Metropolitan Diary

By ESTELLE ERASMUS

Dear Diary:

It was a balmy summer Friday evening in 1992. The crowd resembled a horde of marching ants as they scurried about, focused on leaving the city.

I was not one of them. I had a mission.

It was to baby-sit the bright blue full-size replica of an animated train — insured for $100,000 — based on Thomas the Tank Engine, as featured on a popular British children’s television series. I was a young promotions director for the show’s American counterpart.

My job was to hand the train over to a security team, who would drive it into the Midtown hotel hosting the annual licensing show. The rental company that had dropped it off would pick it up afterward.

There was one problem.

“According to our insurance, I can’t roll the train inside with gasoline in it,” a guard informed me. “The hall closes at 9 p.m. You have till then to empty it.”

I ran to the corner pay phone (before cellphones). The rental company owners and my company’s top brass were nowhere to be found.

People noticed I was distraught.

One man suggested I call a gas station, so I did. They refused to come. I faced the thought that I might have to sleep in the train overnight.

As I sobbed hysterically, convinced I’d lose my job, a lanky, long-haired guy wearing ripped jeans and a stained T-shirt made me an offer: “Give me 25 bucks and I’ll suck out the gas.”

“Done.”

As I watched, he put his mouth on the valve, sucked hard and spit the gasoline out onto the steamy pavement. Twice.

“All gone,” he said.

“Here’s your money,” I said.

He went on his way, as did the train to the licensing show, with minutes to spare.