The PATH train was crazy crowded this morning. Because of a New Jersey Transit fiasco, their trains were diverted to Hoboken, and all those commuters had to go somewhere.

That was dictated. That’s as far as my dictation got. I was not present for most of the day as it crawled past me.

Yesterday was most of the same except for leaving with Jimmy Chile at 3:45 PM to go to a small Thanksgiving celebration at the main fruit stand. I was initially wary about going and spending time with Yancey, which certainly meant that I did not want to spend any more time with him if I could help it.

The women, Kimberly and Anise, who trained me, were understanding and expressed some disappointment when they knew I was not going to show up. That was the deciding factor for me. I walked up with Jimmy Chile after I convinced him I would rather walk. He’s a fast walker, and once or twice I had to let him know to slow down.

It reminded me of when I used to walk around with Rita, who was constantly getting me to slow down since I was walking too fast. Now I am Rita, complaining about my companion walking too fast for my aged legs.

Today was slow, especially when compared to walking. A few years ago, an old friend, Denise, saw me walking on the street and asked why I was walking so slowly. I didn’t think I was, but years later, her words echo in my ears. I am very conscious, perhaps too conscious, of the speed of my gait.

I see younger people flying past me as I walk and try to keep up. I still wind up sweating like a horse. And yesterday afternoon, the younger person was Jimmy Chile.

Today, Jimmy was all over the place, but he always found time to check up on me. Marcus is not in the office, working from home, I think. And since the holiday season is creeping up, things are not as busy as they usually are.

I suppose it will be like this until January. I really don’t know since I wasn’t working at the fruit stand this time last year. I’m not complaining. I just have to show up. Leaving the festivities last night, I rode the elevator with a guy who was leaving the fruit stand until December. He has off. I mentioned that I’m a contract player, so I will be in.

He suggested getting a good book, and I told him I was reading ‘Let The Stories Be Told’, the biography of that Boston band, The Cars. He mentioned that all he had were baby books. As we exited the elevator, I asked if he was able to understand those books. Cheeky.

It’s a good book, entertaining. I really liked The Cars’ first album. I bought it soon after it came out. One summer day in 1978, I rode my bike to Maywood for a haircut. I saw in the paper, The Cars were doing an in-store appearance at EJ Korvettes, a mile or two up the road.

I had nothing to do and nowhere to go, and after my haircut, I rode to Paramus. There they were, all five of them, signing albums. I already had the album and did ot have the money to buy a new one, so I snagged a brown paper shopping bag, which they signed before heading out to their limo.

That first album is a classic. Almost every track is a hit. There were always at least one or two interesting tracks on their following albums.