[It’s already day 50–crazy, right?–of my “Man Vs. Donkey Kong” experiment. So why am I playing a level of Donkey Kong (Game Boy, 1994) each day for 101 days? Find out by starting back at the beginning.]

Around 7 p.m. the train pulls into Albany where even more people attempt to cram onboard. We ran out of seats over an hour ago, at the Amsterdam stop, so now people stand in the aisles or squat on the floor. People sleep everywhere on pillows made of rolled-up jackets. The air smells like urine and burned coffee. This is always the way of the Christmas train.

Once we depart from Albany, the Maple Leaf makes a sharp turn south and runs along the Hudson River. When the sun is out during the day, I’ve seen people practically get into fist fights over the seats on the river side of the train. Even if you could care less about nature and its wonders, like me, the seats are really worth fighting over, especially in winter, when the old mansions on the river banks are covered with snow and chunks of ice the size of small islands sail the the gray waters.

But after dark–and in December, no matter what time of day it is in Upstate New York it always feels dark–no one fights over the river-side seats. There’s nothing to see at night. I know, from having enjoyed river-side seats during the day, that the tracks we are traveling on at that very second are located only a couple of feet away the river. Why someone laid the tracks so close to the river, why that seemed like a good idea, always baffles me. If the Maple Leaf ever jumped the tracks, we’d careen straight into the dark water, and our next stop would be the cold river bottom.

Suddenly the train feels more claustrophobic than usual to me. I lean my face against the cold black glass and doze, and try not to think about things like possible escape routes.

Now, most passengers stay in their seats until the train comes to a complete stop in the belly of Penn Station. That’s a common mistake. After Yonkers, I always look at my watch and wait until five minutes have elapsed. Then, as everyone idly sits back in their seats enjoying the final leg of the trip, I stand up, gather my luggage, and position myself against one of the train’s exit doors.

If you wait and try to get off with five hundred other people at the same time, all of whom are trying to collect their extra Christmas packages and fruit cakes, etc., you will, 1. waste time, and 2. be annoyed by how comfortable most people are when it comes to wasting time. The idea here is to exit the train and get out of the station with the same amount of purpose and urgency that one uses when participating in a fire drill.

Once I am off the train, I practically run through the Penn Station crowds, the wheels of my luggage squealing, as I head for the A/C/E subway station. When I reach the station, I’m short of breath. I realize that I don’t have a Metrocard. So I wade into the crowds, jockeying for position around the Metrocard machines. I complete my transaction, snapping the card from the machine, only to realize that the small group of foreigners standing at the machine next to me is confused by the machine. They are, I believe, Russian.

At that very moment the E train–my train–comes roaring into the station. I’ve got a dilemma: do I continue on with my fire drill and barrel onto the train? If I do that, I could be home listening to the clanging radiators in my apartment in Jackson Heights in about 20 minutes. Or, do I take the next E train and help these people.

I decide to help these people. Only one of them–the man with the bushy beard–speaks English. He wants to know if they can buy single rides or if they have to buy multiple rides. “Let me show you,” I say, only realizing after I’ve snatched the money from his hand that I have snatched the money from his hand. You just took money from a complete stranger’s hand, I think. After three years in Canada, I’ve forgotten my New York City etiquette rules, one of which is definitely this: Do not snatch money from the hand of a strange Russian man.

He doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, I like how trusting the group seems towards me. As I’m completing the transaction for them, and as the bearded man and his family shower me with gratitude–the small woman touches my arm several times and says something to me in Russian–another man comes up behind me and gives me a firm shove. He’s trying to get to another Metrocard machine, and apparently I was blocking his way.

For a half second, I contemplate shoving back. I want to confront him. Then, as quickly as it arrives, the feeling passes. The shove, I realize, is really just New York’s way of saying, Welcome home, jag-off.

It’s time to conquer stage 5-6. We’ve got two, maybe three mutant mice to deal with today, people, along with a pair of anthropomorphic fireballs (we haven’t seen these guys in ages) and–look out!–Donkey Kong Jr. himself. The key? It’s behind a wall of breakable bricks on the lower righthand side of the screen. The exit door is behind a shuttered barrier on the lower lefthand side of the screen. There are two switches: one inside of Donkey Kong Jr.’s Hitler bunker at the top of the screen and a second, open-air switch, just outside of his bunker, to the left.

When D.K.J. pulls his bunker switch, it changes the direction that the conveyer belt in the center of the screen travels in. But before you take a ride on the conveyer belt–I know it’s tempting–you first need to clean out the mice infestation the right side of the stage. Climb all the way to the top of the level. If you’re feeling strong, grab Pauline’s umbrella along the way. Pro tip: Use a handstand super jump to reach the umbrella. Also, try to be light on your feet during your ascent. You won’t disturb the mice the mice that way.

Once you’re at the top of the screen, grab the super hammer-time hammer, then retrace your steps back down to the screen’s bottom. Using platforms to cushion your fall during your descent is a technique that I like to call “skillful falling.” During your skillful falling back to the bottom, go ahead and hammer the large-eared mice (those ears are the size of dinner plates) into oblivion along the way. Your ultimate goal here is to reach the breakable brick wall at the bottom of the screen before the hammer-time hammer runs out. Pro tip: If you don’t make it before the hammer-time hammer runs out, go back to the top of the screen and repeat your skillful falling.

Once you do reach the wall, bust it open with your hammer. The game will make a satisfying “krrssshhh” sound effect. The key is right there in front of you, its ass in the wind, but don’t grab it yet. You have other business to attend to first.

Now, return to the very top of the screen, and re-grab the super hammer-time hammer. Yes, again. Now during your skillful falling, aim to land on the conveyer belt this time. If the gaming gods are looking out for you, it’ll be moving from right to left, and it will whisk you and the hammer at high speeds straight into the path of the two fireballs with eyes. Take out both of them with the hammer. Then, proceed up the ladder on the far left of the screen, right beneath that prancing, preening D.K.J.

Pull the open-air lever/switch to the right. This will un-shutter the shuttered barrier, opening the pathway to the exit door at the bottom left. Now, head back the way you came, retracing your steps all the back to the busted-open brick wall and the ass-in-the-wind key.

Grab the key, haul it across the bottom of the level, and–as D.K.J. jumps up and down in fury (at least that’s the emotion I imagine he is experiencing)–put the key into the lock. Cue the “We Are The Champions” song. Today’s level is over, folks.