I'm standing on the LIRR platform Sunday morning, waiting for my train to Woodside. It is obvious from my garb where I'm going. Guy dressed in black, right through to his backpack, comes up to me and asks, “Who's pitching today?”
“Pelfrey,” I say. “Gonna have a nice comeback.”
“Comeback?” he laughs. “Fifteen out of the Wild Card?”
“I don't mean the Mets, just Pelfrey. He's gonna have a good start.”
“Yeah, y'know what? I think he will, too.”
“He's due.”
Nice exchange, right? Just two passersby talking Mets baseball…what more could there be to it?
“Listen,” my new companion says, producing two single dollar bills and changing the subject. “I need to buy a ticket for the train and I'm a few dollars short, and I hate to ask, but…”
Ah, the old Long Island Rail Road ticket scam. How many times have I been the prey for this? For as long as I can remember, whether we're in a recession or an economic boom, there inevitably crops up a would-be commuter who has somehow appeared at whichever station I happen to be, always just a few dollars short of fare into Manhattan or back home. Not a “bum,” just someone who lost his wallet or ran into unforeseen circumstances. His stated predicament can't help but draw out a twinge of empathy — gosh, I'd hate to be in that situation, but if I were, I sure hope somebody would help me out.
I used to believe these stories. I used to believe that somebody could show up for a train bereft of four dollars or six dollars or however much a single off-peak ride cost at that moment. I used to want to believe it, I suppose. I would never ask for this kind of help unless I really needed it. How could anybody else? Eventually, I hardened my shell a bit and just grumbled “no” or wandered away in the middle of the pitch. I don't like being played for a sucker.
But the man in black on Sunday went the extra mile. He talked Mets with me. He acknowledged Mets with me at any rate. He even did it in a manner I could respect — not pretending the Mets were any good just because I was wearing a Mets cap and a Mets shirt, but tamping down my expectations for a miracle playoff run when he misunderstood my “comeback” forecast at first. And he didn't say they're “a million games out” or something disparagingly non-specific. He said they were fifteen games out of the Wild Card.
Which is exactly what they were. He may not have been able to purchase a ticket for the train, but he apparently paid attention to the standings.
A small-time scam artist who knew not just that the Mets sucked, but exactly how much they sucked. I don't respect the scam, but I do respect the research.
So I gave him a buck.
“Hey man, thanks,” he said, accepting the dollar that was still going to leave him quite a bit short of getting anywhere other than the next station (especially if he planned on buying a ticket on the train, which is where they really getcha). I told him, sure, no problem, good luck. As he began walking down the platform to work another mark, he added, “Listen, the Mets are gonna win today. Francoeur's gonna hit TWO home runs!”
I didn't believe for a second he desperately needed to be on the very next train (and indeed when the next one pulled in to the station, he u-turned toward the stairs presumably to gear up for his next group of potential clientele), but he did leave me believing that a) the Mets would win and b) Francoeur would hit two home runs. The Mets did win. Francoeur didn't homer, but still…not “David Wright's gonna hit two homers,” but Jeff Francoeur. Nobody who doesn't keep up with the Mets would have said Jeff Francoeur.
That much, I decided, was worth the buck.