Every morning on my commuter train, a woman with a full head of bright-white hair gets on the train in Stratford and greets everyone in the five-seater where she always sits. I can hear her booming Boston accent from my end of the car; she holds court for the remaining 1 1/2 hours of my nearly two hour ride. I call her Phil.
I’ve gathered the following from six years of commuting: Phil is a rabid Red Sox fan though she “respects” Derek Jeter (thanks, Derek appreciates that). She loves Ess-a-Bagel. She has a gaggle of grandchildren (“happy to see em’, happy to see ’em go”), her garage is full of nothing but junk, she’s never dyed her hair, she can’t believe how rude people can be, and her husband is a “bum.”
For six years, I’ve worked up a pretty healthy hate-on for her. After all (and this is where the publishing part comes in), I’m trying to read manuscripts, maybe even some of yours, and it’s really hard to concentrate when the Mayor of Stratford gets on the train and starts shaking hands and kissing babies.
I Miss Phil!
If you’re wondering why I don’t find another seat, you have not yet truly appreciated the magic that is me. I would sooner put my Papermate Sharpwriter #2 through my right eye than move. But here’s the part I don’t understand about myself: yesterday, when we pulled into Stratford and Phil didn’t show, I actually looked up and kind of missed her. I was like, where’s Phil? Today, she’s back. In fact, she broke out the camel hair Pashmina and cowboy boots. And she’s spearheading another fasincating conversation about Daylight Savings Time and, gosh, it’s getting darker earlier. Ever notice that?
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Betsy Lerner 
Any chance she’s a vampire who realizes you’re a literary agent and wants you to publish her 5,000 page memoir?
I once watched a young woman floss her teeth on a Metro North train from Grand Central to New Rochelle. When she dropped the used floss to the floor, that’s when I had to say something on behalf of everyone on the 6:13 express (spokesperson for my train, that’s me): “That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen — this train is not your bathroom! Don’t pretend you can’t hear me! Yoo Hoo! Blonde girl! I KNOW you can hear me!”
And the strange thing is that a lot of people think *I’m* the crazy lady, and I’ve never even put on mascara (let alone my whole face) on the train, or clipped my fingernails on the train, or spilled a cup of coffee that pools around unsuspecting briefcases on the floor…
Altho I do have a special place in my heart for the young woman who read her mail on the 7:24 from Pelham every morning; one day someone sent her photos of a llama that she stared at lovingly from Mount Vernon to 125th Street. Really. It was a llama. You can’t make this stuff up.
I share your pain. I had to change my bus route to my day job to write and none of my tricks were dissuading over-social old guy: he proved completely immune to my headphones, laptop, and hatchet sharp “please fuck off” face. The worse part, is that as a nice midwestern boy at heart, I can’t be a jerk to the elderly. So now it’s the number 40, which occasionally smells of bodily fluids and stale, spilt beer.
I live in the land that doesn’t exist outside the confines of NYC – but thank God for a crappy public transportation system which requires me to drive myself to work!
No unwelcome passengers or icky grooming habits – just one big carbon footprint.
I attempt to answer the information needs of the general, (oh so general) public, at a big city library reference desk, so don’t get me started on the idiosyncratic bigger than a barn world of confusion we accept as communal life these days.
“Do you think everyone has a soul, or just some people?” was the question that broke my rational heart. Haven’t looked at strangers the same way since.
Maybe Phil would be easier to take if you were high on cocaine.