Friedrich von Schiller (1759-1805)
Car interiors of the commuter trains into New York City haven't changed much. They have two-person bench seats with reversible upright back rests down both sides of a center aisle. At the end of the line, conductors reverse the back rests so passengers heading in the other direction can ride facing forward. A one-inch clearance separates the seat back from the bench.
Like crowded Newspapers shielded for faces 7:18, arrived, platform usual few latecomers dashed up and jostled to buy coffee that would last them into Hoboken, New Jersey where we'd all board the PATH subway for lower Manhattan.
I took my usual window seat midway back in the third car and a young man sat down beside me. He set a brand new leather briefcase open on the floor between us. It was a true briefcase, with the opening at the top and buckle-and-strap closures, the kind that lawyers and professors usually carry. Not a regular commuter, I saw, as he gave the conductor a single ticket and I passed over my cut-rate commuter book.
Oh, to have that kind of energy so early in the morning, I thought, as he dug in and out of that bag furiously, reading and rereading everything, and mumbling to him as if rehearsing.
Now, I'm not overly curious by nature, but privacy is in short supply on a commuter train. I couldn't help noticing that his briefcase was stuffed with resumes, letters of recommendation, college transcripts and the Help Wanted pages. Probably psyching him up for a job interview, I concluded, and good luck to you, son. I went back to my newspaper.
At the next stop, an older woman with a Styrofoam cup three-quarter full of steaming coffee sat down in front of the young man and propped the cup on the seat as she searched her purse for her ticket. The train started with a jolt and the cup tipped over, spilling coffee through the space between the seat and back rest and into the young man's open briefcase. It was truly amazing. Not a drop hit the floor. The entire contents poured directly into the briefcase.
"Oh no!" he screamed, followed by some very colorful and crudely descriptive language as he scrambled to empty the bag. The lady was obviously embarrassed and distressed, apologizing profusely. But the damage was done. The contents of the briefcase were thoroughly soaked.
The young man spent the rest of the trip blotting his wet resumes and letters with his handkerchief, mine and a few others kindly offered. The coffee stains, however, were on those papers forever. There was nothing anyone could say. Sympathy wouldn't help.
When the train reached Hoboken, I got off and took the PATH sub way to the World Trade Center as usual. I never saw the young man again or learned how his interview went, but I assume it went badly. He was approaching hysteria as I left him.
Accidents happen; don't let them destroy you. Control the damage and get on with your life.
