The 6:30 Lancaster

A white woman sits grumpily in front of me. The 6:30 Lancaster is crowded, but the commuters are mostly talkative, cheerful to be heading away from work. The morning Metrolinks are the more silent ones: serious, full of paper reading and coffee slurping.

She sighs, glances around her and takes a furtive sip from an airline bottle of Jack D. Then, suddenly, her phone comes to life with a shrill Pat Benatar scream...

Hit me with your best shot, fire awaaaaayyyyy!

She's older in that tired way, with stringy hair and unfashionable glasses - and not the so-uncool-they're-cool-Echo-Park-is-the-new-Silver-Lake-type. No, not those types. She slurs into the phone to her daughter, saying her to call Dad, that she's too busy to deal presently. The woman hangs up and takes another swig, catches my eye, and glares at me.

I look down and pretend to read my issue of Professional Photographer. She looks away and takes another swig.

Behind me are two black guys. They are talking about life, women and nothing in particular. One wonders when it's better to be professional and when to be ghetto-fab. The other thinks the whole conversation is bullshit, and wants to know how long it will take to get to Van Nuys as he is in dire need of a cigarette.

The conductor, a bearded and bespeckled gentleman, makes his daily request that "all visitors aboard the train need to depart prior to blast-off." This is followed by the daily warning that a failure to have a ticket will result in a $300 citation.

Smelling the coffee that spilled on my coat, I idly wonder if the 6:30 Lancaster has ever had a visitor.

The train takes off. Burbank is a short 21 minutes away.