It’s 1:55, and I have 40 minutes to get from midtown Manhattan to my New Jersey bound 2:35 train. In any normal circumstance, a doable task. My usual route required two subway stops on the C or E to get to Penn Station; introduce our villain, NJ Transit. I’ll let you in on a secret, they’re all in on it. The men and women of New Jersey Transit have joined in miraculous union to form a coalition against my commute. I’ll admit they’re winning in a most clever and disparaging fashion. On the bright side, I’ve never seen such uncanny cooperation and rapport.

In case you aren’t currently aware of the NJ Transit fiasco, allow me to summarize. Do you ever take the Morris/Essex line into Penn Station? Not this summer. The summer I begin an extensive internship in midtown Manhattan, NJ Transit is forced to undergo major track repairs on Morris & Essex lines into NY Penn station, redirecting all lines to Hoboken. This extensive inconvenience adds another 45 minutes to my commute and a crowded PATH from Hoboken every morning at rush hour. The morning’s lethargy followed by an anxious uncertainty for my homeward commute.

On this particular day, divine circumstance would strike down any possibility of making my train. It all starts on the 50th St subway station in midtown Manhattan. I’m the only one in a rush at two in the afternoon, so it’s easy for everyone to practice patience at my detriment. The subway arrives promptly on schedule, only to sit five minutes with the doors closed. Trapped, sweaty, and too tall for a subway train car, I sat impatiently listening to the two twelve-year-old’s selling fruit snacks for 50 cents apiece. I was just about ready to cause a scene to get thrown out of the car, when we finally began moving, lethargically, but moving nevertheless. On cue, a truly committed man began drunkenly punching the window. Of course, this act set me back another ten minutes, as we had to stop immediately at the next station and wait several minutes while the conductor tried to persuade the drunken man to stop punching the window. When the conductor finally felt as though he was incapable of persuading such a committed man, he called the police; and they tried to convince him to stop punching the window for another few minutes.

As if against the celestial decree, I walked onto the PATH train to Hoboken with 20 minutes to go, I could make it. Of course, the PATH wasn’t leaving for another five minutes; two in the afternoon but we have to wait until the last minute to leave, just in case I’m not the only one in the world who is in a rush at two in the afternoon. We moved just fast enough to keep my hopes slightly lifted while taking just long enough at each stop for them to crash back down.

Arriving at the Hoboken Train Station at 2:33 sent me into a frenzy; I think I stepped over some people, I was in such a rush. Of course, my train was at the end of the track, as far away as it could possibly be. I’ve never felt like more of a New Yorker, I was sprinting. I had committed to the idea of making that train, and I had very much abhorred the idea of waiting another hour for my next train. The feeling bordered orgasmic when I rounded the last corner and saw my train still waiting at the end of the station.

If such cooperation was put towards ensuring an effortless commute, I would have made my train that day. Instead, I run up to the gate for my train just as two painfully apathetic employees close and lock the track's gate. Trapped behind a shrinking metal gate, I slowly became more confident about hopping over. As time went by, the train remained stationary, 50 feet away from me. I tried to reason with the gatekeepers, scrolling senselessly on their phones; fully capable of permitting me to make my train, nevertheless loyal to the faction of NJ Transit’s commitment to disrupting my commute. To mock me further, the train left ten minutes late, forcing me to sit just out of reach.

I waited, an hour wandering the Hoboken Train Station and hovering around the empty track ready for my train. I fueled my rage with munchkins and pink lemonade Coolattas. When the train finally arrived the men and women of NJ Transit were steadfast in their commitment; the train sat, ready, empty, and in the station, refusing passengers until two minutes before my train was scheduled to leave. At which point only one door on the train was opened, forcing an impatient stampede through the single train car door, further delaying us another ten minutes. Needless to say, the ride wasn’t any better.

Arriving home as the clock struck six, only the thought of the miraculous cooperation between all members of the department of transit allowed me to rest my head at night. On one hand, my commute has been gutted at its core and cast into an unpredictable frenzy; on the other hand, I’ve never witness a more unified display of like minded and committed individuals. Even more miraculously, they all had the same nonchalant, disinterested attitude towards my desire for a reliable commute.

I left work before two o’clock, I got home at six. But that’s NJ Transit, get on a train at 3:30 and get home anywhere between four and midnight. They’re not known for doing things particularly well, or efficiently. Yet again, when has the government ever been known for doing things efficiently; unless of course their conspiring against my desire for a reliable commute.