A Terrible Convenience

Before I embark on something of a tirade, let me take a moment to pity the subject of my ire: poor Long Island Rail Road, you are so overworked and underappreciated.  It’s not your fault that you suck.  In fact, compared to other train systems across the country, you’re quite good.  Dear LIRR, you have to understand: I don’t hate you; I just hate everything about you. 

Let’s start with your timetable.  How ever do you manage to run completely opposite to the times that I need you?  I have to be somewhere at 5:00, and you arrive only at 3:45 or 6:15…or even more maddening: 5:05.  Every time without fail, and I’m not the only one to experience this strange phenomenon. 

And, how in the world is it that you stop running certain lines at 11:00PM on New Year’s Eve?  Would it kill you to run a 2AM train on that one night?  I mean, really.  That is the one night where Long Islanders collectively migrate to “the city.”  Why, it’s tradition, LIRR, and you violate that tradition.  Frankly, I find it sickening.  Sickening.   

While we’re on the subject of revolting things that you do, LIRR, let’s talk about your inner workings.  I know that’s personal and, perhaps, a little rude, but it needs to be discussed.  Remember that fire you had in your wiring-system-mainframe-thingamabob (this is all very technical vocabulary, by the way) a couple of summers ago?  No? 

Well, I do.  Do you want to know why I remember, LIRR?  Because I was on the train when that happened.  Yes, I was stranded at Jamaica Station at 1AM with a very bad case of indigestion and people from my high school that I did not wish to interact with.  And, it was all your fault. 

Oh, that’s not fair to you.  It wasn’t your fault that your wiring system hadn’t been updated since the Titanic had been afloat (that’s 1912 in case you don’t watch Downton Abbey).  You must have felt very embarrassed, LIRR, when you learned that the second oldest train wiring system in America was from the Seventies.  That’s right.  The nineteen seventies. 

Have you been updated since that incident, LIRR?  I fear that you haven’t, but who can tell?  Now, let’s talk about the people who ride your darling rails.  I know you can’t help the company keep, but do you know how rude your passengers are?  Collectively, they’re a terror. 

They violate every rule of any good kindergarten classroom.  They push, they shove.  Hands are not kept to themselves.  They certainly do not use their indoor voices, especially when they’re on their phones.  They do not treat others the way they would like to be treated.  And, above all, they do not share.  Believe me, I know; I’m one of your terrible passengers. 

I guess what I’m saying, LIRR, is that you bring out the worst in me, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.  I don’t like the person I become when I’m one of your passengers.  I try to smile at the conductor, but it always turns into a grimace.  I look out the window, and see my reflection superimposed over passing houses and trees.  With a violent force, I remember that I knocked out a toddler for this coveted window seat.  What’s worse, I don’t regret it. 

This is what you do to me, LIRR.  You make me obsessed with reaching connecting trains, so much so that all human connections are forgotten.  You upset my already sensitive stamina.  And above all, you make me obscenely cranky.  You are the bane of a commuter’s existence, and yet you are oh so necessary, because without you I would have to drive through Manhattan.  Such a task is for the strong and I, sadly, am weak.

So, I guess what I’m saying, LIRR, is that I don’t hate you; I just hate that I need you.                 

The Roosevelts of Oyster Bay: Part I

If looked at from the proper angle, the Roosevelts were a soap opera unto themselves.  In the latter part of the nineteenth century, Theodore Roosevelt, our nation’s twenty-sixth president, made his home on Oyster Bay, Long Island.  When he purchased the property, he named it Lee Holm, after his first wife’s maiden name.  After she perished and he remarried, he wisely changed its name to Sagamore Hill.  Interestingly enough, Sagamore bears no relationship to his second wife, Edith Kermit Carow; Sagamore was a Native American name. 

No one could forget that his first choice wasn’t Edith, least of all Edith.  The story of their romance is intriguing, for lack of a better word.  Theodore, or Teddy as he was called, and Edith were childhood sweethearts.  Nonetheless, he married her second for he quickly forgot her when he met Alice Hathaway Lee of Boston. 

To fully appreciate Teddy’s courtship of Alice you have to know this: she was a babe and he was a dweeb in every sense of the word.  In a society where coasting by in college with C’s was fashionable, Teddy earned straight A’s.  There is no doubt in my mind that he was one of those kids who jumped up and down and waved when he knew the answer to a question.  His classmates probably hated him. 

They almost definitely must have laughed at him.  He came from wealth, and those from the privileged classes did not do something so common as try in college.  Please.  To do so would mean that you were attending school on, horror of well-to-do horrors, a scholarship.  And only poor people needed scholarships.  So, what was Teddy’s deal?  Did he really like to learn?

Ew, everyone must have thought.  Alice Hathaway Lee was no exception.  Well, I don’t think she was so cruel as that.  I imagine she just thought him very odd.  His hobbies included reading (only weird-o’s do that), bird watching (you heard me), and Dungeons and Dragons.  I’m just kidding; obviously, they didn’t have Dungeons and Dragons in nineteenth century Boston, but if they had I’m sure Teddy would have been a veritable Dungeon Master.  And, to top it all off, he had a weird high-pitched voice. 

I mean, really.  He had no chance with Alice Hathaway Lee.  A nerd like Teddy should have known that.  Nonetheless, on the day that he first met her, he informed his diary that Alice was the girl he was going to marry.  He proposed to her twice even though she had given him no reason to hope for an affirmative response.  Still, he must have been endearing somehow, because she accepted his third marriage proposal.  You have to admit that it’s cute, the stuff of a good old-fashioned romantic comedy.  You can just imagine Teddy awkwardly making his way into Alice’s heart. 

On his wedding day, he told his diary that this was the happiest he had ever been.  He bought her the aforementioned property on Oyster Bay, Long Island, and named it Lee Holm after his dearest love.  Alice and Teddy were happy.  Let’s leave them like that for now, for happiness would not be theirs for very long.        

The Americana Mall

The term Americana implies some kind of rustic way of life somewhere in the Midwest.  There are fields of corn, hoedowns and the occasional twister.  It’s peaceful and people sing, “Oh, what a beautiful morning!” 

Unfortunately, the Americana I’m referring to is the complete opposite of everything I’ve just described.  It calls itself Long Island’s luxury shopping center.  There is, however, nothing luxurious about this place.  It is not intended for common mortals, but for the gods of wealth who inhabit the exclusive parts of Long Island.  What’s more, there is almost nothing American about this shrine to materialism.  It only has the best that Europe’s catwalks have to offer.  All right, I’m sure some of the high-end stores are American, but how would I know what’s in the Americana?  Security guards stand at the entrance and demand to see your most recent bank statements.  When they saw mine, they unleashed their most fearsome weapon of all: a pack of detoxing, Botoxed housewives in Juicy Couture sweatsuits.  I’ve never been the same since. 

Of course, I’m kidding.  Those housewives wouldn’t waste their time chasing someone as insignificant as me.  And, the security guards are far too busy ass-kissing to notice the admission of a mere commoner.  So, I ventured into this foreign ground several months ago.  I was showing a friend around the area and I wanted to scare the living shit out of her.  I also wanted to see if it was as seizure-provokingly expensive as everybody said. 

I pulled my car into the lot behind the lavish shopping center, and decided to park as far back as possible.  Here, there were less cars with six-digit price tags.  What’s more, all of these expensive cars had been parked on crooked slants, their wheels and bumpers venturing into the adjoining spot, as if begging some unfortunate soul to hit them.  My parents would have to foreclose the house if I made so much as a ding in one of these cars.  So, I ventured at a granny’s pace until I came to a spot isolated from the Mercedes, Audis and poorly parked Hummers. 

(A word on Hummers on Long Island: Why?)

My friend and I stepped out of my car, careful to avoid oncoming Hummers that paid no heed to pedestrians, particularly ones wearing apparel from, horror of fashionista horrors, American Eagle.  We talked and giggled nervously, feeling as if we were trespassing upon some aristocrat’s private property, which, in a sense, we were.  It was exciting and terrifying all at once.  We peeked into the windows of Cartier and Tiffany’s. 

Being an avid fan of Audrey Hepburn and Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I look back on this moment and think, “God, we must have felt like Holly Golightly, munching on a croissant outside of Tiffany’s and seeing the possibilities of grandeur glittering in the diamonds before us.” 

Well, that’s a load of bullshit, because I’m pretty sure neither of us felt that way; we were too busy feeling the glares of supercilious clerks and superior shoppers to feel anything else. 

For fun, we decided to go into the most expensive store we could think of.  I have no idea which store we chose.  To be honest, I think it was the next one we saw, but in our mind it was the most expensive.  When we came through the doors, we stood near the entrance in a cluster, paralyzed with fear.

A clerk, who coincidentally looked like Holly Golightly, gave an artificial smile and welcomed us to the French-European-non-American sounding designer’s clothing establishment.  We thanked her meekly and looked at the shoes and dresses. 

“Ew,” my friend hissed at me before we could even look at the price tags.  She held up a mess of silver sequins that was apparently a dress.  “Who would wear this?” 

In response, I rolled my eyes and shook my head, suddenly aware that the clerk was eyeing us hatefully.  She no doubt had the same mess of sequins in her closet. 

“Dare you to look at the price,” my friend whispered, holding the dress and running her thumb over it. 

I deftly picked up the ordinary paper tag.  In a choked voice, I told her the price.  

She shrieked and let go of the dress as if it had bitten her.  We stared at it in horror, wondering if it was made of diamonds or mermaids’ tears.  Not long afterwards, we left, pursued by an angry mob of clerks, shoppers and security guards.