Train delays happen.
Most people accept it with a sigh, maybe a glance at their phone.
But then there are the ones who take it personally, who act like a slight inconvenience is a grave injustice.
I’ve dealt with plenty of them working at the station.
They don’t want explanations, they want a miracle. And, of course, to make their frustration everyone else’s problem.
Like the man standing at my counter now.
All Aboard the Complaint Train
He looked important, or at least, he thought he was.
Pressed shirt, expensive watch, an air of self-importance clinging to him like overpriced cologne.
The kind of person who assumed the world should run on his schedule, not the other way around.
“Unbelievable,” he scoffed, loud enough for half the station to hear. “This is a joke. How does an entire train system just stop working?”
I kept my tone polite, professional. The kind of practiced patience you develop after dealing with people like him for too long. “There’s been a signal malfunction on the tracks, sir. We’re waiting on an update.”
He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Right. Because in this city, things ever run on time.” He turned to the people waiting nearby, shaking his head. “This is why nothing gets done anymore. A little rain, a little ‘technical issue,’ and the whole system falls apart.”
A few passengers glanced at him but quickly looked away. No one wanted to engage.
I’d seen this performance before. Complaining just to complain, as if his outrage would magically fix the problem.
“If you’re in a hurry, sir,” I offered, “there are alternate routes—”
He waved me off. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have to find a different route. I should already be on my train.”
I bit my tongue. People like him didn’t want solutions. They wanted someone to blame.
He muttered something under his breath, pacing near the departure board, checking his watch like sheer willpower could force the train to arrive.
It was going to be a long evening.
Sound of Impatience
The station had settled into that uneasy quiet that always followed an announcement of delays. Passengers shifting in their seats, checking their phones, tapping impatient feet against the tiled floor.
Through it all, the man continued his one-man show of exasperation.
Sigh. Pace. Check the time. Complain. Repeat.
At one point, he walked right up to the platform’s edge, peering down the tracks like he expected the train to appear out of thin air.
I did my best to ignore him. I had other passengers to help, other duties to handle. But every few minutes, I’d catch bits of his running commentary.
“This is ridiculous.”
“I should be halfway there by now.”
“They don’t pay these people to be incompetent, do they?”
I exhaled slowly, keeping my expression neutral.
Station workers are used to complaints. It’s part of the job. But there’s a difference between frustration and entitlement. One is understandable. The other is just exhausting.
Then, finally, a new update crackled over the PA system.
“Attention passengers on Track 4: Due to ongoing signal issues, the next train heading to Merrick Junction will be delayed an additional forty minutes. We apologize for the inconvenience.“
A collective groan rippled through the waiting crowd. The man at the platform threw up his hands like I’d just personally ruined his life.
“Again? Are you serious?”
I grabbed my radio and made my way over, reinforcing what had just been announced. “I know it’s frustrating,” I said, keeping my tone level. “If you need an alternative, I can help direct you—”
“I don’t need directions,” he snapped. “I just need this place to function properly.”
Before I could respond, the distant hum of an approaching train caught everyone’s attention.
It wasn’t his train. But he didn’t know that.
And in his rush to be anywhere but here, he didn’t bother checking.
The moment the doors slid open, he shoved past other passengers, storming onto the train with all the confidence of a man who knew he was right.
I didn’t stop him.
Why would I?
Because in a few minutes, he was about to realize something.
That wasn’t an express train.
It was a local service, heading in the opposite direction.
And by the time he figured it out… he’d be miles from where he needed to be.
Miles From the Truth
As the train pulled away, I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
The platform settled into its usual rhythm, passengers adjusting their bags, checking schedules, chatting quietly as they waited for the next departure.
I turned to head back toward my post when I noticed a few people nearby sharing knowing glances. One woman leaned toward her friend, voice low but amused.
“Did he just—?”
“Yep.”
“He didn’t even check?”
“Nope.”
I kept my face neutral, but inside, I was already imagining how this was going to play out. He had been so focused on proving a point, so determined to outmaneuver the situation, that he hadn’t even thought to verify where he was going.
And now, the train was well on its way.
I returned to my station, busying myself with assisting the next wave of passengers. Every now and then, I glanced at the clock.
It wouldn’t take long before realization set in.
For the first time today, he’d have to sit with the consequences of his impatience. No arguing, no shortcuts, no special treatment. Just the slow, undeniable understanding that he had gotten in his own way.
I gave it about ten minutes before the mistake truly hit him.
And there was nothing he could do but ride it out.
The Scenic Route to Humility
By now, our impatient passenger had to be miles in the wrong direction. He was probably staring at the route map, realizing the next stop was nowhere near where he needed to be.
Maybe he was trying to get a conductor’s attention, demanding some kind of immediate solution.
But the thing about trains? Once you were on the wrong one, you didn’t get to fix your mistake instantly.
You had to wait.
Eventually, he’d reach a stop, scramble off in a huff, and realize there was no magical shortcut to undo his error. He’d have to find his way back like everyone else. Checking schedules, waiting for the right train, sitting through the extra time he had tried so hard to avoid.
About an hour later, a train pulled in, bringing with it one very disgruntled passenger.
His earlier arrogance? Gone.
Instead, he stepped onto the platform looking thoroughly annoyed, gripping his phone like it personally betrayed him, probably searching for the next train back. His shirt was slightly rumpled, his jaw set tight, and—most notably—he wasn’t talking.
No complaints. No passive-aggressive remarks. Not even an exasperated sigh.
Just quiet, simmering defeat.
And the best part? The train he was supposed to be on, the one he had dismissed in favor of his impulsive getaway, was still sitting at the station.
I allowed myself a small smile as I returned to my desk.
Some lessons weren’t taught by station staff.
Some lessons came with a one-way ticket and no shortcuts home.