One drizzly morning, I arrived at the train station to discover that the south side elevator was out of service. I went inside to decide what I would do. There are typically two alternatives. One is to crawl into the backseat of a taxi and go to the Odenton Station and catch the next local train. The other choice is to go home and call it a day. Getting into a taxi, and equally important, out of the taxi, involves major contortions wherein my shoulder is at risk for yet another incident where pain and weakness could prevail for several days. I opted to go home.
When I do not go into DC on the morning train, I cannot be on the evening train and see the Car 5 Gang. The random association of members will be there although specifically who on any particular day is not known until the door closes and the train lurches out of the station. Even then, there might be a straggler or two who just made it into a vestibule somewhere back in cars 6 through 9 before the doors closed and were delayed as they filtered through the other standees to our usual spot.
Tuesday that week I was not on the evening train. My usual position where I flip up a seat to park my wheelchair was quickly claimed by two people who knew that if I were already there, that seat was theirs. If I did manage to arrive at the last moment, they would vacate the seats and all would be made right again. Of course, when I did show up on Wednesday, I received the third-degree with, “So! Where were YOU yesterday? We saved your spot and you didn’t show up.” Three people made similar comments as though I had no rights to be absent.
“You know, I get less questions where I work when I am not there for a day.”
“They probably don’t save your seat.” I agreed. Occasionally, I get the opportunity to email ahead when I won’t be there, but not always.
We settled into the routine of chatting about the day and the weather and the impending clock change that will darken our mornings again for a while. Princess Carly rested her elbows on the back of the seat next to me and zoned out. Her eyes kind of glazed over and became distant. “Wake, up, Carly,” I said.
“I am sooo tired. I got in last night at 3:30 and got up at 6.” Carly’s youthful indulgences and endurance allow her to still get up and get going to work whereas the rest of us would be out for the count. For the remainder of the ride she leaned quietly on the back of the seat.
A couple of days earlier, she and Trish were hanging around Big Bob’s big pickup truck in the Train station parking garage. They were tampering with the magnetic “Go Navy” signs that adorn the doors. The prank did not go unnoticed by the surveillance cameras and Bob got a phone call that his vehicle had been molested. They wanted to know if he wanted to press any charges. At that time he had no idea who the perps were or what they had done. When Trish heard this, she hurriedly tried to get him on the phone to head off and complications.
As always, the question of pizza and beer on Friday way raised. This would be the on weekend. Larry accepted the donations for the pizza and the plan set.
Friday was one of those days when the morning train arrives of the 16 Track that lacks a level boarding platform. When that occurs with the train I ride in on, it usually means that it will still be there as our 5:20 train back home. This Friday was no different. Five of us queued up in the waiting area until they let us head to the train. Larry had already placed the pizza order and would go back for it after dropping off his backpack on this seat to hold it.
Trish and Mike were among the five who were early. Coast Guard Bicycle Girl arrived later but still in time for a seat. Robert arrived after a week of later trains. Princess was better rested after not going out so late the night before.
During the day I got the Facebook message that the legendary Vincent Chianese from Pittsburgh where I grew up had died on the previous Sunday. Vincent owned Vincent’s Pizza Park in Forest Hills. He opened the shop in 1950 with a unique recipe and amalgam of ingredients and sauce that made people from all over the area come to his store and come back again and again.
I announced, “I know that none of you knew Vincent Chianese, but he was the legendary Vincent of Vincent’s Pizza Park fame in Pittsburgh since 1950. He died on Sunday at age 85.” Then we toasted him and plowed into our less than perfect pizzas from the Union Station pizza place. (Just a plug for a friend's sister's pizza blog: http://www.pizzapizzazz.
When we were all satisfied with a slice or two, there remained a half disk of cheesy pizza. “Larry, I guess you’ll have two more breakfast pizzas for the scrambled eggs,” I quipped. The last time he had an entire pizza because too many people did not show up.
“I put scrambled eggs and bacon on the pizza and reheat it.”
I said, “you could also put some grilled chicken and jalapenos and cleve it with a second slice, then broil the whole thing. It would be like a, what is it, a quesadilla.”
Coast Guard Bicycle Girl added, “maybe call it a pizzadilla?” Pizzadilla was a good name for the concoction. So good that it is already in use. The so-called pizzadilla is the inverse of what I was proposing. We were talking about putting the Mexican type ingredients on a traditional cheese pizza whereas the pre-existing pizzadilla combination uses a tortilla with traditional pizza parts. I like my version better. It gives you a higher use for the leftover crusts.
We stepped out into a light drizzle that was actually the harbinger for about 4 inches of rain that would follow that weekend. The ground was so saturated and soft that trees were merely toppling because they were unbalanced and the soggy soil could no longer restrain the roots. The following Monday might be fraught with delays and cancellations of the railroads due to high water and fallen trees. Just another week of adventure in commuting.
