Shortly before 1:30 a.m., the stragglers always break into a mad, sometimes wobbly dash. They must make it back to Scarsdale, or Greenwich, or Yonkers. The fleet and the lucky reach the gates just as the conductor shouts, "All aboard!" Sweaty and winded, they flop into their seats with self-satisfied laughter as the train pulls away.
But this is not their story.
This is the story of the people left behind on the platform when the last train late at night goes out of Grand Central Terminal. These tearful, angry and sometimes inebriated passengers blame that final mojito, a slow-moving high-heeled companion or a maître d' who swore that rail service to the northern suburbs of New York City never stops.
OK, so I linked to this article because I am a Yonkers boy at heart, however, it is an interesting read. I always knew taxi drivers were evil.