By Silence Doless

Over the long weekend I had the pleasure of visiting Sarah Lawrence College, an all-around better school than Hofstra. Why, you may foolishly ask? Because they offer a seminar called “Lube It Up,” that’s why. The only thing at Hofstra that comes close to being that slick is your local Dude-Guy’s hair, which is decidedly less appealing, especially in the current context.

However, this week’s column is not about Sarah Lawrence. Sure the school has a beautiful campus, progressive classes and a six-dollar buffet with everything from waffles to real eggs, but what I really want to talk about is how I got there. Yes folks, I’m talking about the Long Island Rail Road.

Everyone who goes to Hofstra has been on it and if you haven’t there is a good chance you don’t go to New York City often; in which case you should stop being such a huge townie. But I digress. An experience on the LIRR is always going to involve adventure. And by adventure, I mean black holes of logic. Here’s how a typical LIRR riding day goes:

You’re all set to go, but for some reason you don’t have a ride (i.e. car in the shop, roommate is away and cab fare is $50), so you take the Blue Beetle. After the pain in your ass subsides from being bounced two and a half feet in the air after every bump for 20 minutes, you realize that you have to pee for much the same reason. So you waddle to the bathroom only to find that it’s closed after 1 p.m. Also, the train you were trying to catch departed five minutes ago, and you’ll have to wait an hour for the next one. For some reason, Hofstra decided it was in the best interest of its students to time the buses so that you always miss the train. So, feeling like the victim of some elaborate Rabinowitzian conspiracy, you sit down to wait.

What happens in the time until you get on the train largely depends on whether you’re at Mineola or Hempstead Stations. In these modern days, Hofstra is nice enough to send the Blue Beetle to Mineola. Nobody knows when, but if you’re lucky enough to stumble upon that magical time frame, you will doubtlessly spend your wait admiring the day, the people and the lack of chewing gum on the floor. If, however, you end up at Hempstead, not only will you marvel at the surprising amount of gum on the floor, you will also see something weird. My first time at Hempstead, I watched a man floss with his ticket for well over five minutes.

Finally, you get on the train and by now you really have to pee. You sniff yourself after no one sits next to you on the three-seater, then fall asleep.

Later, you are invariably woken up by the automated stop announcer screaming, “Hollis!” The auto announcer clearly hates Hollis because every time he says it, it just makes him angry. You can hear it in his voice. Hollis must have done something awful to the auto announcer. I’d do an investigative report but it’s probably a dirty LIRR secret and I’d end up getting whacked (come on, pseudonym, protect me!).

You finally get off the train and rush to the public restroom in Penn Station. The stench is so overwhelming that it seems as though of the thousands who use it daily, none of them hit the toilet and so ends your odyssey. That is, until you have to come back for your return ride.

Despite all this, the LIRR needs our love, just like anything else. We should care for it, nourish it and push it on its way. A little something extra to make those wheels turn, loosen those pumps and maybe get the auto announcer to say a nice word or two about Hollis. When you come right down to it, all the LIRR needs is a little lube.

The mysterious and smarky Silence Doless