Training Day

The sun hadn’t even breached the horizon as I pulled away from the house. It was five a.m. and we were heading to the Big Apple for a two-day orientation that would introduce my son to his new life as a university freshman come fall. 

I had the bright idea to take the train: Park and ride style. 

It seemed logical to acquaint the last one to leave the nest with the beauty and convenience of mass transit, which is why his surprise at the notion we would forgo the convenience of driving, fighting traffic, and vying for parking when we could let the train bring us there in one straight shot.

Logistically speaking, I was also banking on the idea that if he had the experience, he could be home in two hours using just two trains and his phone to summon us for a short commute from the station.

 Not that I had ever made that journey on my own. 

Wherever I visited the city that never sleeps, I have always followed someone else’s lead, marveling the whole way at how we managed to decipher which train went uptown and which went downtown. My friends would joke that my understanding of time and space would dissipate as if the work of an incantation and fairy dust as soon as the subway doors slid shut.

The walls of the station and its tunnels melted into a blur. There I’d be, stone sober but feeling the swimmy unsteadiness of being drunk as we rumbled on down the line. I squinted out of the grubby, scuffed windows, unable to read the station signs.

It always seemed like a miracle when my guide would rise out of their seat or shift their weight if we were strap hanging and announce, “This is us.”

“How did they know?” I would marvel, unable to decipher the words that filtered into the train car from the PA system, and obstinately unaware of the line map that lit up as each stop approached. 

I’m older now, if only a modicum wiser. It also helps that the phone in my pocket takes away most of the guesswork. 

It also helps that my advancing age seems to make me invisible.

This time, when I emerge from the underground and stand at the edge of the landing to gather my bearings before deciding which way the building numbers ascend, left or right … people don’t seem to mind … they just pass by as if I weren’t there.

Not that I don’t have plenty of opportunity to mortify my kid by gumming up the works:

In case we are keeping score, I should note the following: I couldn’t find the train reservation on my phone while the conductor waited to jam a green fare check card above our seats. Luckily, the boy remembered I had sent him the link and is not all thumbs as he searched his phone to retrieve it. 

Now, I almost redeemed myself when I managed to get us out of Penn Station and to the subway we needed, but in my chivalry of swiping the boy through the full-height turnstile turned into his chagrin when my second swipe didn’t allow me access.

 I might have swiped the equivalent of eight or ten rides to no avail before I noticed a set of jumpable turnstiles just over yonder. 

Of course, I swiped one more time, and by magic, the metal gave way and allowed me entrance. But the fun didn’t end … I got stuck not once but TWICE trying to get on the #2 train going downtown. I credit the kid for not running for the next car and pretending not to know me.

That would happen soon enough. They would whisk him off with others in his college cohort, and I would join the parents, who would be coached on how to support our kids without making a nuisance of ourselves. That it will be ok if they make mistakes.

As I listen to all the reassuring words and constructive tips, I think there might be hope for me yet. I text the kid to see how he’s faring, and that maybe he should lead the way home after the program concludes the next day. 

He sends me a shrug emoji and tells me his phone is nearly dead. He didn’t bring the charger.

I can’t help but laugh. I guess I’ll see him when he figures it out.