Oh, I hate the line cutter. It is unforgivable. And no, I do not think it is a New York thing, though certainly it is exacerbated there. There is absolutely no way I am going to risk losing the last window seat on my train because of a sneak. And I’m not going to let it happen to anyone else, either.
I am also adamant about policing the line cutter, but today, there was a conundrum. I stood towards the beginning of a long Amtrak line in Union Station in Washington, DC. I was stationed at a turn in the line, which is just what the professional line cutter looks for, like a weak link in the chain.
I had already moved a few people along when I noticed one young guy glued to his Blackberry, ignoring me. So I poked him.
“The line is waaaay back there, you know,” I say firmly.
He stares at me a second, and then motions that he is deaf. I am suspicious, so I point at the long line, and say again, “The line is down there.”
So. Maybe he is deaf. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll be struck down for doubting him. I considered typing on my iPhone, “You are cutting the line. It’s way down there,” because clearly there’s nothing wrong with his sight.
I finally decide to leave him alone, hoping that he has a restless night’s sleep for cutting. But I am considerably sterner with the line cutter right behind him, and move him with some haste to the end.