Saturday Night Burger Buddy

"Excuse me, now, I don't mean this to be something weird...."

Oh boy, here it comes, something weird. He wants money. He must want money.

3:30 a.m. on the PATH train. It had been a long Saturday night, what with the college-radio friend's art opening and the record-store friend's friend's band's gig and the art opening after-party. Plus daylight saving time. I just wanted to be home in bed. But it appeared that first, I'd be having a conversation with this fellow sitting across from me, one of only a few passengers on the train car.

He explained—gesturing to the white paper bag next to him—that he had purchased too much food at White Castle.

Will I buy some of the food off him. He wants money. He must want money.

So would I like a cheeseburger?

Now, I'm a college-educated, respected professional, just short of turning 40, so of course I gave the only logical response: "Uh....sure." Get a few drinks in me on a Saturday night, and I turn into a LOLcat.

He handed me the slider, and I thanked him. But before taking a bite, I noticed the conductor who had just entered the train car. "They don't allow eating on the train," I said, all holier-than-thou, "so we'll have to ask her permission."

It was totally OK with her. This sparked a discussion of ethics and modern culture with my cheeseburger chum: people's lack of appreciation for those who clean the trains, me quoting liberally from a viral Louis CK clip, the need to treat everyone with respect, et cetera, et cetera. All the while we both chowed down.

Train's almost in the station. Brace yourself, man. Here comes the pitch. He wants money. He must want money.

I was getting off in Hoboken, and he was staying on to Jersey City, so we said our farewells, and I profusely thanked him again for his generosity. But as I exited the station and walked the quiet night streets of the Mile Square City, a thought occurred: Perhaps I should not have eaten the cheeseburger.

I could've just accepted it—as to not seem rude—but "saved it for later" or maybe clandestinely inserted it in my jacket sleeve whilst pretending to eat. He didn't want money, but he must've wanted something. To kill a random train passenger with a poisoned burger? No, no, he was eating also. Well of course—he handed you the poisoned one, dummy. Great, I'm going to die. I'm not going to make it to my 40th birthday because I ate a hamburger given to me by a random man on the train in the middle of the night. Did "don't take candy from strangers" not sink into my brain from all those classroom scare-tactic films? But no, he and I just had that morality chat—he's a good man, not a cold-blooded killer! Maybe I won't die, I'll just get really, really sick. That wouldn't be too bad. Heck, I deserve it. What diseases could be purposely transmitted via wafer-thin beef patty, bun, cheese, and diced onions? Did I eat a pickle? I think I ate a pickle. I don't like pickles. I guess I'm still a little drunk. Oh I don't want to die.

It's four days later, and I'm still not dead. No apparent symptoms, not even any gastrointestinal distress. (I've got kind of a cast-iron gut.) And the scary thing is, I have to imagine I'd do it again.

Maybe I should've offered him money. He wanted money, but was too proud. I'd gladly pay him Tuesday for a hamburger today.

Not That We East-Coast Liberal Elite Are Rubbing It In or Anything

A little light reading this morning, woman across from me on the train? What have you got there? Oh... Bill Ayers!

Exclusively for Baseball Fans of a Certain Age

Every day I ride the PATH train. Recently, we've been encouraged to begin using the new SmartLink card, which you simply tap at the turnstile to go through.

Hey, I'm an early adopter, so I got the card. And now they're encouraging us to register our cards online. This allows you to automatically refill your card from home, while also allowing The Man to track your every move and eventually turn over this information to the robot overlords who will mercilessly hunt us down, and there is no escape, so don't even try.

I digress. Anyway, sure, I registered the card. Name, address, email, serial number on card—no problem. Standard operating procedure.

Then it asked me to give my card a nickname.

A nickname? That one threw me for a loop. Hmmm. What to call it, what to call it? Not enough time to throw an origami contest. So I typed in the first thing that came to my head.

And now my SmartLink card is nicknamed....Rico Cardy.

Hello, New Jersey!

Well, Jack's bittersweet tale of a love that never was has been linked by nj.com, endearing him to the locals, who are rooting him on with comments and tributes such as, "What a wuss" and "stop wasting time and space on this crap."

First of all, the concern about "column inches" seems to be misplaced. But more importantly, a further investigation of nj.com reveals a disturbing reality. I'm sure people who live there are sick of the Sopranos references. But the stark truth is that New Jersey is a land of too many laws. I don't know about the rest of you, but I can't risk living in a state where this is illegal:

MEDFORD, N.J. -- An 18-year-old Sherwood Drive man was arrested Sunday afternoon on charges of disturbing the peace for allegedly firing a homemade potato gun into the air, according to the Burlington County Times.

The man reportedly was firing potatoes into a lake near where he lives. He was processed and released to await a municipal court hearing.

Curse You, Patrick Moberg

I was intrigued by the tale of Patrick Moberg. He was the wonderboy who created a website a few months back to find the "girl of his dreams" who he'd spotted on the New York subway. And, by gum, he found her! The Internet was all a-buzz—as it is wont to do—and the happy couple even appeared on Good Morning America. Moberg was a flavor of the minute, and the story was forgotten as quickly as it appeared.

But not forgotten by everyone. Young master Moberg may not have considered a sinister consequence of his seemingly innocent romantic quest: Providing entirely too much hope to we legions of pathetic guys who stare at women on public transportation. The following true story takes place a mere two days after I watched the infamous GMA appearance in a Houston hotel room.


With Moberg on my mind, I am on the PATH train platform at Newark Penn Station on Sunday night, returning from a trip. I see a pretty girl. A plain pretty girl. My "type." I think, I'll get on the same train car as her.

And I do. She sits in the corner. Should I sit near her? No, I'll stand, with my suitcase, a safe distance away.

She starts reading a magazine. The image—the girl, the hair, the posture, the magazine—is extremely appealing to me. I decide to clandestinely document it on my cellphone camera.

I figure I should take a close-up too. For good measure.

Hmmm. I calculate the odds. There's about a 10% chance she'll transfer at Journal Square to a Hoboken train. If she does, maybe I'll talk to her. If it's the New Yorker, definitely. But doesn't quite look like the New Yorker. Could be a fashion magazine.

Journal Square. She gets off the train. I get off the train. There's a waiting-at-the-end-of-the-line Hoboken-bound train across the platform. But there's not an obvious car straight across for both of us to enter. I take a chance and choose first. She doesn't follow me. I'm sad.

"Joaquin," calls one of the friendly employees from the Spa Diner, where I am a regular. I don't know his name. I explain that there was a "mujer bonita" on the "otra tren." But where she is now, I don't know. I am a little "triste."

I get off the train in Hoboken, go up the first flight of stairs, approach the exit, and—wait, I recognize that jacket, that bag, those black tights, that longish-dirty-blonde hair that is the trademark of 1/3 of the women I am attracted to. She exits first. She takes the steps to ground level TWO STEPS AT A TIME. Wild.

Is she walking home? No, she's headed to the taxi line. I planned to walk but, now I must also take a taxi. I bid "buenos noches" to my diner friend, who must begin his shift.

Now I am standing behind her in the taxi line.

I am nervous.

First cab pulls up. "Fourth and Madison," she says. This cabbie refuses: Most cabs take three passengers, but the first determines which section of town they will drive to.

So if a cab accepts her and still has room for me, WE WILL RIDE TOGETHER. Fourth and Madison being one block south, two blocks west of me. And since I won't be asking for the same exact intersection, it won't TOTALLY seem like I'm stalking her. It's what they would call a "happy coincidence."

That’s how it goes down. I am SHARING A BACK SEAT WITH HER.

She buckles up. Backseat buckling is for wusses but I do it. I buckle up. But will I buckle down, or buckle under?

As we drive into the Hoboken night, I think, "Man, it's fucking creepy that I have two photos of this girl on my phone."

And then I think, I should say something.

There's a third passenger, in the front seat. A woman. I am not attracted to her.

I think, how can I talk to one without talking to everyone? What would Moberg do?

Maybe we'll drop off Front-Seaty first.

No.

We're headed to my street first.

Fuck.

I haven't said anything.

Maybe I'll say something as I get out.

But I don't.

Fuck.

Not even "goodnight."

I am angry at myself.

I am triste.

Later I post one of those pathetic "missed connection" messages on craigslist.
But there is no reply.
No reply at all, as Genesis once sang.
This is the time of no reply, said Nick Drake.

And the wind cries Moberg.