Commuter Column: Into the Groove

Every commuter has his or her own list of things that truly annoy them about their fellow passengers, things that really get underneath their skin and make their ride to work or school about as much fun as a trip down the river Styx. For some it's loud cell phone conversations (people are supposed to excuse themselves and have their chats in the vestibule area; few do), for others its noisy fidgeting.

I myself cannot stand coughing or sneezing. I think that if you're sick, you should stay home. With its lack of fresh air, the cars on the train are like giant metal Petrie dishes. And I can't afford to get sick.

Just the other day, I was sitting next to a guy who coughed into his hand and then, pulling his hand away from his face, and outstretched the fingers to expose a web of milky mucus. And he didn't have a tissue. That's when I turned away, because I felt like there could be another icky medical issue on the train if I kept looking: projectile vomit.

The longer you ride the train, the longer your list of personal grievances becomes. But it works both ways - what if there's something you do, some tic or minor compulsion that drives your fellow travelers bonkers?

I fear I've joined the ranks of the annoying. But in a very specific way: I've started to dance on the train.

Well, I'm not sure if dance is the right word. I'd say I bop, bounce, shimmy, groove, in time to the music on my iPod. Sometimes I just can't help myself.

But at the same time, I feel like this is one of the more innocuous things I could do, and certainly the most joyful thing I've seen on the train (so many grumpy faces!) And it can't be all that annoying. Right? Right?

For most of the train ride, I try to keep it low key. There's only so much energy you can drum up at 8:16 in the morning. But as I near the terminal, I feel like I need to kick it up a notch. If I'm going to make it through the day, I need some zingy non-drug-assisted energy to boost me through.

And once some irresistible beat hits my ears, well, it's all over. I have to just give in. Maybe it's the intoxicating freedom of New York City getting into my bloodstream prematurely, the knowledge that I'd have to be doing backflips down the street, naked, while on fire, to have any Manhattanite even look at me twice, but whatever it is, I just want to dance, dance, dance.

Or maybe I'm just weird.

The train can act as a vehicle for transformation, like Superman's phone booth, with people changing their shoes and clothes, putting on or taking off make-up, and, as Samuel L Jackson says in "Pulp Fiction," "getting into character." This is the character they'll live as for the rest of the day. So who's to say I can't use the train to transform from everyday schlub to disco dancing star?

Exactly.

Maybe one day I'll bring some speakers with me on the train. Then, at the moment when every self serious businessman (or woman) is the most deeply engrossed in their Wall Street Journal, I'll bust it out, and together we will dance, sharing, as one in the magic and mystery of Britney Spear's "Blackout" album. Maybe the conductor will get in on the act, too, twirling their whistle to the beat. Then, when we get to Grand Central, nobody will want to get off the train. It's easy to get into the groove, but hard to get out of it.