P632. Yeesh. Very recently. Less than 15 minutes late most days. But I know when it is time to stand, leaving my shady perch, heading for the north side of the station. I can hear the rails singing ahead of the train. Between the wind, the late train announcements, and the crowd of riders that grows larger daily, I usually can’t see it or hear it coming save for the high-pitched singing of the rails until it is nearly upon us. I suppose the teenagers can hear it even better than I - they always seem to get up a step before anyone else as the train nears the station.

But it was hot and crowded on the train on a recent trip home. We had record temperatures outside, moe people than seats, and the A/C units in each car couldn’t compensate. We were crammed together inside, spilling onto the aisles and stairwells. Commuters wandered from car to car, looking for heat relief. Cell phones twittered and squawked back like adult voices in a Charlie Brown special. I listened, first from a stairwell, then half a corner seat, as everyone discussed the hot topics of the day: pending Tri-Rail funding cuts, gas prices and the various conspiracies surrounding their rise, lack of cool air on the train. The latter conversations were through the ubiquitous cell phones: a busy shift for the customer service agents, judging by the raised voices and sweaty frowns.

But a sound too rhythmic to be crossing bridge segments or switching tracks emerged among the ebb and flow of the conversation threads and road noises. Conversation died down as the bongo beat grew in complexity and volume increased, eventually dominating even the most earnest of gas-price-conspiracy theorists into quiet enjoyment.

From my vantage point, finally sitting (I managed to tweak my knee a bit and was grateful for a seat after jostling in the stairwell a while), she was about six rows ahead of me, midway along the car. At first I assumed I was imagining the beat, or someone had fantastic ringtone fidelity on a phone they really didn’t want to answer. The next possibility, a boom box, crashed in my mind as the car got steadily quieter and quieter and I realized it really was a spontaneous live drum performance.

As we neared the next station, we slowed in preparation to our stop. Our mysterious musician slowed her beat, punctuating it with a few loud taps. After a moment of silence, the entire car burst into spontaneous applause the conductor called the station identification and we slowed to a stop. After an exchange of exiting and entering commuters, the train continued it’s journey north.

I hadn’t seen anyone disembarking with a set of bongo drums, but the music didn’t start up again. Word traveled, however, people passing on their opinion of her playing (mostly positive) in hushed tones. Halfway to the next station, cell calls and conspiracy soap-boxers cranked it back up again.

I stopped by our benefactor on my way off of the train and thanked her. She thanked me back quietly; her seatmate gave her an “I told you so”, and the rest of their conversation was lost to me as the wave of exiting passengers kept me moving forward. An announcement of our stop and she was gone to me live, remaining only as an echoing concert in my head. Sound, rhythm, feeling. Just a nice little change of pace.

I hope she started up again on the next segment, or segment after that. I know I appreciated the change of haste.