Two For One Cuts Both Ways

I will not be late, I will not be late, I will not be...

Riding the train to work is the next best thing to working from home.  Both options are far superior to driving myself to work. A key difference between commuting by train and not commuting at all is that trains run on time regardless of how prompt I am.  If I am five minutes behind schedule logging in to my PC from home, no big.  If I am five minutes late to the train station, well, catch the next train, buddy.  For those of you who are always on time for everything, please move along as you may not understand the rest of what I am revealing here.

I intensely dislike just standing, Standing, STANDING at the platform waiting for the Coaster.  Consequently, I afflict my dear wife by cutting it a ‘bit too fine’ every morning that she drops me off.  I have found that telling her I’m in no hurry to get to work rarely helps.  This has been going on for years, commencing precisely the next day after I determined it took exactly 7 minutes and 47 seconds to drive from our house to the Coaster Station under optimal conditions.  Allowing an extra 53 seconds for non-cooperative traffic lights, I am typically seated in the car in our garage just under 9 minutes before the train is scheduled to arrive at the station four miles away.

True confession, in the decade I have been riding, I have missed the train a time or two.  But I have redeemed uncountable hours over that same span, surely enough to take a vacation.  Which is a great idea now that summer is upon us.

One morning this past week, the traffic lights were in a foul mood.  We were late.  I hopped out of the car as the whistle drifted down the tracks and the crossing signals began to clang.  I dashed for the ticket machine and frantically went through the “push-any-button, push-round-trip-button, push-destination-button, push-ticket-type, push-payment-type, jam-in-the-credit-card, push-‘No I Do Not Want A Receipt’-button” ritual while the train screeched to a stop behind me.  

Then, like a Las Vegas jackpot, the machine spit out not one, but two tickets.  Without taking time to look, I grabbed both tickets and, with a mighty leap, cleared the nearest train doors as they were closing, yanked my backpack through what was at that moment a 2-inch opening.  O.K.,  I made that last part up.

Catching my breath, I waved at my lovely taxi driver as the train pulled out, then looked to see that I had one regular ticket and one ‘senior’ ticket.  My first thought was that North County Transit District was giving me a preview of the new, lower rates I would soon enjoy when I turned 55.  But then, I realized I had purchased two tickets for the one of me riding the train.  One ride for the price of two.  I must have hit an extra button in my panic to get on the train.  For a miser such as I, that was a painful thought.

Notice, there are TWO.
Admit it.  You want one.

This little scenario came to mind two days later when I met a friend at Starbucks for breakfast.  I ordered my Venti Caramel Macchiato with a classic Sausage & Cheddar Breakfast Sandwich.  We were finished eating and well into solving the world’s problems (as manly men always do at breakfast), when one of the staff said, “sausage cheddar sandwich for Val” and plop a bagged item down on the counter.  My friend and I looked at each other.  Could there be two Val’s at Starbucks that morning who both shared an affection for the Starbucks version of an Egg McMuffin?  We thought not, but I waited a bit just to be sure.  Five minutes later, it was clear that I was the intended recipient of a second sandwich.  

Reluctantly, I went up to the counter and let the barista know that I had, indeed, already eaten my breakfast and that this was a duplicate.  As Starbucks had no use for it, they generously bestowed the second sandwich on me, which I later consumed at lunch.  In this instance, I experienced a true, two-for-the-price-of-one deal.  For a miser such as I, that was a happy event.

Later, I pondered what grander meaning this odd coincidence might have for my miserly self, other than to be less concerned with a few dollars here or there.  What occurred to me is that people make mistakes.  At home, at work, out on the town.  Sometimes I do, sometimes someone else does.  And if I can learn to be gracious about the little mistakes (mine or someone else’s), then perhaps I will be more gracious with the bigger ones.

Is This All There Is?

As usual, I was the last one in the door of the train.  I made my way around two bicyclists who boarded just ahead of me to an open seat at the other end of the car.  While they situated their bikes, I heard one of the cyclists talking loudly and assumed it was the usual effort to determine who was getting off first so they could decide which bike to park closest to the aisle.  

They sat down near me; a man and woman who appeared to be in their late 20's.  His uncombed long hair and several day beard fit with a wrinkled plaid shirt, shorts, black socks and sneakers.  She was in business casual denim pants with a light-colored blouse and white sweater.

They were arguing about being nearly late for the train.  How much, he wanted to know, did she think they could get done between the time he got up and when the train left? She just wanted to get the car seat out at her mom's house, implying a child is an off-stage player in this drama.  Making no effort to lower his derogatory tone, he declared, "I never said I would do that.  How much time do you think there is between 7:30 and 7:52?"  He accused her of lying about her intentions.  She replied to each volley in subdued tones, embarrassed by their public conflict.  Other than a furtive glance or two, surrounding passengers stayed intently focussed on their own business.  I pictured myself quietly saying, "Can't you treat each other just a little more nicely?"  Then remembered the statistics about domestic disputes and how unwelcome third parties are treated.

The couple made no eye contact with each other.  She finally put on her sunglasses and gazed at the opposite side of the car in silence.  He continued to mutter as the train rumbled to my stop.  Without saying goodbye, he fetched his bike and got off behind me, while she remained on board.

I wondered what frayed emotions churned within as they made their way to separate destinations.  With what grim resolve did they determine not to think whether tomorrow would be any better? Then, I silently offered a prayer that the unhappy years that seemed to stretch in front of them would somehow be altered by the Providential grace that has blessed my life.