The caltrain was late. Delayed is the better definition. Above the crowd on the train platform, a sign scrolled messages “60 to 90 minutes delayed”. Fatality, it said, fatality. And all around me, fellow passengers scrolled through their phone, talking to headless voices, or stroking messages to a very important person.
The chill was strong tonight. I curled my fingers underneath my cream-colored prana jacket, feeling the fleece and the wool. Other people moaned about the delays. I texted all the people I was supposed to have texted in the last week—arranged a dinner this week, got in touch with a friend who was traveling, informed a colleague that the train was late, and message Chris about my plight. I wanted to let my fingers to dance across the keyboard of my laptop, to let ideas pour out into my nanowrimo project. But instead, I stood there, shivering.
I recognized a friend and called him over. I learned about his plan for Belize and the regret that he had for waiting. After 30 minutes of waiting, he suggested Uber to Millbrae. But I shook my head, gesturing to my bike and thinking of the $50+ it would take me to get to the city. “I am okay, standing here,” I said.
“I am going to go,” he said.
And so I waited for 90 more minutes until I ran into another colleague. “You wasted an hour,” he said.
“But what would I have done if I got home?” I said. “Probably just screwed around.”