Dearest L train…

Dear L Train,

I gave you two dollars. I could’ve bought taco. I could’ve bought a pack of gum. I could’ve bought a 40. I could’ve bought a laser beam ring from a vending machine. But instead, I gave you my money because you could drive me two stops from Manhattan to my house. I was patient with you when you ran slow, because I knew you’d at least get there. As you approached my stop, I was dreaming of the shower I was going to take, thinking about how I’d be in bed soon and get some sleep before reporting to Snoopy in a few short hours. You kept approaching at the same crawl, I stood up when I saw a sign for Lorimer street, and you sped up halfway through the platform.

You did not stop. You did not open your doors. You kept accelerating, then slowing down, then speeding up. I gave up my dream of a timely shower and felt like I was in that river scene in the original Willy Wonka, then I started singing “Going up the rails on a crazy train…” in my head. The other passengers kept swearing and hoping.

But you failed us.

Apparently, I was supposed to understand your garbled, mechanical voice as you pulled into Brooklyn at Bedford Avenue saying that was the last stop until you let me out nine full stops in from Manhattan so I could hear a twelve year old girl with a nine year old’s voice make out with her boyfriend and talk about their moms waking them up. She had hickeys all over her neck. If there had been a bucket drummer anywhere near me, I would’ve shanked him with whatever I could find. Instead, I waited 20 minutes for another train that didn’t even run express stops.

I want my two dollars back.

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