grown tired of draining my checking account on four-dollar magazines that I read within a half hour. Not worth it. I’ve grown wise to the fact that my fully-charged iPod will die halfway into the train ride. Not worth it. I’d bring a newspaper, but I work for one. Not worth it. And as for the computer? I’ve been advised that I shouldn’t go to the bathroom once fellow riders have caught a glimpse of it. Not worth it. So I carry nothing with me. No distractions, nothing. I’d say I logged about 400 distraction-free hours this past summer. That was a red flag.
Talking on the train would have been a nice (non-psychotic) break, but I think it’s written in the train bylaws somewhere that it’s forbidden. Talking on the train to strangers has become the new hitch hiking. It’s not polite to stick your thumb in other people’s business. But I did often wonder why the person next to me was giggling with seemingly no cause, or why a disembarking woman was inclined to dive headfirst out of the train into the platform (I believe she fell). My mind had started to stray. That was a red flag, too.
Bottom line: Talking is associated with lunatics.
The other day, an entire train car cheered when a particularly gregarious woman disembarked from the train. If someone were to gauge the strength of that cheer, I’d say it’d measure about a 7.8 on the Richter scale, maybe more.
Before she got off, I wasn’t sure if the people sitting around her were breathing human beings or if NJ Transit had entered into some kind of odd partnership with Madame Tussaud’s to increase their Shore Line rider numbers.
The woman would speak.
No response.
Provocative statements filtered out of her mouth, filling up the air like smoke from a steam locomotive.
And no one was coughing.
She revealed that she’s worked primarily as a waitress, but she knew, in her heart, that she’d be the greatest secretary in the Northeast because she knew how to use a computer.
Blank stares.
She revealed that she had just spent the last five nights in jail because she had stolen a computer, but it wasn’t her fault. (I understood; career aspirations demand commitment. Red flag.)
Closed mouths.
She revealed that her mother’s ex-hubby’s second cousin was coming to pick her up.
No deviation of expression.
I was starting to wonder if the woman was in my head (red flag) and my chuckling was alarming others. But when she left, everyone in her area switched gears. Whooping and hollering. High fives all around. Hearty handshakes. Winks and knowing smiles. Pennings of the episode in the train’s restroom. An announcement over the train loudspeakers. A pretty resounding response.
After that, I ruled myself off my list of suspects. I had had a brush with a confirmed sociopath, and now regard silence upon my departure a welcome relief. As long as I’m being picked up by my mother, and not her ex-hubby’s second cousin, I think I’m going to be all right. – Deanna Cullen