Traditionally speaking, the night before Thanksgiving begins
the Holiday Drinking Season. If you live
in the northern suburbs of New York City as I do, and a DWI isn't on your Santa
short-list, this means that sooner or later you will likely end up on a Metro
North train in the wee hours of the morning.
As I begin to bring the 31
Holi-Days series in for a landing, I thought back to a series of texts I
sent Rhea from the train home on the night before Thanksgiving. Her response to one of these, make sure you take notes - I want a story,
may well have been one of the impetuses for the entire series. Having realized that while thinking about it
all last night, I'd be remiss if I didn't feature my birds-eye reporting on
drunken jackassery somewhere in the series.
Without further ado:
11/24/2011 ~ 1:53 AM
Just my luck: this is
clearly the "bro train".
1:55 AM
Mass exodus @
Tuckahoe! I give thanks for this.
1:58 AM
Or not: bros replaced
by tone deaf drunk chick singing that Party Rockin' song. Everybody gonna have a bad time...
2:02 AM
Leftover bro to bad
singer: "Shut up. You
suck." Amen, douchebag.
2:06 AM
Drunk chica now
caterwauling en espanol. Next stop White
Plains [my stop -ed]. Different bro trying to pick up
chica now. Like sands through the hourglass...
Speaking for myself, I did not become a participant in this
year's Holiday Drinking Season until last night, when an absolutely amazing
time at karaoke was had by myself, Rhea, her brother Alan and his wife
Kristina. (Apologies to anyone who
actually may have heard me sing in public.)
You'd think that a random Wednesday between the holidays would make for
a less colorful train ride this time around, and you'd be right...but only by
two texts.
12/29/2011 ~ 2:31 AM
On the train. Totally listened to "Private Eyes"
via Callin' Oates while waiting. Had a
great time with you & bro and sis in law tonight!
2:36 AM
Overheard on train
home: "I've had way too many shots for this shit." Girl, in response, starts singing "Happy
Birthday." Interrupts herself halfway
through, though: "Fuck you, bro."
Priceless.
2:43 AM
I wish this train
didn't smell like vomit. Next stop White
Plains, thank god.
I can only begin to imagine what I'll be furiously tapping
into my developmentally delayed smart phone on the way home on Saturday night.
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