Ask Ms. Turnstiles

It's time for another installment of Ask Ms. Turnstiles, where all of your burning questions about the New York City subway system are answered. Let's get down to business.


Q: I heard that the cost of the subway fares increased this week. What gives?

A: Since you asked, this is the perfect opportunity to review the numbers:
$2.25 = New cost of a single subway ride.
1 million = Number of curses you will receive from the Chinese Curses Lady if you talk on the subway.
4 = Times per week a conductor will close the doors in your face.
45 = Number of sick passengers per week.
0 = Number of other options you have to get to work.



Q: Is it true that Ruth Madoff, Bernie's wife, was spotted riding the subway last week?

A: Why, yes! Ms. Turnstiles thinks it's heartwarming to know that she's just one of us.


Q: Ms. Turnstiles, why does one subway car feel like a meat locker and the car right next to it feels like the rainforest?

A: You may have heard the recent news that New York City has earned the honorable distinction of being this country's safest big city. (City motto: We're glad we're not Detroit.) This hard-won achievement doesn't come without a no-holds-barred crackdown on things that put Gothamites at risk. After ridding the city of the dangerous criminal known as Trans-Fats and moving the menace to society called "Smoker" to back alleyways, Mayor Bloomberg has set his sights on arming you with the tools to avoid becoming a statistic. Here's how it works: You board the train and realize it's so humid you feel like you're breathing through a wet rag. Then you dash at breakneck speed to get to the next car before the doors close. After a few weeks of commuting, you'll be able to outrun any mugger. Thanks, Mayor Mike!


Q: The woman sitting next to me is falling asleep and resting her head on my shoulder. Should I shake her awake? She's starting to snore.

A: Ms. Turnstiles understands your predicament. She has been in this situation herself and take it from her, shaking the woman will only serve to have her snuggle closer to you. To remedy the problem, simply sprits a lot of perfume under her nose. You'll instantly create your own personal space and make you smell like you just left a cheap whorehouse, which serves as an added benefit of keeping your boss out of your cube for the rest of the day. It's a win-win situation.


Q: According to the television documentary, "Life After People," the entire subway system will rot and collapse five years after people are gone from the earth. What do you make of that?

A: Ms. Turnstiles will answer your question with another question: If a subway system collapses and no one is around to witness it, why do you care?


Q: Does your snarkiness on this subject have anything to do with the fact that you briefly dated one of the programmers for this show?

A: Ms. Turnstiles won't dignify this question with a response, but if she did, she would have to point out, yet again, that the entire premise of the show is ridiculous. What tragedy could possibly elminate all 6 billion people on this planet simultaneously yet not harm any domesticated or wild animals? Or any vegetation? Or not damage any of the existing infrastructure? Put that in your pipe and smoke it bub.


There you have it, Straphangers. Another informative and helpful edition of Ask Ms. Turnstiles. Until next time, when she will be taking more of your important questions, stand clear of the closing doors.

Overheard on the Subway, Part 8

Riding the Q train into Brooklyn, a mother is sleeping while her two boys, one in a stroller and the other, about 7 years old, entertain themselves:

Boy in stroller, pointing to other passengers: Shoot the bastard. Shoot the bastard.

Older boy, making a mock gun with his hands: Rat-a-tat-tat. Got 'em. Got 'em. (Laughs)

Boy in stroller: Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!

You Ain't From Around Here

A couple of months ago my mom’s friends from Tennessee were touring New York for a few days. I met them for lunch and spent most of the time giving them subway directions to the fifty-two sites they had on their checklist for the following 24 hours. Their next stop was Chinatown, not so they could eat or buy silly souvenirs, but so they could “say we’ve seen Chinatown.”

Mere steps from the entrance to the West Fourth Street station, we encountered a slice of life, New York style. A toothless, bedraggled man, who had a sixth-sense that they weren’t from ‘round these parts, asked for some money. He was for the most part harmless, but did get in their personal space (and being from a more rural area, their personal space is about ten feet more than a New Yorker’s). Despite my attempts to keep them moving forward, they stopped and began a conversation with him which only served to egg him on. When I finally wrangled them underground, they were concerned.

“Are you going to be okay?” they asked.

Oh, I’ll be okay, you “I ♥ New York” t-shirt wearing, unzipped purse carrying, white sneaker trotting tourists, but you won’t if you keep staring at complete strangers.

If you’ve ever visited New York and thought you blended in so well that you passed for a local, I’m here to tell you that you didn’t. We spotted you a mile away. In fact you might be following all of the standard local protocols: no eye contact, no chattering on like teenagers, and, for the love of God, no shorts. But still, you’re not passing. It’s got something to do with presence and an uncertainty, I guess.


But this is not a bad thing. My mom’s friends later reported that they thought the New Yorkers were incredibly nice. “We only had to glance at our map on the subway and several people would offer directions.” I’ve witnessed this myself, although it’s less about generosity of spirit than it is a love of New Yorkers to be able to tell people where to go.


Then I take a trip to Tennessee, and the shoe is on the other foot. The locals look me up and down and know I ain’t from around here. What is it? My dark clothes? My near-galloping pace? We pile in the car to drive to a diner a distance shorter than I walk to the subway station. Then we stuff ourselves and drive home again. I feel slothful, but a few more days of this and it becomes old hat. I can easily fall back into my old habits of living in the suburbs. I might be willing to trade being an outsider for the smoothness of living in a less densely packed town. Life is so much easier here – from laundry to getting around to taking my dog out.

But then where else, except New York, would I be riding the 4 train and see one woman wearing a surgical mask, another one with a t-shirt that reads “Friends don’t let friends get mullets” and my one of my favorite musicians, Delta Dave Johnson, belting out the blues on his guitar and harmonica from his wheelchair?

Overheard on the Subway, Part 7

On the 2 train, morning commute...a legally blind man sits with his seeing-eye dog resting comfortably at his feet. The dog is wearing an orange vest and a harness.

Woman: Oh, what a lovely dog! She's gorgeous.

Man: Thank you. The woman reaches down to pet the dog. Please don't pet her.

Woman: Why not? I'd really like to pet her.

Man: Right now, she's working.

Woman: She's not working. She's just sitting there. Then she says to the dog: Whuz the pwobwem wit a wittle pat, huh?

Man: She knows that when she has the vest on, she's working and she can't be distracted.

Woman: What if you take the vest off? Then can I pet her? To the dog: Take tat wittle west off.

Man, getting frustrated and short: I can't take the vest off now. She's working.

Woman: But I'd really like to pet her.

Another man: Hey buddy, this is Fulton Street. You wanted to know when we got to Fulton Street.

Man, grabbing the harness and dashing off the train: Thank goodness.

Overheard on the Subway - Part 6

~ On the downtown 2 train, two women are talking about a third woman, not on the train:

Woman # 1: She is totally crazy. What am I gonna do?

Woman # 2: You better not let her know you know she's crazy. Cuz then the craziness just gets spiteful.

Woman # 1: Yeah, that's the worst kind.

You Know You've Been Riding the Subway Too Long When... (# 6)

you are not phased in the least by a grown woman on the 2 train talking to a live hamster.

Do I Know You?

It seems that not a month goes by wherein some study or another reveals alarming statistics proving that people lose their memories as they age. (I wouldn’t be surprised if most of these studies are government funded.) In fact, I read about such a report just last week. Apparently by the time we are 27, we begin to lose the ability to store specific details for long periods of time. This doesn’t seem too horrible. Maybe you’ve forgotten the name of your kindergarten teacher? Or perhaps you are unable to remember quadratic equations. Let’s face it, you really weren’t planning to use the stuff from algebra, were you?

Fast forward ten years and you are now having trouble remembering more recent events. Sadly, I realize I am falling into this category. Here’s a conversation I had with some co-workers yesterday:

Me: So I saw a movie this weekend. It was the best movie I’ve seen all year!

Co-worker #1: Oh, yeah? Which one?

Me: Huh. It’s on the tip of my tongue. You know, it’s about the thing with the guy in the place.

Co-worker # 2: Well, who starred in it?

Me (wracking my brain): Wait. It’ll come to me. It’s the guy with the crazy hair and big eyebrows? He has an accent?

According to the report, by the time you’re 47, you can’t retain your kids’ names. (“Come here, Johnny. I mean, Joey. I mean, Janie.”) And by the time you’re 57, you might as well just stay home because you won’t remember what you did when you went out anyway.

This is all considered “normal.” So is it normal to be on the 2 train, hear your name called, and not be able to place the person if your life depended upon it? About two stops from work, a woman makes a beeline for me, skirting a subway preacher and a strolling mariachi band.

“Hi,” says Blond Woman. “You’re getting to work early today.”

“Uh, yes? Uh-huh.” This could be some kind of rouse for money so I am using Standard Subway Tactic #1: no eye-contact.

“Thanks for all your help on the Schneider project. It was a lifesaver.”

Abort tactic #1. Abort. I look at her. Not even a glimmer of recognition. I ratchet up to Standard Subway Tactic # 8: vaguely worded answers. “Don’t mention it.”

“Are you kidding? After 10 years at this place,” she winks and elbows me, “I know if we don’t give each other encouragement, who will? Anyway, how’s your dog doing?”

Not if someone told me that I would win $5 million could I simply utter this woman’s name. I’m now breaking out in a bit of a cold sweat. How is it possible to draw a complete blank? The subway only makes this situation worse – there is no escape, no polite way to excuse myself. No, oh-look-at-the-time!

Is there something wrong with me? In the spirit of hypochondria, as soon as I got to the office, I did a quick search on WebMD. I do not recommend this for the inexperienced. You will learn one of two things: either there is absolutely nothing wrong with you, or you are dying. In this case I may have an affliction called prosopagnosia, an inability to recognize faces, something millions of people might have, but not know it. Or it’s entirely possible that this is a direct result of all the brain cells I decimated before waking up in my dorm room and uttering the phrase I-will-never-ever-touch-vodka-again.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go do something but I forgot what it was.