So last night, after a long evening of enforced gaiety with work folk, I got on the F train, as I do, only to discover that the F train no longer went to my home. This was a problem, because:
1) It was 1 a.m.
2) I was sorta loaded.
3) I don’t have a third reason.
Anyway, supposedly the G was going to take over for the F, so no problem. You’d think that anyway: In reality, something weird happened that I still can’t quite figure out and I wound up going the wrong way on the G, which was still, alas, the G and not the F. When I realized my mistake — which was quite quickly, thanks very much, as I am a clever drinker — I got off and asked one of the lovely and helpful MTA employees for assistance. This, as near as I can tell, is what she said:
“RAR RAR RAR! RAR RAR RAR! F TRAIN! G TRAIN! RAR RAR RAR!”
It was terrifying. I half expected her to throw a cat at me and stalk away.
At this point, I realized that the train thing was not working out, so I left the subway and went out to the street to get a cab. Great idea, right?
Um, there were no cabs.
What there was, was a 12 year old cop in a squad car, who very nicely helped me find a cab, and probably had to file a report about the whole thing:
“1.25 am. Drunken redheaded person demands cab. Find cab. Put her in it. How many years again until I make detective?”
The cab, of course, got stuck behind a garbage truck for 20 minutes on my ride home. OK, maybe not 20 minutes. But it felt like it. In fact, as near as I can tell, I pretty much just got home.
I hope you’re satisfied, people. I don’t enjoy making a fool out of myself, you know. I only do it to keep you entertained.