I spent many years commuting from Stamford, Ct to Grand Central Station. Whenever possible on return trips home, I would either grab a seat, or if necessary stand for the entire ride in the “bar car” of the train. Not every train had a bar car, but you could check the schedule and tell which ones did, by the wine glass beside that listing. As opposed to the normal Metro North cars, with rows of seats, where you’d be next to one or two other people and be looking at the back of the head of the person in front of you, and where people would say a loud SHHHHH, to anyone speaking in too loud a tone, the bar car was raucous!           

First of all you’d be sitting with your back to the window looking at a person sitting across from you. In front of you would be a pole with four drink holders. In the middle of the car would be a bar and a bar-tender where you could purchase beer, booze, pretzels, etc. It was loud! People would be sharing the stories of their day, laughing or crying about the results of the latest Ranger, or Knicks, on Nets or Islanders, or Jets, or Giants, or Yankees, or Met’s games.

Sometimes you’d get locked into deep philosophical conversations with person sitting next to you, who you’d never laid eyes on before that fateful trip. Sometimes arguments would break out and harsh words exchanged. Somewhere along the way, I started to record when I’d either observe or experience a notable happening.

Out of all that came “Bar Car”, the story of a particular express ride from Grand Central Station to Stamford, Ct. one evening, on the last train of the night that included a bar car. Its about the people that shared that ride, and what happened.