Missing Miss Manners on Metro-North

I’m not Miss Manners, but over the years, I’ve seen some scary changes in commuter etiquette. Nowadays, it’s “commuters gone wild,” and a train ride on Metro-North can be like a mini-Mardi Gras, especially after a Yankees game or the St. Patrick’s Day Parade.

Once upon a time, middle-aged men sat silently in their seats, reading The Wall Street Journal or The New York Times, and caused no disturbances. It was like a Benedictine monastery. There was no crunching, no munching, no arguing, no snoring, no sexual shenanigans, just an occasional boisterous card game. Times have changed.

Commuter etiquette is an obsession with me, largely because I’m held prisoner 18 hours a week on the train, tossing and turning, bumping and grinding my way into and out of Manhattan. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been doing it since FDR was president, or at least Jimmy Carter.

In the modern era, talking on your cell phone is about as bad as blowing smoke in someone’s face or coughing without covering your mouth. The conductor usually gives a polite reminder over the PA system, warning commuters that if they MUST use their cell phones to talk sparingly in civil tones — no screaming allowed — and go to the vestibule for extended conversations, which no one does.

That doesn’t stop a lot of blabber-mouths from torturing us with loud conversations about their party lives, their private lives, their business deals and their kids’ braces.

Equally disturbing is the lack of table manners. I’ve had the misfortune of sitting beside people who think the train is the food court at the mall. I’ve found seats covered with crumbs and orange peels, along with empty Sam Adams bottles.

But nothing compares to the smell of pork fried rice on the ride home or an Egg McMuffin in the morning, not to mention the sound of snacking commuters, crinkling potato chip bags and crunching on Doritos. I figure if Metro-North had intended us to eat, there would be vending machines.

Last week, I suffered the ultimate indignity. A fellow with a large brown paper bag plopped himself down beside me and pulled out a foot-long sub, reeking of onions and jalapeños. Then, he tore open his sour cream and onion potato chips, popped the top of his can of Coke, and spread this little feast out like a picnic lunch on the seat between us.

He started going to town on that sandwich like a dog gnawing on a steak bone. I raised the volume of my iPod, but that only contributed to my middle-age hearing problems from too much rock ‘n’ roll in my early years.

As he finished his meal, he held the bag of chips to his mouth and poured out the crumbs, which cascaded over his face and onto the seat. That’s what commuting is all about.

I left that train smelling like I’d spent the day slapping salami and onions on foot-long rolls at Subway. Cicero would have grumbled, “O tempora! O mores!” And he wasn’t even a commuter.

Joe Pisani can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .

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