“Excuse me, now, I don’t mean this to be something weird….”
Oh boy, here it comes, something weird. He wants money. He must want money.
3:30 a.m. on the PATH train. It had been a long Saturday night, what with the college-radio friend’s art opening and the record-store friend’s friend’s band’s gig and the art opening after-party. Plus daylight saving time. I just wanted to be home in bed. But it appeared that first, I’d be having a conversation with this fellow sitting across from me, one of only a few passengers on the train car.
He explained—gesturing to the white paper bag next to him—that he had purchased too much food at White Castle.
Will I buy some of the food off him. He wants money. He must want money.
So would I like a cheeseburger?
Now, I’m a college-educated, respected professional, just short of turning 40, so of course I gave the only logical response: “Uh….sure.” Get a few drinks in me on a Saturday night, and I turn into a LOLcat.
He handed me the slider, and I thanked him. But before taking a bite, I noticed the conductor who had just entered the train car. “They don’t allow eating on the train,” I said, all holier-than-thou, “so we’ll have to ask her permission.”
It was totally OK with her. This sparked a discussion of ethics and modern culture with my cheeseburger chum: people’s lack of appreciation for those who clean the trains, me quoting liberally from a viral Louis CK clip, the need to treat everyone with respect, et cetera, et cetera. All the while we both chowed down.
Train’s almost in the station. Brace yourself, man. Here comes the pitch. He wants money. He must want money.
I was getting off in Hoboken, and he was staying on to Jersey City, so we said our farewells, and I profusely thanked him again for his generosity. But as I exited the station and walked the quiet night streets of the Mile Square City, a thought occurred: Perhaps I should not have eaten the cheeseburger.
I could’ve just accepted it—as to not seem rude—but “saved it for later” or maybe clandestinely inserted it in my jacket sleeve whilst pretending to eat. He didn’t want money, but he must’ve wanted something. To kill a random train passenger with a poisoned burger? No, no, he was eating also. Well of course—he handed you the poisoned one, dummy. Great, I’m going to die. I’m not going to make it to my 40th birthday because I ate a hamburger given to me by a random man on the train in the middle of the night. Did “don’t take candy from strangers” not sink into my brain from all those classroom scare-tactic films? But no, he and I just had that morality chat—he’s a good man, not a cold-blooded killer! Maybe I won’t die, I’ll just get really, really sick. That wouldn’t be too bad. Heck, I deserve it. What diseases could be purposely transmitted via wafer-thin beef patty, bun, cheese, and diced onions? Did I eat a pickle? I think I ate a pickle. I don’t like pickles. I guess I’m still a little drunk. Oh I don’t want to die.
It’s four days later, and I’m still not dead. No apparent symptoms, not even any gastrointestinal distress. (I’ve got kind of a cast-iron gut.) And the scary thing is, I have to imagine I’d do it again.
Maybe I should’ve offered him money. He wanted money, but was too proud. I’d gladly pay him Tuesday for a hamburger today.
Jack Silbert, curator