Mayor of the commuter car

I am told I am the mayor of the car I sit in (third from the front, both inbound and out) on the commuter line. I did not campaign for this high position, but now that we are about to move to a maritime region unblessed with commuter trains (or even commuting), I find myself a little reluctant to give up my office.

The only real requirement for the job is that you get on and get off at the furthest stop on the line. For me, that's Lowell's station, at right. For everyone at the other stations, it is like you never leave the car.

The mayoral duties are not onerous. Most of the time they involve a nod of the head or a mild smile exchanged with other passengers; nothing too abrupt or challenging for the sleepy folks in the morning or the weary folks at night. We share newspapers. We tut-tut over the weather or the safest headlines to discuss. My high points have been the two or three times when I have stifled folks playing loud music, and defused a potential fight. The rest of the car expressed its gratitude in smiles.

I have been chatting idly for years with people on the car whose names I don't know, but about whom I have come to care. There is the young lady who gives me a fist bump most mornings as she goes past, bright eyes and teeth flashing against a mahogany South Indian face; and yet she was born here and is more of a local than I could ever be. There is the geeky, precise technician for a major non-profit, who once had an epic meltdown because the edge of someone's coat was intruding into his seat space.

Knitting Lady and the Embroidery Duchess, needles flying, have a good-hearted competition to see who can complete the current project the fastest. There is a crowd of future leaders in business and medicine, who rarely raise their eyes from the texts they are highlighting.

In the morning there are The Cheerleaders, three redheads who I imagine have known each other for years. They are sociable enough with each other; but I have seen them turn on a young man who tried to insert himself among them, and peck at him mercilessly until he fled the car.

Their counterparts in the evening are the members of The Club, men and women who met on our train car and now hang out together outside of the commute . They are a bit older, a bit more battered than The Cheerleaders, and would scorn to twirl a baton except to bop someone over the head with it. They sit where they can amuse the conductor by talking bawdy.

Ah, the conductor.... He's a calm and courtly man, willing to be the target of jokes for the sake of good humor in the car. He spends his days off tracking down rights of way of vanished rail lines, and I am sure dreams of the Age of Steam.

I sit near a door, facing down the length of the car. I can reach across from my seat and haul the door closed as we leave each station, for the sake of our ears. I sit there mainly for the legroom, but it is a great place to scan the faces all down the car and let my speculations wander about the other passengers.

The place where I sit is designated for folks with disabilities, so of course I often give up my seat to men in wheelchairs, women with small children, the halt, the lame, and the blind. I say "of course" because this is what one is supposed to do, but some persist in finding it gallant and gentlemanly of me. If so, then we should all be gentlepersons; we should all aspire to the title of "mayor of the car" and carry out the functions of the office as I have described them. It would make the whole daily work experience--commute, labor, and commute again--more delightful.