Be the Unfortunate Fellow We All Need to Be

I'm easy to spot on the train each morning. I'm the unfortunate commuter sitting next to the pile of dog poop. Or vomit. Or the overturned cup of java. You see, thanks to the magic of life-like props readily available at any novelty store, I sit alone. And that means one less person to compete with my elbow. One less person talking until they're Blue in the Tooth. One less person to take away my sanity. I simply shrug my shoulders when people examine the soiled seat next to me. "What can you do?" I say in my best Empire State accent. Oh, I suppose they'll eventually catch on. I mean, how many unfortunate things can happen to just one person, right? But who knows. Maybe next week, I'll be surprised to see hundreds of smiling, contented, supremely relaxed commuters sitting next to their very own pools of rubber vomit.

Today's Strategies

The best way to prevent cell phone chatter from intruding upon your commute is to avoid it from happening altogether. With this in mind, I present the latest strategies for preventing chatty people from sitting next to you during your commute:

1. The Psoriaser - You never get a second chance to make a first impression, so why blow it and lose the opportunity to unleash a blizzard of dandruff on your neighbor? First, wear black clothing. Then, just as the train comes to a halt at each station, start scratching your scalp furiously. Your solitude is guaranteed.

2. The Preemptive Strike - Nobody likes a cell phone chatterbox, including cell phone chatterboxes. This only makes sense since they can't hear themselves thinking out loud when someone is doing that already. So next time you see someone boarding the train while chatting on a cell phone, quickly whip yours out and start yacking away. Chances are, they'll do their chatting elsewhere.

3. Germ Warfare - Coughing fits, wheezing, sneezing... all of these send out a signal far stronger than the ones emitted by cell phone towers.

4. The Galloping Gourmand - One of the unwritten rules of traveling on Metro North is that only certain types of food are allowed — foods under 10 decibels. The moment you start to audibly masticate on anything is the moment you irritate everyone around you. For this reason, I would only advise deploying this strategy when confronted with an actual cell phone transgression.

5. The Frottageur - Metro North isn't the subway, but that doesn't mean you can't invade other people's personal space. This is a strategy told to me by a friend who described it as a form of brinksmanship. Someone sits next to you while chatting on a cell phone and ends up physically rubbing elbows with you. It's assumed that you'll back down and shrink from being touched, but instead, you do just the opposite and just sit there, flesh against flesh. I've never tried this, but I've got to think it would be effective.

Shock & Awe

I've devised the perfect weapon to unleash on the rudest of the cell phone offenders on Metro North. First, you're obliged to ask them to stop talking with a polite but firm request. When confronted, most people will comply, so most of the time this is where it ends. Nonetheless, there are always those exceptional cases. For those, there's a special kind of justice. Justice that could only be dealt by Whoopie Cushion. Imagine this: the self-important chatterbox is talking away negotiating an offshore business transaction that will potentially net him a gazillion dollars for some useless widget made in a sweatshop overseas when there's suddenly an enormous 20-second long fart heard on his end. How does he explain that one to his appalled business partner? Even if he says it was someone with a whoopie cushion, who would believe him? It would sound insame. Moreover, the whoopie cushion's explosion would be followed by the cheers and hollers of the entire train standing up and applauding. Yes, adoring fans. I would be greeted as a liberator.... There would be wild applause, confetti falling from the ceiling, bouquets of colorful flowers handed to me by small children....

Duck, Duck, Goose.

Those are the words going through my head as I consider where to sit each morning. The inner dialog goes something like this: "No, too skinny. No, too friendly. No, too girly and prone to cell phone chatter.... Oh, yes. Here's a perfect specimen. Just large and foreboding enough with a gigantic American Tourister firmly planted in the middle seat."

The strategy for a morning seat is simple: You want the largest, most unappealling person possible on the 3-seater side. That way, the two of you can sit on either end and no one will dare sit between you two.

This is a little counter-intuitive, so it took me a couple weeks to figure this out. After all, we spend our entire adult lives seeking out the most agreeable-looking people possible to sit next to. We want the ones who are unlikely to impose on us in any way. That all goes out the window the moment you start commuting. Fat and sweaty? Perfect! Asleep, drooling and taking up two seats? I'll take it! Scary and slightly twitchy with visible tatoos on the neck? Dude, we're neighbors!

My Big Fat Russian Wedding

I knew I was in trouble when he boarded the train talking on his cell phone. I boarded first and for some reason he sat next to me. He was a substantial Russian man speaking in his native tongue on a cell phone that looked like a child’s toy in his enormous bear-like paw. By the time I reached Katonah it became obvious he had no intention of getting off his phone. What was he saying? Was it as inane as most cell phone conversations? Perhaps it was a medical emergency in the Ukraine and he was giving life-saving surgical instructions from thousands of miles away. Perhaps he was having one last emotional conversation with a dying parent on the other side of the world. Perhaps his son just made the Olympic ice hockey team and they’re skating down memory lane. Or maybe, he’s just a great, big, sweaty, pirogi-eating, vodka-swilling, card-carrying asshole. Yes, it is now confirmed. They have them there too. I can only hope he’s looking over my shoulder reading my monitor right now as I type my missive.

What if everyone had a Conference Call at once?

Today, I took a late train in from Bedford Hills. I call it the "amateur hour" train because it's a lot of students, retirees, ladies who lunch, etc. The moment I got on I spied a young woman who was asleep taking up two entire seats. Perfect! This is what's known as the "Snoozer Strategy." You either sleep or pretend like you're asleep and hope that nobody is willing to make the effort to wake you. As seatmates go, they're up there. In any event, I jumped at the opportunity to sit at the end of that 3-seater row because we're not likely to get a third person and because she's probably not going to make any noise at all, let alone talk on her cellphone. Unfortunately, she eventually woke up and proved me wrong. Not only did she talk on her phone, but her call kept getting dropped, so her phone kept ringing and she kept starting and re-starting the same inane conversation. Eventually, she started to imitate someone talking to her cat in a high-pitched voice. But wait, it gets worse. All around me phones started ringing. "Hello?" "Hello?" "Yo!" The little old lady in a fur coat across from me even had her ringer set to "Santa Claus is coming to town." Then it hit me — what if the entire car simultaneously talked on their phones? It was a nightmare scenario. I saw myself cracking open the side window and trying to squeeze out the tiny sliver of plexiglass that cants open just a tiny crack.... It was like "Throw Momma from the Train" except the masses would be holding me back from jumping, the ones wearing a Bluetooth headset anyway: "Nooo! Don't do it! We're at the Valhalla station already!!! Then it's a clear shot after White Plains and... and... Hello? I'm sorry but I gotta take this call..."

"The Willy Loman"

THE WILLY LOMAN is a classic cell phone offender. He is usually identifiable by his strong New York accent that can be heard anywhere in the car. Do not bother wearing your ipod earbuds to drown out his voice. It won't work. Willy is distinguishable by the explicit detail he goes into about pending business deals. "Check with so-and-so to make sure we're on target at 12 cents a unit" or some such garbage. His language is colorful and peppered with profanities that he is not even aware he's using: "Make sure the fuckin' contract is written by so-and-so" because he's not going to "fuckin' re-negotiate" or "fuckin' re-litigate" or re-fuck anything for that matter. Mind you, unlike Arthur Miller's character, this Willy Loman is likely to be fairly successful. He may have grown up in East Brooklyn, but he and his lovely wife/former exotic dancer now live in Katonah in a large house identifiable by its pillars and prominent Palladian window overlooking the grand foyer. Willy couldn't care less that people are bothered by his cell phone conversation. He's going to work whenever and wherever he pleases. At a neighboring table in a restaurant you unfortunately both chose, on an otherwise quiet park bench in Madison Square Park, waiting in line at the bank, and, yes, on the Harlem line of Metro North. If you know a Willy Loman out there, you may want to take this opportunity to tell him about this blog and how he's now a "phenomenon." You know how to reach him.