Adrian is a man of few worries.
He doesn’t spend all day thinking about what could happen if he crashes in a car accident, or how cold it is in my laundry room, or why I’m laying in the hallway in the throes of death.
He could care less about missing a flight, or being late arriving somewhere, or what other people think of him.
His lack of worry combined with my absolute hatred for unassigned seating made me leave him at a New Jersey Train Station.
It started out fine–we were heading back to Newark after a lovely weekend spent in NYC. He’d been several times during his time in college for Architecture, and I’d only been once as a 4th grader. We spent the weekend with him touring me around, seeing shows, and eating an unhealthy amount of pizza.
We arrive at the train station, and grab a ticket from the kiosk–and there’s no seating assignments. Or–time of departure.
Me: “So, I notice there’s no time on the ticket.”
Ticket Agent: “Yeah, you just gotta get on the train when it gets here and hope you get a seat.”
And that’s when I begin to panic.
Me: “We’re going to miss our flight.”
Adrian: “That’s okay.”
Me: “No it’s not.”
Adrian: “Why is that not okay? It’s not the only flight leaving Newark this year.”
Me: “We’re not missing that flight.”
Adrian: “You’re being ridiculous.”
Me: “Your face is ridiculous.”
It’s bad enough that I know I’m going to have to battle someone for seating, and that we’re in Jersey. But now–now there’s a chance that I might not even make it onto a train that I have purchased a ticket for. I take it as a personal challenge. I’m getting on the next train, and I’m getting a kick-ass seat, come Hell or high water.
Adrian is totally and completely unconcerned–he’s wandering around the station, looking at all the architectural details. He couldn’t possibly care less that I’m about to tear a motherfucker up to get on a train today.
I plant myself as close to the platform as they’ll let me be. I’m not the only one. Approximately 400 people had the same plan as I did. Everyone but Adrian. As soon as the train arrives, it’s a zombie-escape-route rush to the cars. I am not shy in using my elbows in children’s eye sockets to climb over their pregnant mothers in the search for a seat. I may have even bitten someone. That was a bad call. It’s New Jersey. I might have the plague now.
It is only when I get to my seat–the only one on the train that don’t require me to maintain eye contact with a total stranger for the entire trip–do I realize that I have left Adrian on the platform to fend for himself. And my bag with him.
I had neglected, in my panic, to remember that Adrian was being quite the gentleman and had taken my very, very heavy bag from me to lug it around as he was wandering aimlessly, carefree. Mother. Fucker.
“JESUS CHRIST, NOA. THANKS FOR FUCKING WAITING FOR ME. IT’S COOL, I’LL CARRY YOUR HEAVY-ASS BAG THROUGH THE CROWD FOR YOU.”
Oh good. He found me.
Adrian: “YOU COULDN’T EVEN BOTHER TO SAY THAT YOU WERE GOING ON AHEAD?”
Me: “You found me. I saved you a seat.”
Adrian: “NO YOU DID NOT. YOU JUST NOW REALIZED YOU LEFT ME.”
Me: “I love you.”
Adrian: “I HAD TO CARRY YOUR MOTHERFUCKING BAG WHILE YOU RAN.”
Me: “It’s okay. You’re here now.”
Adrian: “YOU LEFT ME. IN NEW JERSEY.”
If you’re wondering, we made it home just fine. He’s never let me forget this story, and I still use it to highlight the improvements that he needs to make before the apocalypse comes, because if I’ll leave him in Jersey, I’ll leave him anywhere.
I love you, Adrian. Thanks for putting up with me.