Last Saturday, my wife and I went to Manhattan to see the matinee of Our Town to celebrate the holiday season. I suggested we take the train, figuring it would be much less stressful than driving. We could kick back, play word apps, and read old New Yorkers. 

Yes, I know now I’m an idiot for thinking that taking a late Saturday morning train into the city two weeks before Christmas would be relaxing. I’ve lived in this area for over 40 years. I should know we wouldn’t be the only suburbanites making our annual holiday trek on NJ Transit. But I was deluded in my hopefulness.

So much so, even after we arrived at Red Bank train station and found the parking lot unusually crowded for a weekend, and the platform, too, with clusters of beefy guys in hockey Jerseys and young people in Santa outfits, I didn’t hesitate to get on the train with my wife.

She is the hero of this story (always is). She nabbed the last two-seater in the first car for the 90-minute journey to the city. She slid in by the window and I sat on the aisle. The rest of the riders had to share a bench with strangers, keep moving, or stand in our aisle. 

Reveling in our seats and good fortune, I opened my magazine as if it would be a smooth ride from here on out, not deducing what would happen at our next stop or the 12 other stops before our destination. You’d think I’d be more circumspect, considering I don’t like being inside crowded metal boxes. And really, really don’t like when they get stuck on their tracks or tarmacs. This doesn’t prevent me from taking elevators, planes, or trains, but as my wife knows, it does raise my cortisol level.

At the next stop, in Middletown, more Santas and hockey folk streamed onboard, filling the dwindling seats and the aisles, too. Over the scratchy intercom, the conductor scolded us to stuff our bags overhead or underneath, to make every seat available, because this ride was going to be a doozy. Never mind us dopes going to see a Broadway play or the windows at Macy’s or the tree at Rockefeller Center. Both the Devils and Rangers had afternoon home games. And worst of all, today was SantaCon, something oblivious me had never even heard of, a boozy celebration akin to St. Patrick’s Day, where hordes of revelers in Santa onesies maraud through midtown pubs. 

Oh no. I put down my New Yorker, understanding at last I’d made a big mistake. 

At Hazlet, more Santas and hockey fans got on, filling the aisles. At Matawan, South Amboy, and Perth Amboy, more yet. No one could move. No tickets could be collected. Hockey guys standing next to me encroached on my airspace, pushing against my arms and legs.  With eight more stations to go. 

At Woodbridge, the conductor scolded people to get away from the closing doors so we could proceed. After a long time, too long, they finally did. My wife, who doesn’t get claustrophobic, became frustrated that we were going to be late for our reservation when I feared we were going to suffocate and die. 

More packed in at Avenel. How was this possible? When would it stop? It wouldn’t.

At Rahway, the conductor announced to the passengers waiting on the platform, if you don’t mind packing in and standing, come on board. Otherwise, wait for the next train. Guess what people did? It was irrational, crazy, the end of the world. 

At Linden, riders struggled to push their way on and push their way off, the ruckus causing an even longer delay as waves of nausea and panic pummeled me. There was nothing to do but try to hold it together and wonder, how did this happen? What did I do to deserve this? 

In Elizabeth, my wife kindly asked me if I wanted to get off. I strive to stay calm, support her in stressful situations, and not be a burden. However much I tried to hide it, she recognized how much I was struggling. I told her I’d stay on the train, figuring it would be better not to indulge my panic but to sit tight and try my best to watch these intense feelings come and go. That became increasingly challenging during our stops at the airport and Newark and during unexplained pauses as we rattled into the swamps of Jersey. 

Past Secucus, our last stop before we reached the city, we slowly chugged into the tunnel, descending under the river into blackness. The worst possible place to break down. But I tried not to fixate on that. Instead, I tried to breathe and pray. Until at last there they were, popping out like glorious stars in the night sky, the twinkling lights of New York Penn Station. We made it.

Well, almost. We still had to get off this packed-to-the-gills train. 

After the doors opened, we flowed like a school of packed fish onto the platform and up the escalator, wiggling away from the crowd as soon as we could to dash to the closest exit. Outside, filling our lungs with freedom, we ran our tails off uptown, dodging Santas, elves, and Game of Thrones extras for 14 blocks until we reached our restaurant. 

Lunch was delicious, the play fantastic, and, with the hockey games long over and SantaCon barely getting started, no one had to stand on the train ride home. Phew. 

The next morning, I shared a very brief account of what happened on our writer’s community’s Slack, and my talented and tenacious friend, Liz de Beer, posted what has to be the consummate writer’s response to my travails: 

Ugh. That is a rough ride, but it sounds like a scene you could put in a story.

I thought that was exactly right. Even at the worst of it on the train, I found the experience interesting. That’s what we writers do. Who we are. A matter of both sensibility and survival. We observe and evaluate, thinking: Wow, this really sucks, but it would make a good scene. 

Of course, if I did attempt to transform this experience into a story, my protagonist might not get off so easily. In a thriller or horror story, the train might very well have broken down in the tunnel beneath the Hudson River; the lights would go out, and my hero and his wife would be trapped in the dark with the rest of the passengers. (Who turn out to be zombies…) Just writing that scenario raised my blood pressure. 

Or if it was a different kind of book, say upmarket fiction, my protagonist might have got into a shoving match with the bald Devils fan leaning on him, causing a melee, deeply embarrassing himself and his wife, making him realize he really needs to get control of his anger or risk losing everything. 

Or perhaps in a quieter literary work, I could dramatize something closer to my experience: the protagonist realizing he might not be a slave to his phobias after all. And how lucky he was to have a wife who stood by him during these episodes on trains, airplanes, and in elevators during their 26 years of marriage.

Awareness is a great skill to cultivate, but it’s a superpower for writers. To observe, to feel, and let go, knowing we can write about it, making sense and finding meaning along the way. And feel better, which I do, composing this.

May your travels be smooth, and all your conflicts be confined to the page!

Or, if not, you can use them to enliven your stories.