The Penn Station Track Layout is Decadent and Depraved

A Mission Across the Hudson -- Bad Rumblings West of Woodside -- The Capybara Situation -- A Surprise Informant -- Sound Advice from My Attorney -- A Sinister Plot, Signed in Blood -- The Governor Weighs In -- Fear and Loathing in Car 9028 -- A Little Elbow Grease

We were somewhere around Woodside when the drugs began to take hold. I remember thinking that this mission was madness, that we should double back and return to Jamaica, but my attorney would have none of it. "This is important," she said. "The American People demand it."

"You're right," I replied. "But we'll never convince the train operator to do it, not without some serious mojo, and not with all these capybaras in the aisle. When did they get on the train?"

"Floral Park," one of them said to me, its head slowly growing and shrinking in a hypnotically peaceful rhythm.

Ah. Yes. Of course. Capybaras are well known in Floral Park and the borderlands at the edge of Queens. Hadn't the last Belmont Stakes been won by a capybara? Hog Heaven was its name, and I had my wallet picked dry by a 15-1 side bet that it wouldn't even place ...

Focus! No, this meandering digression must stop. We are on a mission. My attorney and I had boarded a Long Island Rail Road Train at Jamaica with a singular goal: To take it to Elizabeth, New Jersey. We were going to sit on this train until it got there, without changing trains. Without even getting up from our seats.

Darkness rushed in from the window, as we sped into the tunnel connecting Queens and Manhattan. I contemplated our predicament. Here we were, two highly professional New Yorkers conducting an independent scientific experiment in the self-proclaimed Center of the Known Universe, and we couldn't take a single commuter train to New Jersey! It defied logic -- it was as if the Air Force had told you that it couldn't build an aircraft to get soldiers from Cleveland to Pittsburgh.

An apparition appeared in front of me. "Would you mind not kicking the seat in front of me?" she said, her middle eye rolling lazily from side to side. "I'm trying to read."

"As your attorney, I advise you to keep quiet," my attorney said. "She may be a double agent, and it appears that she is under the influence of drugs."

"Nonsense," I said. "I think she can be an asset to our project. Ma'am, we're two Federal Agents on a top-secret mission."

"Top secret!" she gasped, leaning over the seat back in front of us. "Golly, that sounds dangerous!" Circus music blared from the public address system.

"Turn that crap down!" I barked. "It is, ma'am. We're on a mission to take this train to New Jersey. Are you in?"

"But ... but ... that's not possible!" she sputtered. "The Pennsylvania Railroad built its 1910 terminal primarily to serve long-distance passengers, so its platforms are too narrow for through trains. In addition, everyone knows that the MTA and New Jersey Transit will never do it."

Clearly, we had stumbled upon someone with valuable inside information. "Go on," I whispered. "But keep it quiet. These capybaras are everywhere." One had taken a seat next to me, and was chugging beer from within a paper bag.

Our asset leaned over closer, her tailfin now visibly flapping behind her. "Listen. In late 1962, the Pennsylvania Railroad, the New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad, and the LIRR all signed a super-secret agreement," she hissed. "The tracks beneath Pennsylvania Station would be split up three ways, and unexploded munitions left over from the Korean War would prevent one train from crossing into the other's territory, upon pain of death."

"No kidding," my attorney gasped, inhaling more ether. He offered the mask to our informant, who took a hit and continued. "But the railroads all knew that they were in trouble by the early '60s, so they added another layer to the agreement in case they were ever dissolved or merged or brought into the public sector: They sold President Kennedy the air rights above Penn Station for $1 so that he could demolish it and build a new Madison Square Garden above the station, which would make changing the track layout even harder to fix and ruin everything above it. Then a year later, they had him shot."

"Good God!" I exclaimed. Of course. He knew too much. A president with that kind of knowledge was going to wind up at the side of a ditch somewhere no matter what. "I knew the Pennsylvania Railroad couldn't be trusted!"

The train was either slowing down, or our speech was speeding up. "The pact was signed in blood, and Robert Moses, Nelson Rockefeller and Governor Hughes of New Jersey witnessed it. You can look it up online," our informant said.

"It's true," added my attorney. "Everything online is true."

"Brotherhood of man, fatherhood of God," Rockefeller said, popping another beer next to me. "I had to do it to create the MTA, otherwise i would have had to invade New Jersey to unite the railroads, and that would have cost me the nomination in '64. Brotherhood of man, fatherhood of God."

I tried to remember who the Republican nominee was in 1964. George Romney? Pat Boone? Staff Sergeant Barry Sadler? The name escaped me. Had Rockefeller really been president in the 1960s? No. I'm pretty sure it was Petula Clark. Yes. She was the one who really got us into Nam.

My reminiscence was cut short by a blaring announcement: "PENN STATION, THIS IS PENN STATION. CONNECT HERE FOR NEW JERSEY TRANSIT and AMTRAK. CONNECTIONS ALSO AVAILABLE TO THE SUBWAYS UPSTAIRS."

"As your attorney, I advise you all to wait for the capybaras to leave the train and then to sit here, no matter what. We may have to bring this train into New Jersey by force."

A gaunt conductor approached through the door from the car in front of us. I noted that our car number was 9028, scribbled that down in my notes, and took off my watch. In a street fight, the watch was always the first thing to go.

Depending on which way the conductor turned, you could see through him. "Last stop, everyone," he mumbled. "Everyone off the train."

"We're not getting off the train," I replied. "We're Federal Agents, and we're going to Elizabeth, New Jersey."

"Nuhhhhh, you can't do that, this train's going to the yard, it's out of service,"

My attorney unlatched his briefcase. "Listen, I have a letter here from the director of the FBI, Doctor M. Patrick Bugenhagen, stating that you are to take this Long Island Rail Road Train to Elizabeth, New Jersey, where we have an important pharmacological appointment with the Director. Do you want to get in trouble with the FBI, Conductor?"

The conductor was not having it. "Nuhhhhh, look, we can't clear the train until you exit, and uhhhh, we're not allowed go to New Jersey."

"Because of the munitions." our informant chimed in.

He ignored this. "Look, uhhhh, I'm going to have to radio the police if you don't clear the train."

"Cazart!" i yelled, jumping up and punching the conductor in the stomach. But instead of connecting, my fist went right through him. "It's the pigs! We're going to have to push this train into New Jersey ourselves! Who's with me?"

My attorney and our informant bolted onto the platform right behind me, though it was difficult for the informant to walk fast in fins. "If we hurry, they won't see us," I whispered.

Soon we reached the back of the train and ducked down to track level. "Here, take this," I said to our party, reaching into my satchel. "These pills will help us push the train faster." Somehow, we were going to have to get this train under the Hudson River in time for me to file my story with the Rolling Stone Sports Desk. But that would have to wait. For now, we were the only ones who could get ourselves a one-seat ride across the river.

This is a work of fiction, and you'd have to be a complete idiot to think it reflects the opinions of my past or present employers.