2008 Woodie Awards
How the West was won: With toupees, of course
Kristina Reardon '08
Issue date: 10/5/06 Section: Portfolio
- Page 1 of 2 next >
It's that train station parking lot that haunts my dreams.
I thought taking the train into Boston would be a good idea. I didn't ask for blistered feet and shattered illusions, but that's what a daily commute on the train to Boston this summer gave me.
To be fair, it wasn't the train itself that did it. I don't want to sound like some crazed lunatic who takes things out on innocent hunks of speeding metal. No, people riding innocent hunks of speeding metal take things out on me.
What it all boils down to is the fact that I didn't have the skills to survive even that first train ride home. I didn't have the spirit of reckless abandon that, once present in the wild, wild West, now lives in the hearts of men wearing suits and women clutching oversized Gucci bags. And the fearless, uncivilized country ruffian that I am, stepped in line with the corporate commute.
In essence, my problem was that I could not identify that click, click, click as it aroused me from a great slumber on the double decker train going home.
Ten minutes before the 5:30 p.m. train home reaches its final destination, men in business suits poke their heads out into the aisle, look side to side, and slyly, trying to be inconspicuous, sprint at full force to the door of the train-stopping abruptly only when the businesswomen, in heels and pearls, thrust their oversized Gucci handbags in front of them. They all reach into their pockets for their keys, securing that little keychain that makes that high pitched beeping sound, and start pressing the unlock button as soon as the parking lot is in sight.
This jarring out of tune symphony first disturbed me greatly, then made me yearn for a little keychain thingy of my own.
The businessmen and women were changing into sneakers, getting a head start on their Boston Marathon training, starting with a 200 meter dash to their cars. Which they started in the aisle. Of the train. Where I was sitting.
As a grandma-looking old lady shoved past me, refusing to make eye contact, intent on the prize, I was overcome with panic and bolted out of the train.
I thought taking the train into Boston would be a good idea. I didn't ask for blistered feet and shattered illusions, but that's what a daily commute on the train to Boston this summer gave me.
To be fair, it wasn't the train itself that did it. I don't want to sound like some crazed lunatic who takes things out on innocent hunks of speeding metal. No, people riding innocent hunks of speeding metal take things out on me.
What it all boils down to is the fact that I didn't have the skills to survive even that first train ride home. I didn't have the spirit of reckless abandon that, once present in the wild, wild West, now lives in the hearts of men wearing suits and women clutching oversized Gucci bags. And the fearless, uncivilized country ruffian that I am, stepped in line with the corporate commute.
In essence, my problem was that I could not identify that click, click, click as it aroused me from a great slumber on the double decker train going home.
Ten minutes before the 5:30 p.m. train home reaches its final destination, men in business suits poke their heads out into the aisle, look side to side, and slyly, trying to be inconspicuous, sprint at full force to the door of the train-stopping abruptly only when the businesswomen, in heels and pearls, thrust their oversized Gucci handbags in front of them. They all reach into their pockets for their keys, securing that little keychain that makes that high pitched beeping sound, and start pressing the unlock button as soon as the parking lot is in sight.
This jarring out of tune symphony first disturbed me greatly, then made me yearn for a little keychain thingy of my own.
The businessmen and women were changing into sneakers, getting a head start on their Boston Marathon training, starting with a 200 meter dash to their cars. Which they started in the aisle. Of the train. Where I was sitting.
As a grandma-looking old lady shoved past me, refusing to make eye contact, intent on the prize, I was overcome with panic and bolted out of the train.