Last Stop

For a few years now, I've been blogging all about my experiences while riding the New York City subway, and it's been quite a ride. From wardrobe malfunctions to buskers to Ms. Turnstiles, I am proud to have been your faithful commuter, reporting on all things wacky and weird on the subway.

It's fair to say that I have rode this topic to the end of the line, as it were, and want to delve into other meaningful, but no less exiting topics such as

• Why does my dog eat napkins?
• Can I quit my day job and live successfully as a county fair carny?
• Should Brooklyn be the 51st state?
• Why don't editors mean what they say and say what they mean?
  

So I've started up a new blog to tackle these important issues. Take a gander at http://Jacquelincangro.wordpress.com. Go ahead - bookmark it. I've already migrated all of the posts from this blog to that one so you can have all of my witty insights in one place.

Thanks, and please, stand clear of the closing doors.

Wardrobe Malfunction

Every woman learns quickly about what not to wear when commuting in New York City or suffers the consequences. Avoid light-colored pants on rainy days. Mind the gap on the platform if you’re wearing flip-flops. Check the see-through ratio of your clothes before heading out into the sunshine. Hold your skirt when climbing the stairs out of the subway.

I mastered all of these rules ages ago. Or so I thought.

Because last night, when I was descending to the 2 train at Houston Street, a wind caught my long, but lightweight, skirt and blew it near my neck, exposing things that should not be exposed. It was just like a page out of Marilyn Monroe’s famous sidewalk grate scene except that: A. She was a blond bombshell adored by men the world over. B. I am not. I responded by doing what any of you would do in that situation. I pretended it didn’t happen. What? Me showing everything my momma gave me in public? You must be mistaken. Except I had a witness.

I nonchalantly checked around to make sure no one had seen my coming out as it were and noticed a guy behind me at the top of the stairs talking on his cell phone. Or maybe he was snapping a photo. I’m sure if you google using the words Houston Street and cellulite, you’ll find it. I guess I won’t be running for president.

Maybe I should embrace this. Make lemons out of lemonade. I could be the Naked Cowboy equivalent of the subway. For those of you not living in the NYC area, the Naked Cowboy is somewhat of a local celebrity, like Dr. Z but with better abs. He can be found busking in Times Square with his guitar wearing only a cowboy hat and cowboy boots. Okay. He is wearing tighty whities also. The Naked Cowboy has made a career out of one simple tenet: Everything is more interesting when you add the word ‘naked’. (Think about it.)

Interesting side note: The Naked Cowboy is a staunch Republican. He recently announced he will throw his hat into the ring to run for mayor of New York City. Of course without his hat he’ll have one less article of clothing available to lose when he plays strip poker.

But the Naked Cowboy has parlayed his gig into appearances in commercials, endorsements and music videos. I’m thinking this might work for me. I’lll appear in SubTalk posters informing riders about smart clothing choices or stand at station entrances handing out pamplets on windy days. Imagine: Your faithful subway commuter making a living because of an errant gust of wind. People have become famous for doing little else (Paris Hilton, anyone?). The Naked Cowboy recently was quoted as saying: "No one knows how to do more with less than yours truly.” Touche Naked Cowboy.

Overheard on the Subway, Part 9

On the Brooklyn-bound 2 train, evening commute, a man and woman step into the car. They work together, but hadn't left the office at the same time.

Woman: Hey, long time no see.

Man, looking distressed, nods at her.

Woman: Tough day?

Man: Yeah. Don't feel well.

Woman: Sorry to hear it. Same issues?

Man: Can't shake this pain in my stomach. Have to get a refill on the vicadin.

Woman: Vicadin! You shouldn't be taking that. You'll get addicted.

Man, shrugs: If you had pain like this, you'd take it too.

Woman: Seriously stop taking it. It's addictive. Do you want that?

Man, looks her straight in the eye: I'm a grown man and I'll take it if I need to.

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.