25th
Thriller in Rye
I recently went on another exciting adventure with my friends Alex and Claire, this time to the idyllic suburb of Rye. Little did we know our adventure would end in supernatural menace and almost certain gory death.
The day starts very promisingly, when Claire, her friend Liz, and I, head up to the AYC in sunny Westchester to catch the finish of the Spring Series regatta in which Salty Dog Alex was sailing, and watch the Kentucky Derby with some pleasantly inebriated sailors. The city is hot and swarmy, but in Rye there is a cool breeze and even cooler Dark & Stormys. We ensconce ourselves on the attractive and comfortable lawn furniture and feast on goldfish crackers and watch the boat with the red spinnaker. One rum drink each and Alex has joined us. Three more rum drinks each, and we’re watching the Derby. The Derby is a disaster not only because it’s muddy and gross, but mostly because the horse Claire and I are cheering for, the filly Devil May Care, doesn’t even place. I drink another Dark & Stormy bought for me by a well-spoken sailor to quell my Feminist disappointment. Thirst and disappointment quenched, we begin our return journey to the city.
Go-cups in hand, we taxi to the station. Conversation has deteriorated from pretending we care about horse racing on the 362 days of the year that are NOT the Derby, Preakness, and Belmont Stakes, to contrasting our favorite HBO shows. I weigh in heavily in favor of Big Love because of my well documented uncontrollable fascination with cults. This may or may not have invoked the wrath of one of the one true gods. At any rate, things start to take a turn for the worse about half an hour outside of New York.
Claire and I both have to pee. Our Go-cups are empty. Sobriety is setting in and we’re missing the start of the Sox game. We tumble out of the train in a rush, and crowd with the teeming masses towards the stairs leading up to the main concourse at Grand Central Station. Somehow we’re almost last, which provides a terrific vantage point for observing the unrest and panic beginning to take hold of our fellow passengers.
People are rushing up one stairwell after another in anxious throngs, only to return to the lower track level and try again. It is like watching meth-addicted lab rats pressing levers and getting electric shocks. The people don’t learn, and they try all 4 stairwells on the lower level and are fervently arguing with each other by the time we reach the end of the track. What’s going on, we apprehensively ask the least fevered looking traveler, who responds that all the stairwells are locked and bolted shut. By now the throngs are rushing vaguely around in circles and mobbing the locked stairwells. Do we have to walk all the way to 125th Street to get out? says Liz. I’m claustrophobic, says Claire. This is how the Zombie movie starts, says Alex.
All anxiety instantly leaves me and I’m crippled with laughter. OHMYGOD YES I choke, WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE WHEN THE HUNGRY BRAIN EATING ZOMBIES RUN DOWN THE TRACK AND MURDER US ALL TO DEATH…I’m gasping. Laughing so hard that tears start to run down my face and the having-to-pee situation gets dire.
Finally some genius (not me) finds a freight elevator in a dark side hallway. We crowd into it with about 20 other people. I’m really claustrophobic says Claire, I think I might faint. Look on the bright side, I cheerfully tell her- you wont feel a thing when the rabid zombies eat your brain! I’m obviously helping, as she goes from looking pale and fainty, to healthily flushed with anger and is now glaring at me in a vivacious fashion. The woman standing next to me tries to move slightly away from me but there’s nowhere to go- there are so many people in the elevator she’s pressed against the wall. I consider telling her that I’m obviously kidding, everyone knows that zombies don’t take elevators, but then I remember that I probably am heavily scented with rum, and decide to leave it for now. She’ll figure it out soon enough, or not.
I’ll refrain from describing the situation at The Campbell Apartment, who suffice it to say, for a decent bar, has ONLY ONE bathroom, and just skip straight to the happily-ever-after. We made it out of Grand Central Zombie House of Undead Death and safely to Prof Thom’s for the last inning of the Sox game- and they won!
