Write the opening paragraph of your scene (that is, your story for LHW). Skip the David Copperfield crap, as Holden did. Please respond by 4 p.m., Wednesday, Feb. 10.
(Let's start in the middle -- that is, closer to the central conflict or tension. . . let's avoid elaborate descriptive setup; rather, put the "characters" in motion asap. . . don't summarize what people say when you can use dialog instead. . . if a character is important to the story, give a couple of descriptive details when you introduce him or her -- not at or toward the end of the piece. . . And, please, have a story worth telling. It seems to me Michelle's -- as edited -- comes close to this ideal.)
47 comments:
It’s somewhere around 2:30 a.m. and in the hazy grayish darkness she stands, silent, tall and straight in front of the taunting picture window, wavering unknowingly as she stares. Behind her twenty six multi colored wires entwine, then fall down her back- trailing along the floor tiles like human extension cords. In front of her the rapid red and white lights of president’s highways reflect off unsettled wakes and illuminate her face softly.
Samantha, I'm having difficulty visualizing the last line -- what are "president's highways"? "wakes"? I love the phrase "taunting picture window," but can we get a clearer sense in the opening where we are and with whom.
I thought that might be a problem, I originally had sentence like this:
It’s somewhere around 2:30 a.m. and in the hazy grayish darkness she stands, silent, tall and straight in front of the taunting picture window, wavering unknowingly as she stares. Behind her twenty six multi colored wires entwine, then fall down her back- trailing along the floor tiles. In front of her the rapid red and white lights of the FDR, the stirring wakes of the East River, and smokestacks in the distance make it apparent that life goes on, as she remains captive.
I took out the extension cord part, and used my original next sentence.The next paragraph has some more exposition, that makes it clearer as to where exactly we are, but does this phrasing work better?
I stand on line waiting to order. The lively cafeteria is booming with the voices of students. I see familiar faces. Some are talking on the phone. Some are talking to their friends. Others are scanning the room the way I am. I glance towards the fridge in search of a drink, but a girl is in the way. She opens the fridge door, takes out a bottled drink and slyly places it in her bag. The door slams.
As a prerequisite to this piece (if you could call it one), I think my problem is that I don't know what's interesting enough to write about in this sort of context. The following is just something that happened to me today.
......
In a swooshing instant my rolling chair was at our office door, which had to be closed immediately. There were too many building managers traipsing the halls of the Student Union to kick everyone out at midnight. New late pass policy. It’s this week’s page 4.
With the door now firmly shut, my editor-in-chief and I were concealed in our newspaper office, our orange-walled corner of the world. It was time to finish page one. The photo needed to be made bigger. The headline had to be moved down one space, two spaces, three spaces so the letter “L” wasn’t slicing through the computerized face staring back at us on the screen. The sub-headline needed to be in a black box. No, orange. Never mind black. Black was perfect, crisp.
I listened to the alcohol infused rolling speak of his friend who called to ask him to come to the bar while he was in the middle of drawing a guideline on the digital InDesign page. He told his buddy he’d be there in an hour or so, his voice dropping while John explained he’d only be in New Paltz until tomorrow morning. He’d get there, he said hurriedly, but he had to finish work first. His girlfriend called him crazy when she phoned in twenty minutes prior. He said he knew it.
Once font sizes were changed in the middle of the page, teaser boxes added to the bottom and the shade number 246 of orange was selected for lines at the top, we backed our chairs away from the computer screen. After indulging in a few excited expletives, we embraced after he declared our front page makeover a success. I thought his skeletal frame rattled with laughter, but when I stepped back and saw him swipe his hands across his eyes, I realized he’d cried. He then declared it was time to get the fuck out of there.
After I flicked the down the light switch for the fourth time this week, we discussed what had to be done for the rest of the issue tomorrow on our way to the door. He was off to find John on Main Street now, but he’d meet me and the news editor at 9 a.m. tomorrow.
I glanced at my phone as I shuffled back to my dorm room. Three missed calls. I had to finish work first, though.
michelle:
I stand on line waiting to order. The cafeteria is booming with the voices of students. I see familiar faces. Some are talking on cell phones, some to friends. I turn to the fridge to get aa drink, but a girl (give a detail or two of her looks to define her -- a tall, skinny girl with blue hair, for example) is in the way. She opens the fridge door, takes out a bottle of ???? (what she take -- a type or brand of drink) and slyly places it in her bag.
Julie:
The editor-in-chief and I were concealed in the newspaper office, our orange-walled corner of the world. It was time to finish page one. The photo needed to be made bigger. The headline had to be moved down. The subhead needed to be enclosed in a black box.
Julie:
Nothing clear happens in the middle. I mean, he gets a couple of phone calls, but the content of the calls are summarized when they should be done as dialog -- quick and concise. He's only described at the end when we should see him from the start.The ending needs to be punchier, too. . . more ironic:
He was off to find John on Main Street. I glanced at my phone as I shuffled back to my dorm room.
Three missed calls.
It was winter, just days before Christmas. It had been forever since I had been home, I thought. I left work at Famous Dave’s and the smell of hickory wood and slow smoked ribs followed me into my car. It was a BBQ restaurant, one of the places that looked like a log cabin until they bordered it with neon lights and a picture of a carnivorous pig cradling a fallen friend’s charred remains.
The neon lights were in my rear view mirror now as I pulled onto the highway and headed home.
I thought about how strange it was to rush home from school and spend more time at work than at home. More time being a part of other people’s families and their memories than I was a part of my own.
As I pulled to exit from the Meadowbrook Parkway I could see the ramp was congested with slow moving cars, pretty unusual at this time of night. As I inched closer towards the merge I could see a man standing in the road. He was waving his arms. His white sedan waited for him at the side of the road.
I watched the cars slow down, cautious not to hit him, but careful not to lure him.
KIM:
I had left work at Famous Dave’s, one of those BBQ restaurants that look like a log cabin, a half-hour before, but the smell of hickory wood and slow-smoked ribs lingered in the car when I reached my exit off the Meadowbrook Parkway.
The ramp was congested -- pretty unusual for (hour?) at night. As I inched toward the merge I saw a man standing in the road, waving his arms, his white (make of car sedan) at the side of the road.
"Can you hand me a slice of bacon?"
It's another Sunday, which means pizza night at my aunt's house, and honestly, who would turn down free bacon pizza or those tasty meat and cheese pinwheels they put on top of the salads. Everyone is consumed by their witty banter until we hear three children yelling "Come on Will! You can do it!" Then the almost teenager, (being the oldest ironically does not make her the most intelligent of the bunch), Brittany, tells Will comfortingly that she'll get some more pillows. By time I look over my shoulder to see what they're screaming about, there's already a strawberry blonde ball of fire rocketing down the staircase through mid air.
SARAH:
It's another Sunday, which means pizza night at my aunt's house, and everyone is busy chowing down when we hear my (age?) cousin Brittany scream, "Come on, Will! You can do it!"
I look over my shoulder to see what the commotion is about.(this is a seriously mixed metaphor. is it fire? a strawberry? is it in the air? on the staircase? it's a confusing visual: A strawberry blonde ball of fire is rocketing down the staircase through mid-air.)
The local drive-in has never looked so rusty, so aged, so downtrodden, so fallen-apart. It has never looked so damn perfect. As light falls at dusk in the picturesque valleys of upstate Malta, New York, me and Lacey are at that drive-in, locked hand-in-hand. It's about five before showtime, and, drawn to that irresistible scent that is oily butter smothered over a bucket of oversalted popcorn, we head over to the concession stand.
A ghastly horror now lies before us.
That line, that long, winding line of popcorn-craving crazies. That line of whining children, practically hyperventilating in anticipation of that artery-clogging corn dog. That line of slow-as-molasses, albeit completely adorable old ladies who have a curious affection for Junior Mints. That line which prevents me from witnessing the wonder and awe of those old-school snack bar commercials which I can now vaguely hear in the background. How I wish I could see the dancing chili dogs and singing soft drinks, as opposed to just hearing the jingle.
Nonetheless, we wait.
---------------------------
I figured 170 words was a bit much for an opening paragraph, so I decided to break things up a bit.
andrew:
The local drive-in has never looked so aged, so downtrodden, so fallen apart. It has never looked so damn perfect. As darkness gathers, Lacey and I are locked hand-in-hand. It's about five minutes to showtime, and, drawn to the irresistible scent of oily butter smothering a bucket of over-salted popcorn, we head over to the concession stand.
Where a ghastly horror awaits us.
That line, that long, winding line of popcorn-craving crazies. That line of whining children, practically hyperventilating in anticipation of that artery-clogging corn dog. That line of crotchety old ladies who have a curious affection for Junior Mints. That line that prevents me from witnessing the wonder of those old-school snack bar commercials I can now vaguely hear in the background. How I wish I could see the dancing chili dogs and singing soft drinks, as opposed to just hearing the jingle.
We were chain smoking cigarettes on the walk back; it was almost this sort of game to see who would finish their pack first. We come across this bum riffling through his shopping cart full of trash, he’s surrounded by deflated red birthday balloons, with the radio blasting “…and another one bites the dust.” Matt looks at me puzzled and jokingly says “I’ll never forget that site or that smell.” Then swiftly scribbles notes in his journal for the day, with my pink pen he borrowed on the train ride down here. I notice a middle-aged man is studying me. He has a large band-aid over his left eyebrow and is dressed in ripped blue jeans, an unmemorable shirt, and a nice jacket, he is slightly balding but his head is shaved to compensate. The man asks me for a cigarette but Matt got his out first cause he’s lighting up and consequently winning out little game. I think our little interaction is through but the man insists on saying thank you to me! He says it’s the thought that counts and I think since we’re throwing out clichés well, my mother told me never to talk to strangers.
What did you do? The first words out of my mother’s mouth. Shaking, yet strangely piercing with an air of panic. I wasn’t listening, the words got lost on the track to my ears, taking a detour somewhere in the midst of the surrounding chaos. I knew this was it. I laughed. What else was left to do? I started doling out items. Danielle got my Playstation, she’s had her eye on it for months. Mishelle, my C.D.’s, because I’m pretty sure the big man upstairs wouldn’t let my Eminem collection up with me. Tonight was the night I was going to die. It’s really a lot funnier than it sounds. Trust me.
I'M NOT SURE WHAT YOUR POINT IS --
WHY AM I READING THIS? WHERE ARE WE? WHO ARE YOU AND MATT?
We were chain smoking cigarettes on the walk back. it was a sort of game to see who would finish their pack first.
(YOU'VE CHANGED FROM PAST TO PRESENT TENSE:)
We APPROAACHED A BUM riffling through his shopping cart full of trash, HIS BOOMBOX blasting “…and another one bites the dust.” Matt lookED at me puzzled (WHY IS THIS A JOJE? and jokingly says “I’ll never forget that site or that smell.”) AND Then swiftly scribbleD in his journal with my THE pink pen he borrowed FROM ME on the train ride down here. WHERE'S HERE?
a MAN WITH a large band-aid over his left eyebrow WAS STUDYING ME. hE WAS slightly balding but HAD SHAVED HIS head i to compensate.
(DO AS DIALOG The man asks me for a cigarette but )
Matt got his out first.
(put in dialoG: the man insists on saying thank you to me! He says it’s the thought that counts and I think since we’re throwing out clichés well, my mother told me never to talk to strangers.)
The movie theater isn’t as packed as I assumed it would be. Especially on opening weekend. There are enough empty seats for Aubrey, my roommate, to prop her feet up on the seat in front of her.
“I can’t believe we’re watching this,” she murmurs, lips close to my ear as she flicks a kernel of popcorn onto the floor. A few seats down from us, two young-looking teenage girls giggle, their sparkly eye shadow garish in the darkness. They poke each other as Edward Cullen appears on screen in all his perfectly coiffed, heavily-lipsticked glory.
“This isn’t even so bad its good,” I whisper back. “This is so bad it’s just awful.” I lean back in my seat and check my watch. Only ninety minutes left.
where are you, physically, in this scene? are these people actually there with you?
the description of words getting "lost" is entirely unnecessary -- it's a tangent. stay with the main narrative.
"What did you do?!" The first words out of my mother’s mouth.
I laughed. What else was I to do?
I started doling out items. Danielle got my Playstation (she'd had her eye on it for months). Mishelle got my C.D.’s, because I’m pretty sure the big man upstairs wouldn’t let my Eminem collection up with me.
Tonight was the night I was going to die. It’s really a lot funnier than it sounds. Trust me.
The movie theater isn’t as packed as I assumed it would be. Especially on opening weekend. There are enough empty seats for Aubrey, my roommate, to prop her feet up on the seat in front of her.
“I can’t believe we’re watching this,” she murmurs, lips close to my ear as she flicks a kernel of popcorn onto the floor. A few seats down, two teenage (age? grade? that would be more descriptive than "teenage")) girls giggle, their sparkly eye shadow garish in the darkness. They poke each other as Edward Cullen appears on screen in all his perfectly coiffed, heavily lipsticked glory.
“This isn’t even so bad its good,” I whisper back. “This is so bad it’s just awful.” I lean back in my seat and check my watch. Only ninety minutes left.
Her car pulled down the pebbled driveway right before sunset. I could hear the squeak of the backdoor screen open and close behind her. The kitchen was full of my belongings. Clothes draped the back of chairs. Toiletries overflowed the pink and green floral print bag. Blankets folded neatly. Movies in a milk crate. Books in a box. One by one, my mom, a petite brunette with a short fuse helped me carry every one of my belongings out of the yellow, Cape-Cod style home and into her car. My stuff filled the Cross Country, leaving no visible window behind us. She asked, "Are you ready?" I mumbled, "Not even close."
The kitchen was full of my belongings. Clothes draped the back of chairs. Toiletries overflowed the pink and green bag. Movies in a milk crate. Books in a box.
One by one, my mom, a petite brunette with a short fuse, helped me carry my belongings out of the yellow, Cape-Cod style house and into her car. My stuff filled the Cross Country, leaving no visible window behind us.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
"Not even close," I mumbled.
"Jen-na", the lights turned on and I was awake. It was the summer of '99, and I had been sleeping on the floor of my bedroom, which is where I slept for the summer of '99. "Jen-na", I stood on my knees and peered over the end of my sister's bed. I saw my great grandmother had escaped my bed and was now hovering over my sleeping sister. She poked my sister mid-back with her index and middle finger as she repeated each syllable of her name. "Jen-na", my sister winced with expectancy at my great grandmother's nightly ritual.
"Jen-na!"
The lights were on and I was awake. It was the summer of '99, and I had been sleeping on the floor of my bedroom, which is where I slept for the summer of '99.
"Jen-na!"
I got to my knees and peered over the end of my sister's bed. I saw that my great grandmother had escaped from my bed and was now hovering over my sleeping sister. She poked my sister in the back as she repeated each syllable of her name. "Jen-na".
My sister winced with expectancy at my great grandmother's nightly ritual.
I sat on the couch as Mike paced uncontrollably around the common room. It was the middle of the night and he had just come back from a Tuesday night adventure in New Paltz. His face was cold, his hands were dry, his sneakers were wet. Tonight lacked the clichés of a typical Tuesday night: kids walking around drunk trying to find something to do, girls, Cabaloosa’s, Fat Bobs. This Tuesday night, Mike brought a boy home. A European boy.
“By mistake?” I asked.
“Yes, by mistake!”
I convinced him to sit on the couch with me and calm down, while the well-dressed European boy sat upstairs talking to a couple of our friends. I wanted him to explain, but he was scared. I was surprised. At him, though. He wanted the drunk European boy walk back to his house off-campus, as inches of snow began to stick to the pavement. I tried to tell him he was wrong.
”Damn all of this gender-specific bullshit!” Mike yelled as he covered his visibly intoxicated eyes with his hands. ”If some creepy guy followed you home, would you let him sleep on your couch?”
”No,” I said. I guess he had a point. This didn’t necessarily make my good friend homophobic.
I sat on the couch as Mike paced around the common room. He had just come back from a Tuesday night adventure. His face was cold, and his hands were dry. Tonight lacked the clichés of a typical Tuesday night: college boys walking around drunk, trying to find something to do – girls, Cabaloosa’s, Fat Bobs. This Tuesday night, Mike brought a boy home.
“By mistake?” I asked.
“Yes, by mistake!”
I convinced him to sit on the couch with me and calm down, while the “boy,” a foreign exchange student from ?, sat upstairs talking to a couple of our friends. I wanted Mike to explain what had happened, but he was scared.
I was surprised. He wanted the drunk European boy walk back to his house off-campus, though a blizzard was blowing. I tried to tell him he was wrong.
”Damn all of this gender-specific bullshit!” Mike yelled as he covered his eyes. “If some creepy guy followed you home, would you let him sleep on your couch?”
I guess he had a point. “No,” I said.
Interesting discussion thus far. I think I big problem for me is choosing which of the million stories in my head should be written for this. I find myself writing about so many things. I'm normally not this indecisive...
Pacing back and forth on the infield dirt on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon in mid-May. A perfect day for baseball. All I could think about was advancing. Who would we playing next week? Could we maybe luck out and get a home game? It was the bottom of the seventh, and we were two outs away from knocking off the higher-seeded Wantagh. It would have been the first playoff win for South Side baseball in over five years, and we could all smell it. Glancing over at the rest of the infield and Tim, our pitcher, we all felt it. We had been playing together since we were nine years old. This was our game to win, and our year to do something special.That's the beauty of the baseball though, there is no time limit. Two outs can take an eternity..And it did.
Brian:
Pacing back and forth on the infield dirt on a (what’s gorgeous mean – Warm? Sunny? Mild? Breezy?) Saturday afternoon in mid-May, all I could think about was advancing. Who would we play next week? Could we maybe luck out and get a home game?
It was the bottom of the seventh, two outs away from knocking off the higher-seeded Wantagh. It would be the first playoff win for South Side baseball in over five years. We all felt it. We had been playing together since we were nine years old. This was our game to win and our year to do something special.
No clichés: “we could smell it” “perfect baseball weather”
“Somniloquy”
I was living in a single dorm during my last year of junior college with a twin extra long bed, also known as the smallest bed I’ve ever slept in. My Maryland boyfriend brought air mattresses, but preferred sleeping on something more comfortable. Unfortunately, I have insomnia and when I don’t have insomnia, I talk and demand in my sleep. I didn’t realize I wasn’t sleeping an 8 hour slumber when I woke up to something pushing their way onto my bed. It was my boyfriend, Rob, and I had no idea what he was doing. Suddenly, I noticed my pillow on the floor.
“You told me to sleep on the floor,” said Rob. I was in pure disbelief.
Every morning there’s a talk about whether I remember what I talked about in my sleep. I usually can’t remember and sometimes, I feel like I should be apologizing for my volatile unconscious.
Flash forward to the night I remember my eyes being closed and asking for my textbooks. Rob was pretty sure I’d fall back asleep so he didn’t get my books on the floor.
“Do you remember what you said last night?” are words said after a drunken night, though for me, this sleep-talking behavior has gone on for at least two years.
“You started talking to me in your sleep, waking me up and when I talked back, you were already asleep!”
Another occurrence was when I wasn’t with Rob, but started talking about cheeseburgers with my best friend, Jen during a camping trip. One time, I even woke up, took a picture of my stepbrother who was sleeping across the motor home and fell back asleep.
The next morning, I saw a picture of my stepbrother and accused him of using my camera, even though it was clearly taken by another person at a major distance. It was embarrassing.
Unlike Lady Macbeth, I do not sleep walk. Nor do I sleep eat, but I’m still very surprised by some of my actions and words when I’m sleeping.
I once told Rob, “I wonder if there’s anything that can make me stop. I still talk in my sleep even when I’m on Ambien or Lunesta. Sometimes, I say the nastiest and weirdest things!”
“And you snore too.”
My mom nudges me for the third time, “Its time to get up,” she says with an annoyed tone. I glance at my alarm clock, it seems to shout at me, “it’s five a.m., what the hell?!” It’s Saturday.
Reluctantly, I tear myself from my bed and make my way for the shower in a hurried shuffle, got to stay warm. Still half asleep, I slip into the shower. The warm water is heavenly and yet is bitter sweet; it’s only a temporary comfort. I emerge and begin to shiver, wondering the point of taking a shower only to dive into a pool two hours later.
I continue on autopilot, get dressed, brush my teeth, pack my bag, have some food, its all a routine. I take my place in the front seat of our Chevy Astro Van and begin to doze off as we pull out of the driveway. I fall asleep, unsure if I had woken up at all.
My father is slowly waking up. Roused from the smell of automated coffee, it is time to shave, time to get dressed, time to keep making something of himself. It is five o'clock in the morning. Do you know where your children are? I'm awake...and drunk...and drowsy...
Upon slamming my register shut, I realized I had broken one of the biggest rules at the grocery store where I was working overnights.
Don’t sell the customers beer if they seem too fucked up.
I’m not exactly sure how I didn’t pick up on this sooner. But by the looks of this hot mess of a woman, I knew I should have been fired for a lack of basic skills in judgment.
It’s not like I could take back her 12-pack of Miller Lite either; she’d already paid with a credit card and no returns could be processed until the morning.
“You’re not driving, are you?” I asked.
The middle-aged woman, in her tank top and tight jeans--which did nothing to flatter her protruding muffin top—ignored my question and blew Tequila Sunrise-scented kisses at me as I struggled to figure out how to rectify this situation.
“I’ve never had a gay cashier before.”
She kept licking her lips in a really creepy way.
And as if I wasn’t flustered enough as it was, she then proceeded to offer me sex.
Upon slamming my register shut, I realized I had broken one of the biggest rules at the grocery store where I was working overnights:
Don’t sell customers beer if they seem too fucked up.
I’m not sure how I didn’t pick up on what kind of mess of the woman
was. But I couldn't take back her 12-pack of Miller Lite either. She’d already paid with a credit card.
“You’re not driving, are you?” I asked.
The middle-aged woman in tank top and tight jeans ignored my question and blew Tequila Sunrise-scented kisses at me.
“I’ve never had a gay cashier before.”
She kept licking her lips in a really creepy way. And as if I weren’t flustered enough already, she proceeded to offer me sex.
josh -- i'm confused as to the point of view. who's story is this? yours? your dad's? who's being roused by the coffee? help!
My father is slowly waking up. Roused from the smell of automated coffee, it is time to shave, time to get dressed, time to keep making something of himself. It is five o'clock in the morning. Do you know where your children are? I'm awake...and drunk...and drowsy...
dan --
what's the central action of the story? do your really have to start at the beginning? with waking up? can't you start nearer to the heart of the story?
My mom nudges me for the third time. “Its time to get up,” she says, annoyed.
I glance at my alarm clock. Five o'clock.
Reluctantly, I tear myself from my bed and shuffle to the shower. I continue on autopilot: get dressed, brush my teeth, pack my bag, have some food, and take my place in the front seat of our Chevy Astro Van.
I begin to doze off as we pull out of the driveway.
I think my problem is that I love the topic I am writing about but I don't know what angle I want to attack it from.
The smell of freshly rolled cigarettes and cheap vodka engulfs the shoe covered walls of Boris’s niche. Cowboy boots, loafers, combat boots, even high top sneakers from the 80’s; he has it all. As Boris flicks the butt of his cigarette onto the sidewalk of St. Mark’s place, he hands me a pair of black Doc Martens and orders me to sit on his life size stuffed Barney to try them on.
Sarah:
Cowboy boots, loafers, combat boots, even high top sneakers from the '80s -- Boris' shoe-crammed niche (I'm not sure niche is the best word)has it all. As Boris flicks the butt of his cigarette onto the sidewalk of St. Mark’s place, he hands me a pair of black Doc Martens and orders me to sit on his life-size stuffed Barney to try them on.
Hmm... I was trying to say it from my perspective thinking about how strange it is, different worlds it seems. From my point of view I was saying "woah, my dad is waking up right now." I guess I have to work it better if I confused you...
josh, try it again. start with "I" if that'll keep the perspective clear.
Hey sorry about the late post I thought for some reason we were e-mailing our stories to you.
I walked into the train first to snag the window seat and be left alone for the next hour and a half; his dad and uncle ploped in after. I pull out the flavorless, overly dry chicken sanwich and make sure to choke the whole thing down, half to be polite and half so I can drink when we get there. The typical type of self centered Long Island boy infornt of me notices the oversized Rangers hat that's affixed to my head and gives me a sly smile, right in front of Andy's dad. His uncle Vinny rehashes the past weeks worth of fights with his poly user, spoiled daughter.
"This is where the real fans sit" Andy slurs out, sloppy drunk and ready to show me my first time, as we walk up the escelator to the sixth floor and then the seventh.
maria, begin here -- the rest is really superflous -- what's essential to your story? keep asking yourself that. what IS your story?
"This is where the real fans sit," Andy slurs, sloppy drunk and ready to show me my first time (for what?), as we walk up the escalator to the seventh floor. (something like this trakes care of the background: He and his father and Uncle Vinny had been drinking on the two-hour train ride to Madison Square Garden.
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