This is the quiet car

There is a sign. It is on the door, it is on the ceiling, and it is on the back of every seat at eye level. It says QUIET CAR in letters two inches tall. The conductor announces it at every stop, in a voice that grows a little more tired each time.

And yet tonight, in the quiet car, a man took a speakerphone call about a kitchen renovation. For eleven minutes I learned about grout. His contractor thinks the backsplash will be done by Thursday. It will not be done by Thursday. Nobody's backsplash is ever done by Thursday.

I did not choose the quiet car for the scenery. I chose it because it was the one place in my day where nobody needed anything from me. Please. Headphones exist. Hallways exist. The other nine cars exist.