Oh God. Shortness of breath. Pain across my shoulders. Blurred vision. A mysterious ache in the chest cavity where the heart is alleged to beat… These are but a few of the unpleasant physical sensations I experienced while reading this Times piece on the impending death of the Metro-North (Connecticut line) bar car.
Ok, I admit that I don’t often find myself on the train to Connecticut, but I’ve long been a lover of the plastic snack car booths on Amtrak, a peaceful place to drink a cold Heineken as the Hudson River twinkles by in the friscalating dusk light. So the idea that Metro-North might not be ordering bar cars as part of the next generation of trains is most worrisome; because, you see, if they can take the bar car away from trenchcoated businessmen on the way to Greenwich, they can take it away from anyone…
Look, I could probably survive an hour or so away from a bar-like environment, maybe, but I feel like we’re really starting to lose something in our society, namely places where children cannot—and should not—go; dark, dingy parlors where men and women can brood, cavort and tell glorious lies to each other without fear of traumatizing some small human.
We are the bar car, the bar car is us.