Out of Office: A Comedy of Errors – Riding the Train with a Congresswoman and a Minister

This post is part of a series in which LinkedIn Influencers and members share their business travel advice and stories from life on the road. Read all the posts here.

When my wife and I host dinner parties, we ask guests to tell a funny story to introduce themselves. Usually our theme is travel. I am ready to offer here (as at my dining room table) my anecdote, which also reveals a moral failing.

A few years ago, I was on the train from New York City to Washington, D.C. It must have been Thanksgiving or another holiday, because when I boarded there were hardly any open seats.

I found my way to the café car.

Like many people, I prefer the train to other modes of transportation. It may no longer symbolize the romance and thrill of a bygone era, as depicted in such movies as Alfred Hitchcock’s North by Northwest. But it remains the consummately civilized means to make one’s way across the country. People expect to engage with one another.

At one of the little tables, two ladies were already chatting as if they were old friends. I asked if I might join them. They graciously invited me to sit down. One of them said she was a Congresswoman. The other said she was an Episcopalian minister.

As we started underway, I peeked at my phone. A skeptic, I wanted to confirm the legislator was who she claimed to be. Officeholders usually have staff, and she was alone. A quick internet search pulled up various photos that corresponded to the person in front of me. (I am withholding the name here, but she has a national profile.)

As we journeyed down the Eastern seaboard, the Congresswoman excused herself. She had important calls to make. I presumed she wanted privacy. Meanwhile, the minister busied herself reading magazines. I worked. It was a pleasant trip.

When we arrived in Baltimore, only one hour away from the Capitol, the clergy member announced it was her destination and bid farewell. She casually tossed aside her periodicals, picked up her bag, and departed.

As we pulled out of the station, I looked at the two titles she had left on the table. They were fancy, glossy, and thick. I cannot remember exactly what they were, except that they were the expensive type about art — the kind of magazines I see on the newsstand and think, “Who buys this sort of thing?”

I thought to myself, “My wife would like these. I should bring home something nice for her.”

I tucked them into my backpack.

It wasn’t until we came to Union Station that the Congresswoman returned; I had thought she had wandered off for good. She looked down, then directly at me, before exclaiming, “That minister stole my magazines!”

I was dumbstruck. I was too discombobulated to reply. I just exited the scene of the crime.

In my defense, at least as I recall it, the indignant representative promptly turned around and marched away. I wouldn’t have had an opportunity to make amends anyway. Perhaps I am rationalizing, because I was surprised.

The upshot of all this, however, is that I not only absconded with the property of a federal official, but also allowed a woman of faith to take the fall in absentia. I am sure in the great ledger of karma, I have significant demerits beside my name on account of this mishap.

We are lucky if the myriad imperfect moments of our lives can be shaped into a narrative that makes a point. I swear my bit of history is true, by the way. Perhaps my embarrassment will be alleviated if the Congresswoman happens upon this essay and accepts my apology. Even if she does not, I feel as if I have discharged my responsibilities to the universe in part by serving as a salutary example of the need to be alert while traveling.

Although I have made a living by standing up and speaking out, I should have been faster realizing my error and confessing it. To be mindful and remedy our blunders: That is about as good a punch line as there is.

Photo: creative commons licensed (BY-NC-ND) flickr photo by Kevin H.