The Subway Chronicles: Scenes from Life in New York

Last Stop

2009-09-08T19:32:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-26T17:04:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-22T11:59:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-03T12:39:00.002-04:00

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

2009-06-24T09:35:00.004-04:00

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

2009-06-05T12:42:00.000-04:00

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

2009-05-10T11:34:00.003-04:00

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

2009-05-07T09:04:00.002-04:00

~ 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)

2009-04-28T13:30:00.001-04:00

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

Do I Know You?

2009-04-21T17:21:00.001-04:00

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.

The Grand Tour

2009-04-15T17:10:00.001-04:00

Friends of my mother are coming to New York for the first time ever. Unbeknownst to me I was nominated as their go-to-gal for all things Big Apple. Their itinerary includes super fun things like Times Square and the Empire State Building. Boy, do I LOVE Times Square.

Note: the aforementioned is for parental use only. My grand tour of the city begins and ends by handing them a map and a MetroCard. Rule 31-5.4.6 of my New York City Life Continuity Plan is still in effect, which clearly states that, to improve upon Dorothy’s line, there’s no place like my couch. Though there is a provision in the event George Clooney should need a personal tour.

So I’ve been sending my mother’s friends all sorts of helpful advice about taking the subway. Number one (say it with me): No eye contact. (This will be hard for them. They are from the South, where it is polite to look people in the eye. In New York, it is considered an act of aggression.) Number two: Ditch the tell-tale I’m-a-tourist white sneakers. Number three: If a train car appears empty, there’s a damn good reason.

I emailed them link to the subway map. “This is a little overwhelming,” they wrote back.

Why yes, yes it is. Even back in 1904 when the first subway lines were completed, I wouldn’t be surprised if one sandhog – nickname of the men who dug the tunnels with pickaxes and shovels – had nudged another and said, “Bet you a nickel they’ll never figure out how to get crosstown.”

I suggested to my mom’s friends they could look to Sammy Sosa for inspiration. Not that Sammy Sosa. This Sammy Sosa, age 5, tired of waiting for his mother, went upstairs to the elevated platform and boarded a 1 train in the Bronx by himself. While his mother frantically called the police, who in turn searched the neighborhood and called in helicopters, little Sammy calmly rode the 1 train, all the way to South Ferry - 33 stops. The police had notified the MTA, just in case, and a conductor noticed a little boy who didn’t get off the train even though it was the end of the line. The conductor said, “He looked like he was having a good time, not a care in the world, like it was just another ride for him.”

May my mother’s friends be able to ride the subway just like little Sammy Sosa. I’ll be there for moral support – from my couch.

Me and My Peeps Waiting for the 1 Train

2009-04-08T20:43:00.003-04:00

Still waiting...

The peeps inch closer to a commuter.

The peeps, tired of waiting for the train decide to commit Harry Carey.

Ask Ms. Turnstiles

2009-03-24T14:44:00.000-04:00

It is time for our first installment of what is sure to be a popular feature: Ask Ms. Turnstiles. This is where you, the reader, get to ask Ms. Turnstiles anything and everything about the subway.

Let’s begin with a topic that’s on everyone’s mind.

Q. What is this “doomsday budget” I keep hearing about?

A. This is the latest action blockbuster by Steven Spielberg in which the MTA decides to raise fares 10% while cutting bus and subway service in order to cover a $1.2 billion deficit. The climax happens when commuters smite the entire board of directors from the bridge of the yacht purchased by one board member for commuting to his Manhattan office from his home in Rye, NY.

Q. Ms. Turnstiles, I never understand the conductor’s announcements. Why is that?

A. Perhaps…should get...checked. Everyone…the…perfectly. Ms. Turnstiles…doesn’t…talking about. Oh,…very important…the…train…out of service. To get to…take the…train to…and then the…train. Got it?

Q. What are “metrosexuals”?

A. They are individuals who have sex (also known as “bing bong”) on the subway. (Thank you Dave Barry for this astute answer.)

Q. Is it true that you stole the name Ms. Turnstiles from the 1949 film “On the Town” starring Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra?

A. No comment.

Q. This is my first trip to New York. I love taking the subway, but when using my Metrocard, I often get a message that says, “Swipe again at this turnstile.” What should I do?

A. That’s an easy answer for Ms. Turnstiles. You should go up to the street level and hail a cab.

Q. Why do they call New York subway commuters “straphangers”?

A. Back in the old days (defined as P.B. or pre-BlackBerry) subways had leather straps from which riders could hang themselves when it took more than an hour to travel one stop.
Let’s wrap up this very informative session with a tip for commuters: Beware the Chinese curses lady.

Method Acting

2009-03-18T20:30:00.003-04:00

A few months ago, I watched from my office window as US Airways pilot Chelsey Sullenberger landed his Airbus A320 on the surface of the Hudson River. Of course this in itself was an amazing feat, but what I found the most remarkable was the response of the New York Waterway ferries (12 in all). Quite literally within seconds, commuter ferries from both the New York and New Jersey sides of the river mobilized to locate survivors.

It is that quick action borne from gut instinct that impresses me. In such situations I, a person who weighs every possible outcome, every nuance of every angle, would probably stand stock still gawking and pointing until someone else offered up a viable plan. You could say all of this second-guessing is due to a lack of trust in my intuition, but really that comes from a failure to live in the Now. In fact author and illustrator Florence Scovel Shinn wrote that intuition is a spiritual faculty and does not explain, but simply points the way.

Superb athletes, battlefield soldiers and pilots about to crash often describe the “zone” of intuition when they are completely entranced in what they are doing in that moment. Using their training, they simply react. Make that superb athletes, battlefield soldiers, pilots about to crash and one Chad Lindsey, an actor/proofreader.

Chad was waiting on the Penn Station C platform yesterday afternoon when a man took a swan dive onto the tracks. He hit his head on the rail and passed out. Our hero's (although he is very uncomfortable with that term) intuition kicked in and he didn't hesitate. “I dropped my bag and jumped down there. I tried to wake him up,” Chad said. “He probably had a massive concussion at that point…He just wouldn’t wake up, and he was bleeding all over the place.”

Chad saw the glow of the train's headlights reflecting on the tracks as it approached the station. Did he panic? No way. Chad was in the zone. And his current role in an Off Broadway show that requires him to repeatedly lift another character who can’t walk didn’t hurt either. He grabbed the man under the armpits and hoisted him toward the platform. “It’s kind of higher than you think it is.” Some men on the platform pulled the man up and then Chad hopped up himself with 10 to 15 seconds to spare before the train barreled in.

The EMTs arrived and whisked the man to the hospital. Chad hopped on the next arriving train and went about his business. “It was quite a New York day,” he told a New York Times reporter who tracked Chad down only after his friends saw this post and outed him.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm weighing the difficult options of taking the 2 express or staying on the 1 local.

Sleep Tight, Don't Let the Bed Bugs Bite

2009-03-14T12:11:00.007-04:00

One of the ubiquitous ads in the subway now competing with the Dr. Z empire is a bed bug exterminating service. For years bed bugs had been reduced to living among a few mole people in the subway tunnels, but they are making a comeback above ground. In 2008 reports of bed bug infestations doubled in New York City to more than 9000 incidents. And those are just the cases reported.

Why the resurgence? In short, it’s the economic downturn. (Can’t we blame everything on that?) More specifically, it’s because many folks have changed their lifestyle. I don’t mean they are living in the subway tunnels. They are trying to save a few bucks. Take the dude who got on the subway this morning with a twin mattress. Now, you all know I’ve carried my fair share of strange things on the train, but I can honestly say I’d never go so far as this.

The guy looked a bit disheveled – understandable after dragging that behemoth of a thing to the station and then down a few flights of stairs. He gave me an apologetic look and explained that the car service he’d called refused to take him and the mattress home.

“I’d already paid for it so I’m getting it home one way or another,” he said.

“The store wouldn’t deliver it?” I asked. Here again, I’m somewhat of an unfortunate expert in the wily ways of delivery persons who refuse to do their jobs, despite the fact that I’ve been very clear that I live on the fifth floor.

He shook his head. “Got it off of Craigslist. I can’t afford those stores.”

This is one of the primary ways bed bugs are transported around the city. Bed bugs like to nestle themselves in anything soft and fibrous, like donated clothing, pre-owned sofas and, of course, used mattresses. Mattress guy, if you’re reading this, I’m sure yours is fine. Coincidentally above his head was another one of those bed bug ads. Just like the police use bomb-sniffing dogs, this company uses dogs trained to find bed bugs. Because once the critters get in, they’ll multiply like, uh, bed bugs and chow down on all sorts of materials around your place, including you.

About a year ago, two of my coworkers suffered from bed bug infestations. The expense of dry cleaning all of their clothes and linens and hiring carpet cleaners was a strain, but the worst of all was that one of them would come to work in the morning looking a bit like this:

If you’re sitting in your 3/2 ranch-style house in the suburbs and think, “Whew, glad I don’t have to worry about that since I don’t live in a place that’s as population-dense as New York City,” I’ll leave you with this video from Clearwater, Florida, showcasing what Abby, bed bug sniffing dog extraordinaire, can do. And now, I feel like I need to head over to the dry cleaners.

Game Over

2009-02-19T21:33:00.002-05:00

They say the strongest sense connection to memory in humans is smell. I suppose this is true. A whiff of pipe tobacco brings me instantly back to my great-grandfather. Salty air reminds me of high school summers spent at the beach and my dog’s smell strangely enough returns me to late night college study sessions. (Does anyone else think their dog smells like Fritos?) I find I’m usually not transported to a specific moment in time, just a general feeling of joy from a period in my life. Unless it’s not joy, but revulsion.

Take my former co-worker, a lovely woman, who accosted everyone within a 100-yard radius by taking a bath in her eau du gasoline each morning. Like a bell on a cat I always knew she was coming. If it was impossible to dodge her, I found myself taking giant steps backward to gain some clean air space to which she’d respond by taking giant steps forward. Turns out she was also a close talker.

So it is with much regret that I am reminded of her when I squeeze myself into the mass of humanity on the 2 train. After a few inhalations of most scents I become dulled to them. (Cocktail tidbit: The “nose” at one of the most respected perfumeries in Provence, Fragonard, works only in ten minute increments to keep his schnozz fresh.) But not this musky, pungent, most dreadful excuse for cologne I’ve had the opportunity to smell. It lingers and lingers like the cloud around Pig Pen in Peanuts. There is no escape.

I’m sandwiched between two large ladies made larger by their puffy coats when I realize I am doubly vexed on this ride. A young guy is talking to a woman he just met. She’s across the aisle, and rather than give up his seat, it’s so much easier to shout to be heard. She seems to understand what he’s saying with all the nodding and amening and uhm-hmming she’s doing. He might as well be speaking Japanese as far as I’m concerned. Actually it would be better if he was speaking Japanese because then I could tune him out. Instead I listen to the gibberish, trying to make heads or tails of it.

So here I am: My nose is constantly being assaulted. I’m hot. And this moron seems to be hollering about some injustice. This is the…worst…ride…ever. That’s it. Game over. I want to drive to work. I want a big, ol’ honkin’ SUV with a comfy butt warmer and a new car smell.

But then I think about you fine people. You, who’s reading this right now. How could I leave you hanging without seeing this through to the end? I take out my notepad and jot down what he’s saying verbatim (because, let’s face it, in a world of James Freys you might not believe me otherwise).

“I said, I said, ‘cause she told me. Yeah, she told me, she said. I ain’t making this shit up now. She collectin’ an’ workin’ an’ collectin’ some more. Oh yeah she does. Yeeaaahh. She ain’t gonna do it. I said it, I said it. Uh-uh. Look here. I ain’t lying. I told her, beeyatch, when I do it, I do it. That’s all about that, I said. She said, she said, you know. You know. ‘Cause that’s me. That’s how I do it, I said. That’s how I do it. No one else does it like that. Dang! When I come atchoo, I come atchoo. I said., I said. Uh-huh…”

You’re welcome.

I Remember I Forgot

2009-01-04T17:15:00.001-05:00

Several years ago, my company’s HR slackers, I mean professionals, forwarded me an applicant to replace someone who’d left my department. Jim, a skinny version of Drew Carey, right down to the glasses and spiky blond hair, seemed rough around edges. Nothing a little training and patience couldn’t fix, I assumed. And seeing as he was the only potential employee HR had been kind enough to send, I decided to hire him.

Unfortunately, this job seriously cut into Jim’s daydreaming time. On a regular basis I’d happen upon him in his cube staring at absolutely nothing. I thought I’d give him the benefit of the doubt – maybe he was finishing his tasks quickly and was simply bored. But none of his spreadsheets had been completed, so I ended up staying late to finish his work. It wasn’t long before my boss noticed. “I’m not paying him to count the fucking ceiling tiles,” she told me.

This went on for months, HR suggesting that I work it out by taking one of their courses titled “Communicate Effectively with Your Staff,” at which I learned how to put enough pressure on Jim to turn in his notice. (Company motto: we’ll lay off good workers, but why fire incompetent ones?)

While in the throes of the situation it was so painful it was possible that reruns of The Drew Carey Show would be made even worse by the bad memories of Jim. But it’s amazing how something that seems so all-encompassing, so agitating at the time, is really nothing but a bug splat on the windshield of life. Somehow I had completely forgotten about Jim, put the whole experience so far out of my mind I was surprised that I struggled to remember his name when I ran into him on the street a few weeks ago.

I had a similar experience on the 4 train this week. Sitting next to me were very young parents with their three-month-old baby. The baby was fussing and the father removed him from the stroller. Within a few moments, the baby had thrown up down the front of his bunny outfit and all over the poor guy.

Across the aisle was another set of parents with a young girl. The father didn’t hesitate to reach in his backpack for baby wipes. He pulled about ten from the pack and handed them to the other father. Not to judge a book by its cover, but it wasn’t something I would have expected from a guy with a D-E-A-T-H tattoo emblazoned on his neck wherein the T formed a dagger.

The young father tried as best he could to clean up the mess, but it was a futile effort. I felt bad for him and then a little worse for me as the unmistakable stench initiated my gag reflex. He continued to dab at his jeans and coat until, out of total embarrassment, he decided to do something my freshman-year roommate from France used to do. From a shopping bag, he brought out a bottle of Drakkar Noir and gave his clothes a few squirts. This, of course, only served to layer the vomit smell with the sweet musky scent of cologne. I looked around for an escape route.

Then, just like with Jim, it jogged a memory of an experience I had forgotten. I was riding the F train when nauseous stomach churnings overtook me. There was no time to get off the train. I moved as quickly as I could to the relative seclusion at the end of the car and tossed my cookies. Most people sprinted away with looks of horror on their faces. I was mortified. I briefly entertained getting off at the next stop and leaving behind my little gift so that I would no longer be affiliated with it. But then a Chinese lady inched toward me. From a distance of about ten feet she flung a travel pack of tissues at me. It was, at the same time, the nicest and most alienating thing a stranger had done for me on the train.

So I didn’t move away from the young father and his now putrid smell. I did what any good New Yorker would do. I carried on – business as usual.

Celebrity Sighting...

2008-12-19T14:19:00.003-05:00

Maggie Gyllenhaal and Peter Sarsgaard on the 2 train. They got on at Bergen Street in Brooklyn during rush hour. Hey, I guess times are tough for everyone. Do you have any idea how expensive chauffeurs are? They stood, nestled in with all of the commuters. No one said a word to them, and no one offered them a seat.

I’ve seen only two other celebrities riding the subway:

This guy who starred in The Sopranos

And Steve Buscemi, who’s kind of hard to miss.

Actually I’m usually terrible at spotting celebrities in public. It's partly because I'm oblivious and partly because I don’t stand around at theater stage entrances or on-location movie sets, unless said movie sets are happening on my block. For some reason my street must be the quintessential Brooklyn neighborhood. Most recently The Muppets came to town. All of the kids in a five-block radius came out to watch them shoot. Of course no one realized how scarring this could be to the little tykes when, in between takes, Kermit wasn’t quite as animated as he should be. One three-year-old said, with tears streaming down her face, “Daddy, hims not real.”

Before that we had Ugly Betty in the hood and The Squid and the Whale and The Royal Tenenbaums. The biggest hoopla was for Tom Cruise and War of the Worlds. That last scene? When they’re supposed to be in Boston? Nope. That’s Brooklyn, baby.

Wish I'd Thought of That

2008-12-04T10:30:00.003-05:00

Have you ever come across a product that is so simple in its design yet so seemingly necessary that you wonder how we ever lived without it?

Ladies and Gentlemen: I give you the Straphanger Siesta – the only product that allows you to sleep comfortably while riding the subway. No more resting your head on strangers’ shoulders. No more embarrassing drool while leaning in awkward positions. No more cricks in your neck or whiplash from jerking train motions. Ride with ease and catch up on your ZZZ’s while commuting. Arrive at the office refreshed and happy!

The Straphanger Siesta comes in two exciting varieties: seated and standing. Available while supplies last.

** Disclaimer: Straphanger Siesta is not responsible for theft of personal items while sleeping.

A Little Bit Shameless

2008-12-02T20:48:00.001-05:00

I am not proud of what I’ve done. I am a law-abiding, honest citizen so it is with a twinge of embarrassment and sadness that I report the very real possibility I am now a wanted woman on several subway lines. My friends: last night I jumped the turnstile.

In my feeble defense I believe this transgression was justified. Was it to help an elderly woman or somehow get a homeless man something to eat? Well not exactly - let me explainI went to a secondary entrance at the Houston Street 1 train station. This is one of the many subway entrances which no longer has MTA employees on duty.

During a recent round of budget cuts the MTA assigned workers to the secondary entrances on a part-time basis. Then they decided we didn’t need employees there at all since you can buy your Metrocard at a kiosk. Before long the MTA booths were removed all together. Now all that’s left at this Houston Street entrance are two turnstiles and a service exit gate which sounds a piercing alarm should you open it to leave with a stroller or large suitcase. (Just like annoying car alarms, people have learned to ignore the noise rendering it completely useless.)

So there was no employee in sight when the 1 train pulled into the station and the disembarking passengers impatiently flooded the turnstiles. I reached for my Metrocard knowing that if I waited for the passengers to file through one by one in order to swipe my card, the train would be gone. Then someone swung the service gate open wide.

The conductor’s announcement could be heard on the platform. “This train is going express.”

I knew what I had to do. I turned into Indiana Jones as I jumped, hurdled and sidestepped by way around the other passengers, through the gate and onto the train just as the doors slid closed. Immediately I felt guilt – the ends not justifying the means and all that. Just because I had animosity for the conductor who closed the train doors in my face the night before and then smiled as he speeded by me out of the station doesn’t make it okay.

At the next station passengers piled on and the conductor’s voice boomed through the speakers to a guy still on the platform, “Hey, Mr. Messenger! Don’t even think about getting on this train with that bike.

And just like that I didn’t feel so bad anymore.

A Cloak of Invisibility

2008-11-30T18:07:00.003-05:00

New Yorkers’ parting words to each other usually aren’t “See you later” or “Good night,” but “Get home safe.” I don’t know if this is a hold-over from the “bad old days” or more of a big city security blanket. It’s like sending friends on their way with Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility.

Though I've come to realize some people really want to be noticed. (Thus the advent of reality t.v.) On Thanksgiving, I called my mom to wish her a happy holiday, and she took the opportunity to remind me to be safe. “Haven’t you heard about the Al Qaeda plot to bomb the subway?” she asked. "Keep your wits about you and try to blend in with the crowd." I told her I would do my best to be careful. It makes her feel better, but of course we both know that there is not much I personally can do. This doesn’t mean that unreasonable anxiety doesn’t get the best of me sometimes. (I mean, I do live in New York, where we hold Ph.D.’s in unreasonably anxious behavior.) But your number is up when it’s up.

Maybe it was on this philosophy that my neighbor decided to live every moment to the fullest. Right out of Hitchcock’s Rear Window, the backs of our apartments face each other above a courtyard, he on the third floor, me on the fifth. It was late on Thursday night and it was as I was closing my blinds when I saw him. Or I saw the lower half of him, I should say. From my angle, below the shades he lay on his sofa wearing only tighty whiteys. He scratched his bulging belly. Probably that second helping of mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie had done him and his pants in. Now he was even too tired to find his way to the closet to get his sweatpants.

Then I suppose in an effort to work off some of the extra calories, his hand slipped beneath his waistband, and...let’s just say he was no longer the master of his domain.

When I related this to a friend, his first question was one of bewilderment, not that the guy hadn’t pulled the shades all the way or turned off the lights, but at his technique. “With his underwear on?” he asked.

“That’s what gets you about this story?”

“It is unusual. Maybe he liked the possibility that someone could be watching.”

“So he’s turned on by the idea of being caught but not so much that he wants to be totally exposed,” I said.

“Right. Like that couple I saw a few years ago having sex on the F train platform. There they were, doing it as trains were coming and going, but they were trying to hide behind a garbage can.”

It’s too bad they didn’t have that cloak of invisibility, but if my friend is right, that would defeat the whole point – to be noticed. I guess the Al Qaeda plotters would agree.

The Things They Carried

2008-11-18T06:54:00.004-05:00

The Things They Carried

With all due respect to Tim O’Brien and his Pulitzer-nominated collection of stories about a platoon in the Vietnam War, I’ve lifted this title from him because you really can tell a lot about a person or group of people by what they carry – what they deem important enough to bring along with them at any given moment.

O’Brien wrote that what the soldiers carried was largely determined by necessity: pocket knives, mosquito repellent, cigarettes, matches, canteens of water. Sometimes the necessity was determined by rank or field specialty. Platoon leaders carried compasses and maps. Medics carried satchels filled with morphine and plasma and malaria tablets. Machine gunners carried M-60s that weighed 23 pounds, plus ammunition that weighed between 10-15 pounds.

In New York City, which some days feels like an urban battleground, everything required for the day goes with us. So, like the soldiers, the things we carry must also be pared down to necessity. Artists Janet Zweig and Edward del Rosario found it so interesting, they created a 1200-foot mural in the Prince Street station depicting some of the things they saw New Yorkers carrying. Their miniature silhouettes of people made of steel, stone and tile embedded in the station walls carry mailbags and grocery bags, briefcases and backpacks, toolboxes and garbage bags full of aluminum cans. They named the installation “Carrying On.”

Some of these things New Yorkers carry meet an unfortunate demise on the subway tracks. While you can view a wide array of stuff at just about any station, I’ve found the most interesting at West 4th Street. Here’s a sampling from the past few weeks:
• One physics textbook
• A soccer ball
• An Elmo doll
• A broken umbrella
• An old-fashioned Wonder Woman lunch box
• A Blackberry
• Twenty dollars – in one dollar bills
• Brown rats
• An entire carton of M&M’s
• One work boot
• A hand-knitted scarf

Each item (except, perhaps, the rats) someone deemed valuable enough to lug from his or her home, and yet couldn’t manage to hang on to. I wonder if someone collected these items into a “subway time capsule” what it would say about our society 100 years from now. Probably that we were a rather clumsy society.

What a Difference a Day Makes

2008-11-05T12:47:00.008-05:00

Something extraordinary is happening in New York. Something I haven’t seen in a long time. People woke up this morning with a feeling of goodwill toward their fellow man. No matter what side of the aisle you sit on, it’s infectious.

Immediately after September 11th, we were a kinder, gentler people. New Yorkers stopped honking their horns, held doors open (not even panhandling for money), and patted each other on the back. Walking home over the Brooklyn Bridge that day, I was handed cups of water from shop owners lined along Broadway for thirsty and stunned New Yorkers. Back then of course the undercurrents were somber. We were shoring each other up from tragedy, and despite our losses, it was often the only bright spot in the day to know that we could find affection for our neighbors. Neighbors we had given the stink-eye to just the day before, by the way.

What a contrast to today. Today the undercurrents are downright giddy. Two strangers high-fived on the 2 train this morning. On the platform at Grand Army Plaza an old man, stooped by osteoporosis, shook hands with a subway musician, and said (I swear I’m not making this up), “Today is a good day!” I haven’t seen this much sheer joy in New Yorkers since, um…, ever.

During a two-hour wait in line to cast my vote yesterday (New York didn’t have the option to pre-vote), I could sense something was very different. Not only did no one complain, everyone seemed downright happy to wait. Once inside, amid the clatter of the 1950s-era voting machines with their loud ka-thump each time someone slid the arm to record their vote, people chatted with neighbors and munched on doughnuts brought in from DD. This couldn’t be New York. Clearly I’d been transported to a small town in Kansas. But after I voted I caught the F train to work and saw a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty in the harbor just before we snaked underground. Nope – this is definitely New York.

What a difference a day makes.

SIDE NOTE:

Thank you Californians for voting YES on Prop 2! I thank you, and he thanks you, too!

Crazy in Love

2008-09-27T21:17:00.002-04:00

I believe it was Britney Spears who astutely noted, “Everything’s gotten a bit crazy.”

You don’t have to be a head-shaving, commando-going pop tart to feel that way. Some days just getting to the office is enough to make you wonder if you’ve lost a few ticks on the ol’ sanity yardstick.

If you ride the subway often enough, through no extra effort of your own, you’ll find yourself with the story – the one quintessential subway story you’ll relate to your co-workers the moment you get to the office, your friends to one-up them at the neighborhood bar and, someday, your grandkids. I haven’t shared my classic story with you. Until now. Why? Because, quite frankly, you wouldn’t have believed me. But by now, you’ve probably realized that, when it comes to the subway, truth is stranger than fiction.

I was a regular F train rider at the time, living in an affordable Brooklyn neighborhood (read so far from the city I was able to get a seat every morning) where the subway becomes an el. On this day, every time the train doors opened warm spring air rushed in, making me regret I hadn’t called in sick to work.

The train was getting pretty crowded so that by the time we reached the last stop before heading underground, it was standing room only. Just as the doors closed a guy and his girl wandered into the car. Let’s see…how to accurately describe them. Disheveled? No, not messy enough. Slothful? No, not lethargic enough. Insolent? Not rude enough. Well, suffice it to say it was clear that they were only up that early in the morning because they had been up that late.

They squeezed their way to the middle of the car to stand in front me and the elderly Asian lady to my right. Within moments, they began arguing. I’ll be honest – I could only catch about every third word, what with their slurring and all, so I’ve recreated the conversation as best as I can.

Guy: Why are you following me? I told you to stay home.

Girl: I can go wherever I want. It’s a free country.

Guy: You better get off at the next stop. I’m not fucking kidding.

Girl: Oh my God. I’m going to be sick.

Me, suddenly extremely nervous she was about to unload all the munchies she ate on my new sweater: Uhm.

Guy, to me: No, she’s not. She’s just saying that to get out of it.

Girl: I am. I…am...going…sick.

Guy, shaking his head as if he and I were on the same page: She’s just fucking around. Stop fucking around!

Girl, to the Asian lady: Can you…?

Quick as a bunny, the Asian lady grabbed her orange plastic bags and disappeared like magic. The girl sat down next to me and rested her head on the wall behind us, moaning.

Guy, looking at her with disgust and then turning to me: She is such a bitch. You want to see why?

Of course not, but I hadn’t yet learned the no-eye-contact rule. If you take one thing away from this story it should be that.

The guy bent forward so I could get a good look and turned his head slightly. What was that on his earlobe? I actually leaned a little closer. Wait…part of it was missing. Wait…were those teeth marks?

Guy, as if reading my mind: Yeah, she bit it clean off.

A wittier person would have had a snappy comeback, maybe some kind of Van Gogh reference, but I did the worst thing possible. I continued to stare at him.

Girl, still moaning: Why don’t you say why I bit it? Why don’t you say why?!

Guy, to me: That was like a week ago. But this morning. She’s crazy.

The guy turned his back toward me. I sneaked a look around, hoping someone would help a girl out, but Ashton Kutcher and the Punk’d crew were nowhere in sight. There were only my fellow commuters snickering either at me or the guy. Probably at me.

He lifted his shirt to reveal a small incision about an inch above his left kidney. It was still bleeding. The blood was dripping down the small of his back and pooling around his waistband. The wound was the size of a pocket knife.

Me: I think you need a Band-aid. (In New York we don’t bother to call the authorities until we’re talking about something roughly the size of a butcher knife.)

The guy swiped at the cut with his grimy hand and saw the blood, maybe for the first time.

Guy, gasping: Bitch!

Girl: I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I think I’m gonna be sick.

Guy: I mean, this’ll leave a scar.

Girl, summoning the courage to stand up: Baby? I’m sorry.

She leaned her head on his shoulder. The train pulled into a station while she was cooing and apologizing.

Guy: All right. Just don’t do it again.

Girl: Let’s go home.

With that they got off the train hand-in-hand. Ahh, love.

We're # 2!

2008-09-20T12:13:00.001-04:00

Attention New Yorkers! Cancel your aromatherapy/shiatsu/acupuncture/therapy appointment. According to a recent poll by Forbes, New York is not the most stressful city in America.

Which city takes the illustrious prize? Is it:

* Los Angeles – where the very thought of driving on the 405 at rush hour is enough to make your blood pressure rise?
* Boston – where your great-great-great grandson will still be paying for the nightmarish Big Dig which cost taxpayers approximately $12 billion (no, that’s not a typo) more than original estimates?
* Detroit – where the metro area unemployment rate is 8.5 percent and the city unemployment rate is 12.9 percent versus the national average of 5.5 percent?

The answer is none of the above! Apparently Chicagoans are the most stressed-out Americans. And the city’s transit system is one of the top contributors to local angst. One woman interviewed shook her head said, “The El. It’s terrible. It’s crowded and it smells. Everyone is just crammed on there.”

Maybe it stems from that day in April when hundreds of rush hour Chicago straphangers took matters into their own hands and evacuated a train that had been at a stand-still for more than an hour. They climbed out of the cars, into the tunnel and walked along the tracks to freedom. May I just say, right on!

But otherwise most people kind of clucked around saying, “It can’t be us. It can’t be us. What about New York ?” They all seemed pretty confused about the dubious honor, including Mayor Daley who said, “How can we be number one?” Even movie critic Richard Roeper chimed in, “Saying life in Chicago is more stressful than life in New York is like saying Owen Wilson is a more intense actor than Robert De Niro. It doesn't compute.”

Come on, Chicagoans! Take a tip from us New Yorkers and relax!

Overheard on the Subway - Part 5

2008-09-16T15:08:00.001-04:00

Evening rush hour on the 2 train – A middle-aged woman dashes between the closing doors and trips over a seated man’s foot.

Woman: Sorry.

Man nods, doesn’t say anything.

Woman, touching her forehead a little flustered: I’m sorry I ran into you.

Man: No worries.

Woman: I just saw my son on the platform. Out of the blue. Of all people…

Man, now with an unmistakable British accent: I ran into a mate of mine from Leeds on the L train.

Woman: Isn’t that the strangest? It’s like kismet or something.

Man: You think being in New York you can escape. You can’t. It’s like an alternate universe. It’s the smallest city in the world.

Just then I take a sideways glance at the woman sitting next to me. We’re both reading the same book (Three Cups of Tea – highly recommended) and we’re reading the same page at the same time. You better believe this city is small.

JOEBAMA*

2008-08-28T14:26:00.000-04:00

It was Saturday afternoon in Park Slope when I heard a man shout, "Hey, you!"

I ignored him. Only New York rookies and tourists would actually look around to see who it was. Eye contact = trouble.

He called out again, "Hey! You with the dog."

No doubt about it - he was talking to me. I looked up to see a black man leaning out the window of a third-story brownstone. "Yeah?"

"Who did Obama (insert sound of screeching bus brakes)?"

"Say what?"

He cupped his hands around his mouth. "I said, Who did Obama pick for vice president? It's the sabbath and I can't watch t.v."

My mind went blank as it always does during the most inopportune moments: introducing two friends, recalling one of the 500 PINs I seem to have these days, running down a list of 5 items I need at the bodega, remembering why I went into the bedroom to begin with (despite the fact that I only have a three room apartment).

"It begins with a B! B..Ba, no. Bee, no..."

"Biden!" He shouted. "Joe Biden! JoeBama!"

We laughed - me on the sidewalk and he leaning out of the third story. I felt like breaking into the Name Game: Bama, Bama, Joe Bama, Banana Fanna Joe Fama, Fe Fi Fo Fama, JoeBama.

The next morning the headline of the Post was exactly that: JoeBama. You never know who's listening in New York.

* Even though this didn't take place on the subway (it's part of my "Only in New York..." series), but why not?

From the Department of Redundancy Department

2008-08-12T11:58:00.002-04:00

There is a beautiful mansion near my apartment which is on the National Historic Register. Built in 1900 for William Childs (developer of Bon Ami cleaning powders), it sits on the grand avenue of once-private residences directly across from the park. Now the mansion is home to the Brooklyn Society for Ethical Culture, a non-profit group hosting various programs and seminars. Not too long ago, they installed a banner out front stating that they are against torture. Did I miss something here?

Of course they are against torture. Who wouldn't be? Who is going to stand up and disagree with that? (No, actually I am all for torture.) Why restate the obvious? It's kind of like announcing you think Hitler was a bad man.

This leads me to the recent announcement by the MTA to let straphangers know that groping on the subway is wrong. Correctamundo, MTA! It seems safe to say that there are certain things we all know is wrong. Fondling your neighbor on the subway is one of them. But the MTA is spending a good bit of money rolling out a campaign to tell us this anyway. They want to encourage riders not to be afraid to speak up after a study showed that 63 percent of women have been sexually harassed on the subway. There will be a hotline to report such unpleasantness. But all good intentions aside, can this really even curb the problem?

A similar campaign on the Boston T resulted in an increase of reported incidents, which is to be expected, but there was no increase in apprehending the offenders. It all boils down to a he said/she said kind of thing. I mean, it's not like the guy leaves any fingerprints.

Full disclosure: I have only been groped on a particularly crowded section of Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras, but never on the subway. As your faithful subway reporter, I took an informal poll. Only one friend had a tale to tell. She boarded the 2 train at 14th Street during the evening rush. Everyone was crowded and pushing their way in, kind of like the subway in Japan where the conductors will "help" you by using your body as leverage to squeeze more people on the train. (I suspect these women need the groping hotline more than anyone.)

My friend was subway surfing, where you don't have a pole to hang onto or a door to lean against – you're just riding the wave of the train. A heavyset, tall man was facing her. Every time the train jerked and lurched forward, she felt what she described as an elbow poking her. It was hard to tell exactly what – an elbow? Someone's backpack? – because the train was so crowded. She insisted I mention here that she was wearing a long coat which did its part to camouflage the offending poker. She started to get suspicious. Was it? Wasn't it? Then her apprehension was confirmed. The train stopped moving but the poking didn't. I asked if there was a hotline back then would she have called to report the incident. She doubted it. "What good would it have done?"

Maybe hotlines like this aren't really meant to catch the wrongdoer but provide some false sense of security to the rest of the riders. We want to feel like something is being done. We insist upon action. Not doing something, anything, despite how ridiculously futile, is the equivalent of letting the offenders win. Reminds me of the random bag searches the local police conducted here after the London bombings. With seven million riders each day, what did they really expect to find in the backpack of Joe Commuter? But it made us feel better, even if just for a few moments.

Missed Connections

2008-07-28T18:00:00.001-04:00

Some years ago, a co-worker had accompanied a friend as moral support to a band audition. My co-worker, M, saw a lovely-looking guy exiting the audition room with a saxophone. She worked up the nerve to introduce herself and they chatted about random things: the weather, the L train, the Beatles vs. the Stones, and then the friend was called to perform. During the hubbub, they went their separate ways and never exchanged phone numbers. This is not an unusual story, except for what happens next.

But first there's a little something you should know about M. She was a helpless romantic. She believed in Prince Charming and messages in bottles and that all you need is love. She had plans to get married at Cinderella's castle with Jiminy Cricket singing "When You Wish upon a Star." For Halloween she always dressed as a princess. She was the original daydream believer.

Knowing this, it may not come as a surprise that in the days following her chance encounter, M pined for the sax player. She dreamed of the perfection that was him and before the week was out she'd picked names for their three kids. She finally called the company that had hosted the audition and begged for his phone number. The receptionist must have admired M's chutzpah. She relayed the message to Mr. Sax Player and gave him M's number. He called her and they went on a date. (By the way, this scenario is only remotely plausible if you are in your early 20's like M and her sax-playing man. Then it's earnest and heady and just a touch clandestine. After a certain age it kind of crosses the line to desperate and stalkerish.)

It's not just M who was fabulously optimistic in her pursuit of true love. Patrick Moberg proved me wrong (see When a Woodchuck Could Chuck Wood post) and fell head over heels on the 5 train a few months ago.

Moberg isn't alone in his search for Ms. Right. Just yesterday there were 100 posts on Craigslist in NYC searching for a "missed connection," whether that took place on a platform or in a Starbucks. Let's say you saw your future husband on the subway but, for whatever reason, you couldn't speak to him. Just post an ad and sit back until your honey comes a-calling.

"i think you live in greenpoint because i've seen you maybe 3 times on the G. you were wearing a blue shirt and white shorts maybe, with long dirty blonde hair in a pony tail. you had a bag that said "ralph" on it. you got off at 5th ave and it saddened me. i've got dark hair, i was wearing jeans and a green collared shirt. i don't think you'll read this, but hopefully next time i will be courageous and make the damn move."

"It was Saturday night around 10 pm at the 2 or 3 train going to brooklyn. You had a slimless shirt with white and blue stripes, some blue jeans and some tennis shoes with a roster logo. I tried to keep eye contact from you, i was wearing some shorts and a green tshirt. I got off the Eastern park way museum stop. I wanted to say hi and talk to you"

"me: at the southern end of the car. Glasses large photo bag. Kept looking your way. You: other end of car. Blue dress. Red hair. Kept looking my way, thought it was at me, could be wrong though. A clown got on the car at union or ninth." (My note: only in NY)

Alas, it seems that you would have a better chance of finding true love at a "foot and back rub" place on the Lower East Side. Moberg wasn't going to take any chances on the love of his life. He decided to create a web page to find his lady – www.nygirlofmydreams.com. In a city of eight million people it took him 48 hours to find said girl of his dreams, one Camille Hayton living in Brooklyn originally from Melbourne, Australia. Hayton's girlfriend spotted her sketched likeness on the website and called her.

The results? My former co-worker M married – someone else – and apparently is pregnant with their first baby. Moberg and Hayton dated for two months, but they've decided to "just be friends."

An "A" for effort to all parties involved. It gets me thinking. Maybe someone is looking for me and I don't even know it! I wonder what my ad would look like.

You: Gurl with ipod dozing on 2 train. U R so k-ute. Don't worry. It's ok.

Me: sittin' a little too close w/ my backpack. What language do you speak?

(See You Are So Cute post)

The only thing we have to fear...

2008-07-22T15:02:00.001-04:00

New Yorkers have very specific fears that don’t necessarily translate to other parts of the country. But for some people, the paranoia gets the better of them. Just a few days ago, a man who’d had it with roaches decided to exact his revenge by spraying the hell out of them with extra-strength Raid. In fact he sprayed so much of the stuff in his tiny apartment that one lit match ignited it, blowing out the front windows and charring more than 80 percent of his place. At least the roaches are gone.

But New Yorkers’ fears aren’t limited to the vermin/rodent category. Here are some other things that freak us out (in no particular order): getting run over by a bike messenger; a transit strike; a black-out during a heat wave; George Steinbrenner; falling debris from high-rise construction work; the mysterious steam that comes out of those orange cylinders in the middle of the street; and, oh yeah, Al Qaeda.

A very pregnant friend tells me that she hyperventilates at the thought of going into labor on the subway. She has reason to be worried. She knows the story of Francine and baby Soleil. Francine, pregnant with her first child, starts feeling a little uncomfortable so the doctor tells her to come to the hospital to be examined. Without enough money for car service, presumably, or thinking she has all the time in the world, she hops on the F train with her husband, Max. By the time they get to the East Broadway stop, Francine is feeling much worse. Max tells the conductor who radios ahead for an ambulance. He ushers Francine, who is by now having serious contractions, onto the platform, and the train leaves the station. Then New Yorkers, who love to be in the middle of everything, spring into action. They lay Francine on the platform (blech!) – a man offers his briefcase as a pillow, a woman holds her hand, several people give their clothing to the cause, another man runs to the street level to guide the EMTs, and as luck would have it a nurse steps off an arriving train and lends a hand. In fact Wendy Brown, a woman from the Bronx who offered moral support, noted at least four trains came into the station and some people from every one stopped to help. When baby Soleil makes her appearance, all the passersby applaud and jump on the next arriving train.

Move over, Project Runway

2008-07-14T12:04:00.001-04:00

The MSG Network (For non-locals, that's Madison Square Garden, not the bad stuff in Chinese take-out.) is conducting the most real reality show around. It's called NYC Soundtracks. Sixteen subway musicians compete for a music contract and the chance to perform at Radio City Music Hall and the Garden. Auditions were held, and through a weekly process of elimination, the viewers will vote for their favorite busker.

The first clip has interviews with a few of the buskers. Keep watching until you get to Gibron Soul, the orphan-turned-minster-turned-guitarist from Toledo, Ohio, and the Peabody Conservatory graduate from Baltimore who says, "Playing on the trains is a good way to get humiliated and get a girlfriend." (And possibly both at the same time, eh?) The second clip is a busker from West Africa who plays an instrument I've never seen before, but makes a beautiful sound.

According to one subway busker, most important question of your whole entire life is, "Do you like it, or do you love it? 'Cause if you just like it, then it's only a hobby. If you love it, it's in your soul, part of the energy that animates who you are." Amen, buddy. Puts a whole new spin on those weepy models who "want this more than, like, anything." This is real and it's raw. And if you've ever tried to "make it" in a field where the odds are stacked against you, you'll feel their passion and hunger in your bones.

If you don't get the channel, you can watch all of the episodes and vote here: http://www.msg.com/soundtracks/

Seeing Double

2008-07-08T15:29:00.002-04:00

Q. What do you get when you combine 10 sets of twins, random New Yorkers and the 6 train?

A. One of those fun sociology experiements that shows how New Yorkers have a completely unique response system.

Check out this experiement by the group ImprovEverywhere.

You Are So Cute

2008-07-04T12:00:00.002-04:00

“Don’t worry. It’s okay.”

But I am worried. This guy keeps inching closer to me. My first instinct was that he was going to pickpocket me. I clutched my bag tighter and tighter to my chest.

Now, I think he might put his head on my shoulder any second. He’d boarded the train two stops after my friend and I did and ever since then I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my head.

As I’ve said before, the best thing to do in a situation like this is use evasive tactics. I pretend I don’t hear him. My friend, skilled in the ways of the commuter, keeps chatting – about the movie we just saw, about the weather, about Lindsay Lohan versus Britney Spears. Anything to avoid a lull in the conversation because when that happens…

“You are so cute.”

Then he taps me on the shoulder. Instinctively, I turn toward him and break the cardinal rule – do not make eye contact under any circumstances. He looks fairly harmless with his backpack and button-down shirt.

My friend whispers, “I don’t smell alcohol.” Neither do I, but there is something altered about him.

“What language do you speak?” he asks now that he has my attention.

This forces me to move to level two of subway avoidance, which I am not very good at: the freeze out. “English.”

“Really? I speak English too. Yeah, I do. You speak so nice. I was listening to you. You are so cute.”

I suppose there is a double-standard here. This guy has clearly crossed the line to creepyville, but had he looked like George Clooney (a girl can dream), I would have already given him my number. This guy does not look like George Clooney. They never do.

“Where are you from?”

Since we’re already in the borough, I go with the obvious. “Brooklyn.”

“Really? Wow! Me, too! You are so cute.”

My friend says, “Do you want to move?” We are still about four stops from home, maybe ten more minutes, which will seem like eternity. Yet, we don’t move. It’s the same reason I’m not very good at the freeze out. I don’t want to seem rude. For some reason I would rather be uncomfortable than to embarrass him or call more attention to the situation. I think this is the good-girl syndrome, as in, “Just be a good girl and don’t make trouble,” or “Good girls are well-mannered and considerate.” Boys don’t seem to be raised with the same mantras. It takes good girls a long time to learn to speak up and not be taken advantage of.

Would I tell him to stop talking to me? It seems extreme, so I just sit there and try to ignore him when he suddenly pops up and runs off the train at the next stop. I suddenly felt bad for him. I mean, this is a tough way to get a date.

George, if you’re reading this, I’ll be on the Q train tomorrow, conductor’s car.

Brother, can you spare a swipe?

2008-06-29T17:41:00.001-04:00

In the year 10 BDC (Before Debit Cards) I had visited a friend in the Midwest. I was living in Atlanta and decided that, rather than paying to park at Hartsfield Airport, I could stretch my meager budget by taking the oft-laughed-at MARTA train. (Motto: ride MARTA, it’s SMARTA. Laugh all you want, MARTA drops you off inside the airport terminal, unlike NYC, where none of the three airports can say that.)

I’d lived large on the small amount I brought, so large in fact, that I didn’t realize I had only 60 cents left. And I still had to buy a token for the train ride home. I opened and reopened every pocket in my purse, every zipper in my wallet in that frantic way when you come to the understanding that since you don’t have magic ruby slippers you will be stuck in the airport forever like a bad Tom Hanks movie and you don’t even have a Russian accent.

MARTA was cash-only, and since this was also the year 5 BCP (Before Cell Phones), my options were limited. I could call a friend collect, but it was late and I already felt lame enough. Since the currency exchange accepted credit cards, I gave serious thought to converting $20 into Japanese yen and then converting it back to dollars to get the cash. (Ingenious, no?) But soon after, a grandfatherly gentleman in a business suit asked if I could use some help and I poured out my pitiful story. He gave me the change and I never forgot his kindness.

It was just last week a woman at Grand Army Plaza had the same anxious and pathetic look on her face. In lieu of ruby slippers, she needed a swipe, but she was going about it all wrong.

Those of us who ride the subway frequently have an unlimited Metrocard. For one monthly fee, you can ride as often as you like. The catch is that you can only swipe your Metrocard once every 15 minutes or so. As with the rules of any program, people quickly learn the loopholes – things not possible with the old token system. Let’s say you’re an entrepreneur (e.g. you sell batteries in the subway cars). If you pay $2 to get on the train, you’d probably have to sell 5 batteries just to break even. Now if you ask someone coming through the turnstiles for a swipe of their unlimited Metrocard, no skin off their back and you’re making a profit from battery number one.

But the tired woman standing outside the Grand Army Plaza turnstiles was clearly new at the game, asking people who were on their way to the platform, instead of people on their way out. She said, “Excuse me. Could you…”

Before I realized she was talking to me, I’d already swiped my card and was through the turnstile. No going back then. Waiting 15 minutes to swipe again for her is really beyond my rush-hour benevolence. I looked at her drooping face and did what I thought would help. I pointed to the Chinese lady with the batteries who, speaking no English, had just finagled a swipe from a black teenage girl coming out. The woman nodded, now on the right track.

Moral of the story: Since you don’t have ruby slippers, always buy your ticket home before you leave.

Get Your History Geek On

2008-06-26T17:10:00.009-04:00

Everyone around here is hooked on Brooklynpix.com - a website posting old photos of the good ol' days.

False Advertising
(The J/M line today)
Circa 1918

Snuggle on the IRT (today's 2/3 line)
Circa 1955.

Waiting on the old Redbird trains at Borough Hall
Circa 1970 (of course - check out the dude's pants)

Lexington Avenue El (now the 4/5 line)going over the Brooklyn Bridge (now only foot/car traffic allowed)
1941

Under the El on Fifth Avenue, Brooklyn
(Tracks long gone)
1919

And I couldn't resist a shot of my neighborhood corner, which surprisingly looks just the same, minus the trolley car.
Circa 1949

Overheard on the Subway - part 4

2008-06-25T13:30:00.001-04:00

Guy #1: ...so that's why our ancestors ran from animals, unless they were going to eat them.

Guy # 2: Every day is a battle, man.

- Manhattan-bound 2 train, morning rush hour

Destination: 7 Train

2008-06-03T11:00:00.001-04:00

When I lived in the suburbs after college, as soon as we girls acquired more furniture than a beanbag chair and a rickety stool, we hosted supper clubs. One of the more favorite versions of the supper club was the progressive dinner party in which the festivities move to a different person’s apartment for each course of the meal. Once I moved to NYC, I rarely went inside anyone’s apartment unless it was the home of one of the few individuals whose living space was larger than an average closet. That is, until I joined an unconventional writing group that operates a bit like the progressive parties of my suburban days.

This writing group meets once a week at a different location; sometimes we meet in the back room of a local bookstore or, if the weather is good, we meet at Strawberry Fields in Central Park, but usually we meet in someone’s apartment. We write for an hour or so and then chat and eat some snacks. I think at last count there were about 100 members, but only 15-20 show up at any given meeting, depending on the location. Because of the relaxed nature of the group, you can come every week, not come for three months, not write a word while you’re there or offer to read some of what you’ve written.

If you’ve followed this blog at all, you’ll know that this arrangement perfectly satisfies the voyeur in me. (See the Getting to Know You post.) I get to nose around a stranger’s apartment, see what kind of knick-knacks they have and if they leave the toilet seat up. It’s also given me the opportunity to check out an 1890s brownstone that maintained the details of its glorious past and a hip Soho loft overlooking Broadway and Houston. Oh, and I get some writing done.

The writing group decided to try a noble experiment: have a meeting while riding on the 7 train. As unconventional as it sounds, I liked the idea of having the subway be the destination rather than the means to the destination. The goal is to board the train at the Times Square station, which is the very first stop so the entire group can pile into one car. We will then write during the ride out to Queens, and on the return trip, members can read their work if they choose. Of course there will be plenty of other passengers on the train, and I’ve no doubt that some of us will be the recipient of monetary donations.

This reminded me of Johnny Temple’s essay about a subway party, though the goal of a subway party is to drink yourself into a somewhat shaky state, then board the train with a gaggle of your closest friends and basically harass the rest of the passengers until they leave you with the car to yourself.

Now I don’t need utter silence to write, I’ve often jotted notes or written scenes while riding the subway, but the distractions on the 7 train are too much to handle. Most of the stations are above ground, where you’ll find the work of arguably the world’s best graffiti artists on display. Also above ground, there are the challenges of relentlessly ringing cell phones and general Saturday afternoon din, never mind the stares of New Yorkers as they watch the nutty people all clacking away on their laptops. Most of these people, I expect, will assume that we are filming some kind of documentary or that they walked into the latest version of Punk’d.

Come to think of it, this situation would not be satisfactory at all. I want to be the one conducting the voyeurism, not the subject of it. I know this is quite unfair. One good turn deserves another. So if you’re riding the 7 train and come across a group that seems to be lost in thought, please be a good voyeur and keep your stares surreptitious. That’s what I would do.

You know you’ve been riding the subway too long when...# 6

2008-06-03T10:59:00.001-04:00

You can spot tourists at 100 paces.** And you don’t need evidence of a camera or map to do so.

** The thousands of men and women who piled off ships wearing their sailor uniforms during Fleet Week don’t count. That’s not a challenge at all.

A Tidal Restlessness

2008-05-21T12:23:00.002-04:00

E.B. White, author of the children’s classics Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little and the bible for every writer The Elements of Style, was a wonderfully gifted essayists and editor himself spending almost six decades at The New Yorker in one capacity or another. What makes White one of the most treasured American essayists of the 20th century was his ability to come elegantly to the elemental core of the subject at hand, not just a stereotypical dilution. Not as easy as it may seem, especially when the subject at hand is a city that is a living, breathing entity all its own.

Many writers have tried (and failed) to capture the essence of New York. Here is one of the best definitions I believe I’ve read, written by White in 1948 (Here Is New York) and still true today.

“There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter – the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York on a quest for something…Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion.”

I think the reason it’s difficult for most people to put their finger on the soul of New York because they are one of the three New Yorks, and that is forever how they see it. But Colson Whitehead (The Colossus of New York) says there are roughly eight million New Yorks, one for every person who lives here:

“No matter how long you’ve been here, you’re a New Yorker the first time you say, That used to be Munsey’s, or That used to be the Tic Toc Lounge. That before the internet café plugged itself in, you got your shoes resoled in the mom-and-pop operation that used to be there. You are a New Yorker when what was there before is more real and solid than what is here now. You start building your private New York the first time you lay eyes on it.

“I started building my New York on the uptown 1 train. My first city memory is of looking out a subway window as the train erupted from the tunnel on the way to 125th Street and palsied up onto the elevated tracks. It’s the early seventies, so everything is filthy. Which means everything is still filthy, because that is my city and I’m sticking to it.

What is my New York? Certainly not the glamorous New York of the Manolo Blahnik-wearing ladies from Sex and the City, nor the salt-of-the-earth New York of the guys who are digging the 2nd Avenue subway line. I’d like it to be the inspired New York – the one that breaks new ground in the creative arts, much like the Bloomsbury Group in early 1900’s London, though I guess my novel would have to be published for this to really be my New York. (Hello, any agents reading this?) Sometimes it’s the Mary Richards “you’re-gonna-make-it-after-all” New York, which makes me feel like throwing my hat in the air in the middle of Sixth Avenue. But right now my life feels like the “it’s-up-to-you-New-York” New York, and it’s not my favorite New York because that means things are out of my control as if the city itself will decide my fate. And, in case you are new to this blog, control is my middle name.

Maybe that’s the lesson the city is trying to teach me. Get comfortable with being uncomfortable. Even though I feel the tidal restlessness of the commuter, remain passionate like the settler and stay solid like the native.

Or maybe I just need a vacation.

Dine-n-Dash

2008-05-14T14:19:00.001-04:00

One of the premier forms of entertainment when I was growing up was the dine-n-dash. The dine-n-dash combined the finesse of a track relay race and the stealth of a CIA spy. A gaggle of us would go into a greasy spoon, say your average Waffle House, order plates of food and slip out before the check hit the table. This was how we spent our time while the Beta vs. VHS debate raged.

Was it mean? Yes. Am I proud of this? Of course not. But like George Bush and mullet hair-dos we cannot deny our bad choices.

Now, the subway version of the dine-n-dash:

A burly guy eating chicken wings covered with enough en fuego sauce to singe my nose hair decides to exit the F train at the York Street stop. (Why does this stop exist?) He wipes his greasy hands on a napkin, then deposits napkin and gnawed chicken bones into a Styrofoam box. He discreetly slides the open box under the seat with the toe of his work boot, careful not to get any sauce on it, and darts between the closing doors onto the platform, leaving the rest of us suckers with the reeking bill.

Help a Sister Out

2008-05-07T22:13:00.003-04:00

You ever had one of those rough days at work where the only thing you can mentally or physically manage after leaving the office is plugging in your earphones and choosing the song “Take This Job and Shove It” on your iPod?

Today was one of those days.

The good thing about riding the subway in a situation like this is that, if the trains aren’t too crowded, I can actually decompress on the way home. The same cannot be said about sitting white-knuckled in bumper-to-bumper traffic breathing exhaust fumes. And as luck would have it, a seat opened up just as I was boarding the 2 train. I leaned my head against the wall, closed my eyes and went to my happy place.

There is a certain lulling quality to the rhythm of the train, especially when it builds up speed in the tunnel under the East River. (See Cure Insomnia, Save the World post.) So I was a little surprised and embarrassed, when I squinted one eyelid open to make sure that I wasn’t somewhere in Bed-Stuy (which, if I’m being honest with you, I have done before), to be eye-to-bellybutton with a ginormous pregnant woman.

How long had she been standing over me secretly coveting my seat, her aching back and swollen feet longing for some relief? I got up quickly and she seemed grateful rather than annoyed at my obliviousness. After my self-satisfaction at helping my fellow neighbor wore off, I wondered why no one else in the vicinity had offered his or her seat.

That brings me to the unspoken subway code outlining who should get a seat, which I thought was well-ingrained into the commuter's psyche:
•Pregnant women, if they are obviously pregnant
•The elderly, but not just your average AARP member. We’re talking white hair and possibly a cane. Sixty is the new 40.
•Anyone of any age who is infirm. This includes crutches, blind with walking sticks and neck braces.
•A parent who is carrying a baby or has a baby strapped in a snugly. Not applicable if the child is in a stroller.

Not having ridden mass transit while pregnant, I decided to conduct an informal and highly subjective survey from the test group called Women I Know. I’m sad to report that apparently pregnant women end up standing more often than not. There is the understandable awkwardness of trying to decide if a woman in early stages of pregnancy is indeed with child or just, how can I say this gracefully, Reubenesque. But I was amazed to learn about the blatant disregard for weary travelers.

Of the hundreds of rides taken by my respondents while pregnant, they each could count on one hand the number of times a seat was immediately offered, and of the occasions they were given a seat, the generosity was bestowed either by a man of color or a teenager. (Teens do have a conscience…) Evidently white men rank lowest on the list of seat-giver-uppers, and women of all colors are not far behind. (Come on, women, help a sister out!)

One noteworthy incident involved a ride on the Metro North commuter train during which a woman was saving two seats on either side for her friends. Facing the prospect of standing for a 40-minute ride, my very pregnant friend asked for a seat to no avail. Finally a woman tucked into a corner relinquished hers, causing my friend to squeeze in front of several other people to get to it. The train doors closed with the “saved” seats still available.

Not long ago some Columbia University sociology students conducted a subway experiment. They had to approach seated New Yorkers, look them in the eye and ask them to give up their seats without any explanation. This, I think, is third on the list of things most feared right after public speaking and death. But here’s the kicker: with very few exceptions, every person gave up their seat, no questions asked! Whether the students were tailed home and given a once-over, was not reported in the results.

Overheard on the subway, part 3

2008-05-02T16:14:00.001-04:00

Riding the Q train, crossing the Manhattan Bridge

Twenty-something woman talking on her cell phone: I'm just exhausted, like really stressed. (Audible sigh) I know I just need to slooww down...I dunno...If I could just get some kind of disease. Not like a really nasty one or anything. Something where I could just sleep for like a week...Right, like mono. You know anyone who has that?

When a Woodchuck Could Chuck Wood

2008-04-28T22:00:00.003-04:00

It has come to my attention that if I want to find a boyfriend I need to move to the suburbs. Why, you ask, when I live among a city population of eight million? Let me explain.

Recently I was surprised to learn of two friends who had met their beaus the old-fashioned way: in person. What makes their stories even more remarkable is that they both met their boyfriends while riding the train, specifically the Long Island Railroad and New Jersey Transit.

Their experiences reminded me of Cliff Bond’s essay which I’d published on The Subway Chronicles website last year about his chance encounter with the woman who would become his wife. He noticed her sitting on a bench waiting for the uptown 1 train, sucked it up and mesmerized her with dazzling small talk. This seems to be such a rare phenomenon these days, I chalked up his experience to random luck or fate or (insert your choice of cosmic who-ha) and forgot about it.

I’m sure plenty of people have first spied their significant other across a crowded subway car, but, and this is key, you have one shot to work up the gumption to introduce yourself. The father of your children could easily get off at the next stop while you’re still figuring out if you would sound like a total loser to say, by way of intro, “Is this an express train?” (Of course the answers are, yes, it is an express train, and yes, you do sound like a loser.)

There is less pressure on the suburban commuter trains. Since these trains run on a specific schedule, most people catch the same train every rush hour, so you end up commuting with the same group day-in and day-out. We all know ‘subway schedule’ is considered the definition of oxymoron, though I will say that through some strange force, I’ll occasionally find myself seeing a very cute guy four days in a row. The entire time, I’m thinking, How can I break the ice? I know. I’ll ask him if this is an express train. Then, as if in a payback for my waffling, I don’t see him again for three months, after which time he’s wearing a wedding ring.

So, for all of you who aced the analytical portion of the GRE:

If a NJ Transit train leaves Secaucus at 8:27 a.m., traveling at 20 miles per hour, and I am on a 2 train leaving Grand Army Plaza at 8:31 a.m., and the cosine of the hypotenuse equals the square of the moon in the seventh house only when the year of the rat is divided by the sound of a tree falling in the forest with no one there to hear it, when will I intersect with the man of my dreams?

A. The day trying to get from the West Village to Alphabet City doesn’t involve three train transfers, a pedi-cab, a surly car service driver and hiking boots.
B. When you stop looking. That’s when you’ll find him. (Thanks, Mom.)
C. When someone can actually understand the conductor’s announcements.
D. When a woodchuck could chuck wood.

(You didn’t think I would leave you high-and-dry without an array of multiple choice options, did you?)

Overheard on the Subway - Part 2

2008-04-18T10:17:00.002-04:00

Son: But I want to sit doooowwwwnnn!

Grandmother (mostly to herself): Oh, hush now. You got young legs. My legs are old and tired. When you're old and tired, then you can sit. Complaining to me about sitting when you as good as new. I got things to complain about. My back aches and my feet ache. And I got the gout. Boy, when you got the gout you can sit. Count your lucky stars you don't have the gout.

- on the A train

Cure Insomnia. Save the World.

2008-04-15T09:57:00.001-04:00

I recently purchased a white noise machine. This magical little contraption emits a constant whirring that sounds like the "t.v. snow" when stations used to sign off for the night. I set it up near my front door and it quite successfully blocks most errant hallway noise. If plain white noise isn't your thing, know that you can pick up a variety of soothing sounds. The nature-inspired can listen to the sounds of the rainforests (gorilla mating calls included) and New Agers can be calmed with Anasazi flutes. Since this machine is for my dog, who gets a little riled up by strange noises in the hallway, I didn't think he'd have the appropriate appreciation for Sounds of the Orca.

These machines are nothing new to many New Yorkers, who have to find some way to drown out all kinds of street noise, especially in the summer when windows are open and neighbors (read teenagers) find it reasonable to hang out on the corner talking trash, etc. until 3 a.m.

(In a strange paradox, give a New Yorker the silence of a remote B&B and he will lie awake interminably because it's too quiet. It's just him and all that empty stillness. And for the love of God something make a sound!)

Enter a new genre of soothing vibrations: the sound of the subway. This would be a compilation of a subway car gliding down the tracks on a ride that never ends to lull you into peaceful slumber. In this version of subway nirvana there are no annoying PA announcements, no ear-drum splitting brakes, no bing-bongs of the doors closing. Just you and the gentle clickety-clack rhythm of the train. What I call the Kick-It-Up-A-Notch edition would include a device to tenderly rock you to dreamland complete with the shimmy and shake of the F train.

I can't claim this idea as entirely my own. Last weekend my friend M. was visiting from the West Coast. She'd lived in NYC for years before relocating to what I like to call the Groundhog Day City. (Here is my synopsis of every morning I've ever experienced in San Diego: 1. Alarm goes off. 2. Open curtains. 3. See perfect blue sky, nary a cloud. 4. Feel gentle breeze of 70 degree temperature. 5. Repeat.) As we rode the Q to Union Square M. noted that she forgot how easy it was to nod off listening to the hum of the subway. Now if she could just package the sounds of the subway she could cure her insomnia for good.

Coming soon for $19.95 to a station near you.

Achtung, Baby!

2008-04-01T12:38:00.001-04:00

“Attention, police. Attention, police,” said an extremely calm voice over the loudspeaker at Atlantic Avenue. “Your presence is needed on the uptown 5 train holding in the station at Nevins due to suspicious activity. Attention, police.”

The doors on my 2 train close and the mysterious voice is sealed out. We move to the next stop which is Nevins Street, where I assume I’ll catch a glimpse of the Po-Po and so-called suspicious activity.

Level one suspicious: The smart-looking businessman with his hand down his pants a la Al Bundy while staring at a pretty woman on the 4 train. (Aside: she snapped his suggestive pose with her camera phone and his photo was blasted over the front page of the Post the next day. Explain that to your wife, buddy.) Level ten suspicious: Staring through the train door window while a firefighter on an otherwise abandoned the West 4th Street platform stares back at me. He’s in full gear complete with oxygen mask shaking his head and waving the train conductor not to open the doors.

Am I concerned about the activity at Nevins Street? I really can’t afford to be. If something truly horrible were occurring, what exactly could I do about it hundreds of feet underground and somewhat trapped inside a metal can? I think this is why New Yorkers are so good at what we like to call “business as usual.”

And that, Ken Wheaton said in his essay in the Subway Chronicles book, is due to conditioning. “We’ve simply reached and are able to maintain a transcendent state of subway existence. After all, if a New Yorker did start considering all the things that could possibly go wrong, he’d never get to work.”

It’s rather Zen, if you think about it. Whatever goes down, the subway commuter’s brain is always in the present. A few years back, my stepdad stepped in front of a suspect who was trying to evade the lone cop chasing him down the Jay St./Borough Hall platform and pinned him on the stairs leading to the street. Once back-up arrived, we boarded the next arriving F train and never talked about it again. There is no dwelling on the ‘what ifs’.

My train arrives at Nevins and the voice again says, “Attention, police,” as if he was announcing a golf game. I look through the window to see what I can see. Absolutely nothing. There’s no police, no suspicious activity, no firemen on the platform (Though I would not be entirely upset about this. It must be a job requirement that all FDNY recruits rate in the “Oh my god” category of the hot department. They have a calendar. Here’s one more reason not to ban photography on the subway.)

Where was I?

Right – the non-existent suspicious activity. My train moves on to Hoyt Street, and one stop closer to the office, back to business as usual.

Overheard on the subway...

2008-03-31T17:17:00.001-04:00

Guy #1: So then I’ll transfer to the D.

Guy # 2: Don't do it. That D train will fuck you over every time, man.

Homage to Overheard in New York - a favorite eavesdropping website of almost everyone I know. It has snippets of conversation submitted by readers who overheard them on the street, or in the elevator, or more often than not, in the subway. As Lawrence Block wrote, "You don't often overhear a lot of interesting things when you're driving around in your car. Overheard in Los Angeles? No, I don't think so."

You and Your Devilish Ways

2008-03-20T14:33:00.002-04:00

I’m having an uneventful train ride home. Peaceful, even. I cross the platform at Chambers Street to a waiting 2 train. The doors close and a man from the opposite end of the train car shouts, “REPENT!”

What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a subway preacher.

The subway preacher is a unique type of busker. He’s not trying to entertain you like the strolling mariachi band or the guy who plays Big Band-era hits on his horn. Nor is he pleading his sad story in a bold-faced attempt to get donations. No, no. The subway preacher is simply sharing information which is, to be direct about it, that you’re going to hell.

On this evening, my subway preacher is a fire-and-brimstone type sporting a thick Jamaican accent. Since it seems that I’m stuck in a traveling pulpit, for the subway preacher does not change cars at each new stop like the musicians, I figure I’ll make the best of it.

“The answer is not in your fancy house or your fancy purse or your fancy car. No, mon. The answer is not in any of those things.”

He seems to be saying that we place too much importance on material things. That’s something I can get on board with, but then he crosses the proverbial line in the sand.

“You think you can listen to the devil all your life and then follow God to the kingdom of heaven? No, mon. It doesn’t work like that. Let me tell you how it works. You will all go to hell. You have to break free of your devilish ways. Tell that demon inside you: ‘You are not welcome here anymore.’ Repent, earthly children, REPENT!”

Um…

“God made Eve for Adam. He didn’t make Adam for Adam. That’s the devil taking up in you.”

And because New Yorkers can’t keep their mouths shut, a woman protests about this recent comment. The preacher rains a barrage of Bible quotes down upon her. This scene reminds me of a woman affectionately known to F train riders as the Chinese curses lady.

The Chinese curses lady, who eerily resembled Yoko Ono in her giant glasses phase, had one big pet peeve. She did not like anyone to talk on the train. The subject matter wasn’t important.

“So, I heard it’s going to rain later today.”

“One hundred curses on you,” said Chinese curses lady. “You call the Chinese name from the devil? One hundred curses!”

Inevitably the offending person would glance her way, realize the lady’s elevator was not rising to the top floor, and continue the conversation. “I forgot to bring my umbrella and I have to go way uptown.”

“Five hundred curses on you,” said Chinese curses lady.

I’ve seen people move to another part of the train car to get away from her, but she would not be deterred. She would simply follow them, sending curses their way the whole time. For months, I’d traveled unscathed until one day I made the mistake of talking to a friend before I realized she was there. From behind me, her voice boomed, “One thousand curses on you.” Whoa. That’s a lot of curses. Don’t we usually start at 100?

My friend began talking, oblivious to the blight now on our auras.

“One million curses on you.” That’s some bad ju-ju.

Meanwhile the subway preacher continues railing, having moved deftly from homosexuals to George Bush – the transition easier than one might think. I alight at Grand Army Plaza while he still has the devil on his mind.

He's Back!

2008-03-14T11:25:00.004-04:00

The homeless man who spends his mornings on the platform at Grand Army Plaza is back after a long absence. (See So Easy You Just Smile post.) He showed up a few days ago, sporting a new knit cap. I found him carefully pouring most of a 5 lb. bag of sugar into a bottle of orange soda. His cart was intact and contained more of less the same things when I last saw him weeks ago.

I was relieved to see him and comforted to know that he had not been victimized while he was away. Every morning that he’d been gone, I’d thrown out some positive vibes for his safe return, but then I realized that instead maybe I should have been hoping to never see him again, that he would find a way out of his current situation and into a better life. Is that egotistical of me to presume that one way of life is better than another? He could be perfectly happy in his current situation, surviving on the kindness of strangers, unencumbered by the traps of society.

Many people might look at my existence and assume something similar – "How does she live in a 600 sq. ft. apartment in a 5th floor walk-up? I hope that someday she can move up to a big house with a fenced yard." While that would be very nice, I’m actually happy in my tiny apartment, thank you very much.

I’m starting to rethink the notion that "more" means "better". Maybe instead of hoping that the guy at Grand Army Plaza gets what I want for him, he should get whatever it is he wants for himself.

Later that evening, I was returning home after walking my dog around the neighborhood. An elderly woman came out of her building with a yellow lab. She’s partially blind and shows signs of dementia. In fact the only reason she seems able to live on her own, and not in an assisted living home, is due to the dog.

I’ve seen her many times before. She never strays from the straight line between her door and the curb so the dog can relieve himself. Occasionally I see her wrap his leash around the fire hydrant so she can brush him. She is not gentle or kind, using the brush as if she were scrubbing a linoleum floor.

Easily more than 80 pounds, the lab remained docile while his owner jerked his collar and whined, "Come on! Why are you doing this to me? Hurry up!" His inky, soulful eyes watched intently as I passed with my dog. They stared at each other and I would swear in a courtroom that this dog was begging to be released from this situation. "I did it Your Honor. I stole this dog and drove him upstate to a farm where he can breathe fresh air, sniff another dog’s butt, eat gross stuff and run until his tongue is hanging out."

As I put my key in the door, I glanced once more at the dog, still staring at us as the lady yelled again, "Hurry up!" I felt so sad for him, just as I’d felt sad for the guy at Grand Army Plaza, and I wished the dog a better life – the life I wanted him to lead, the life I thought he should have. But maybe, just maybe, he’s fine just where he is. Maybe he doesn’t mind the 600 sq. ft. apartment in the 5th floor walk-up. Maybe he’s actually already happy.

You Know You've Been Riding the Subway Too Long When... (# 5)

2008-03-13T16:32:00.001-04:00

Upon arriving at your destination, your first order of business, before you put your bags down or remove your coat or get a cup of coffee, you unconsciously make a beeline for the nearest sink to wash your hands.

(See Spring is in the Air post.)

Spring Is in the Air

2008-03-06T13:01:00.002-05:00

With the onset of spring comes a lighter feeling, the desire to shed the things that have been weighing you down all winter physically, emotionally and spiritually. No one, young or old, is immune. It's hard for folks who live in climes where the trees remain green all year to understand fully the newfound energy and yearning to take a walk on the wild side when the buds appear after a long frostbitten winter. So when New York had its first balmy day this week with high temperatures near 60, I knew it was only a matter of time before something crazy happened. What I didn't expect was that it would involve a four-year-old girl and the 1 train.

Each morning I transfer from the 2 express at Chambers to the 1 local. On this day, the 1 train was fairly empty – anyone who wanted a seat had one. Across from me was a father taking his young daughter to day care or pre-pre-pre-school, which it seems children must be enrolled in while still in the womb or be destined for a life of desperation and depravity. The father was deep in conversation with the friend seated next to him about the political candidates.

The little girl, unencumbered from her usual bundle of down coat, scarf, hat and mittens, wanted to dance. She wanted to twist and shout and boogie-on-down. So she wiggled off her father's lap and showed off her moves that would rival some of the competitors on Dancing with the Stars.

Her father was wary and held on to her hand in case the train stopped short. But that wouldn't do. She wanted to be free from all restraints. She pulled from her father's grasp and shook what her momma gave her to a tune that was only in her mind. As we approached Franklin Street, her father stopped talking to his friend long enough to tell the girl to hold on to the pole. She grasped the silver pole in the middle of the car still dancing. (Let me pause for a moment to say that in no way am I guessing at or alluding to this girl's future career choice.)

The doors closed and we were on our way. The girl started a Flashdance-like stutter step and twirling around the pole. Her sheer abandon was infectious. I wanted to be four again, doing whatever the moment begot, hearing some kind of Orpheus-inspired melody in my mind, not letting my ego tell me it was embarrassing to do such a thing.

And then this sweet little girl did a thing so vile, everyone around her, including her own father, cringed involuntarily. Swept up by what can only be attributed to spring fever, she stuck out her tongue and licked the pole.

For you subway riders, no further explanation is necessary. In case you car commuters are wondering what the fuss is about and lest you think I'm a germophobic nut, I'll just say, this pole, that most assuredly has never been cleaned since the train was commissioned during the Ford administration, has been held by hundreds of thousands of hands. Hands that have been sneezed on and coughed into. Hands that have gone to unmentionable places. Hands that picked noses only moments before. Who knows where else these hands have been?

I wouldn't be surprised if, in the coming months, a report was issued showing your house's dish sponge contains more germ-toting bacteria than the average subway pole. But I'm not taking any chances. Someone hand me some antibacterial lotion.

BO on the 2/3

2008-02-28T21:00:00.002-05:00

The train was already in the station at Grand Army Plaza when I swiped my Metrocard. I double-timed it down the stairs. The automated voice on the newer trains announced to stand clear of the closing doors. I flew through the nearest open door moments before it shut. I watched the platform slip away as I congratulated myself on my agility and speed and on the fact that I would now only be 10 minutes late to work instead of 15 had I been forced to wait for the next train.

Then I turned around.

I was alone in the car.

It takes a moment to process why one would be alone in a train car during the height of rush hour. Was this train out of service? Maybe we were headed straight for the bowels of the city, some Dante-esque place where the trains are destined for an eternity of riding on a circular track, never reaching a terminus. But through the window to the next car I could see plenty of people. In fact they looked like they were wedged in tighter than a toothpick between two molars.

And then I understood. The realization came to me slowly as if riding on a wave of air molecules. The entire car had been compromised by one extremely rank homeless guy.
I’ve smelled plenty of foul stuff before. One particularly horrific stink involved a county fair ride called the Gravitron. It was an enclosed ride shaped like a spaceship. You entered into complete darkness (except for strobe lights) and then the spaceship spun around gathering enough centrifugal force that you’d “stick” to the walls. After a month at the fair servicing thousands of funnel cake eating, pot smoking teenagers, I imagine they had no choice but to burn the ride to the ground to eliminate the smell.

But this. This was extraterrestrial stink. I know I’m failing you as your faithful subway commuter, but I honestly can’t describe the smell. It was layers and layers and months and months of egregious filth so powerful that it cleared an entire subway car. This was the kind of smell that stays with you. It permeates the fibers of your coat and your hair. Your eyes water. Even breathing through your mouth doesn’t stop the funk from going undetected. Somehow, despite years of commuting under my belt, I’d boarded this car anyway. Rookie mistake.

There are not many things that would cause a New Yorker to forgo an opportunity to sit and instead pack himself into a car for the next 30 minutes. I’ve remained in cars next to people eating chicken wings, in complete darkness, with a mariachi band working the crowd, but this was unbearable. Damn the MTA for locking the doors between the cars.

The ride to Bergen Street when I could move to the next car was interminable. I was poised as we pulled into the station. As soon as the doors opened, I burst out of the car coughing like someone who had been stuck in a gas chamber then suddenly set free. I squeezed my way into the next car. People around me wrinkled their noses and issued sidelong glances at the new girl who stank to high heaven.

You Know You've Been Riding the Subway Too Long When... (# 4)

2008-02-25T13:55:00.001-05:00

you understand there are two and only two reasons a subway car would be empty during rush hour:

1. The a/c is broken.

2. The entire car has been compromised by a funk so bad it'll make your eyes water. *

* More to come

So Many Choices, Not a Right One Among 'Em

2008-02-20T20:04:00.001-05:00

In Bill Bryson’s book, In a Sunburned Country, he describes the harsh landscape of Australia’s outback. “It’s almost not possible to exaggerate the punishing nature of Australia’s interior. It’s an environment that wants you dead.” To illustrate his point, he describes an incident involving a young Austrian couple. They had rented a four-by-four vehicle to explore off the beaten path (as if the entire outback wasn’t already off the beaten path). Soon they were hopelessly sunk to their axles in sand. The nearest trafficked road was about 40 miles away. I imagine they weighed every option, every possible choice before the woman decided to take nine of their twelve liters of water and set off into the punishing 140F heat, leaving the man to wait with the car.

Bryson notes that at temperatures that high “it is actually possible to begin to cook, rather as you would in a microwave oven, from the inside out.” Sad to say, the woman only covered 18 miles in two days before she expired. The man, who had the availability of shade, was rescued and survived.

So it is with the same longing, if not the same torturous conditions, that I sit on the 2 train at Hoyt Street pondering the vaguest of all subway announcements: the dreaded “police incident.”

There are three options given that the incident is at Chambers Street in Manhattan, each riddled with its own problems:
1. Wait it out
2. Since there are no transfers to another train line at Hoyt, backtrack one stop to Nevins Street to try to catch one of the 2/3 trains now going express past Hoyt.
3. Exit the train and walk one stop to Borough Hall, pick up the R train to DeKalb, transfer to the B to West 4th Street and walk about 10 minutes to my office.

And it’s already 8:55 a.m.

Then the conductor seems to eliminate option # 1. “This train is out of service. Everyone out! No passengers.”

We all move to the platform as the train speeds away empty and simultaneously stare down the tracks hoping to see a set of headlights through the dark tunnel. Nothing.

Another 2 train rumbles by on the express track, so I make my move – option 2. I have to go upstairs to the street and cross the road to get to the Brooklyn bound platform. I have a gaggle of people with me, so I feel good about my decision. That is, until I reach the platform just in time to see a train pull in on the Manhattan-bound tracks, watch the people board and get whisked away while I wait to go in the opposite direction.

At Nevins, I make my way to the correct platform and jump aboard a waiting train to find one of my co-workers already aboard. (This is one of those inexplicable things about NYC – how, of all the subway cars on all the tracks in all the city, if you’ll excuse my borrowing from Casablanca, I can walk onto a train and run into the person who sits two feet away from me at work.)

We get underway to Hoyt, where the whole ordeal began, and move smoothly to Borough Hall. I’ve just finished regaling her with my poor decision to double-back when the conductor makes an important announcement: “There is a sick passenger on this train. We are holding in the station.” What the hell!?!

It is now 9:20 a.m. and I’m not out of Brooklyn. We have three options:
1. Wait it out.
2. Transfer to the R train to DeKalb, transfer to the B to West 4th Street and walk about 10 minutes to my office.
3. Transfer to the 4/5 train to Fulton Street to transfer back to the 2/3.

My friend says, “Option 1.” So we wait.

The conductor appears in our car. “The lady is refusing to be moved. We are here until EMS arrives.” I’m going to sound like a brash New Yorker when I say, unless you’re comatose or have some kind of spinal cord injury, please give the 1,000 people in the 10 cars on this train a break. This isn’t a crime scene. If you’d kindly move the five feet to the platform, we’ll all be on our way. Chop, chop.

Through a series of rock, paper, scissor wars, we go with option 3. After a decent walk underground, we hop on the 4 train and get to Fulton Street. My friend notes wistfully that now that we’re in the city, if all else fails, we can walk to the office. Outer borough residents will understand that through blackouts, employee strikes and terrorist attacks, the overriding feeling in situations like this is “just get me to the point where I can walk the rest of the way,” i.e. over the East River.

As we’re walking underground to the 2/3, which should be mighty crowded, we pass the platform for the A/C. It’s now 9:35.

We have 2 options:
1. Wait for the C train to Spring Street.
2. Continue to the 2/3 to Chambers Street and transfer to the 1. Then it’s a shorter walk to the office.

I think I’m done walking and transferring. “Let’s just wait for the C,” I say. My friend balks, but agrees. The A express train pulls in and leaves. Then another A train pulls in and leaves. She points out that we could probably be on the 2 by now. I’m sure she’s right. I’m exhausted and second-guessing myself and I haven’t even gotten to work yet.

Then the C arrives. It’s now 9:50. We exit at Spring Street and walk halfway down the block before we are turned around. Cranes are blocking the road and sidewalk to add something to the Trump Soho high rise.

So many choices, not a right one among them.

You Know You've Been Riding the Subway Too Long When... (# 3)

2008-02-14T16:11:00.003-05:00

You know who Dr. Z is and, during long train delays, have actually given serious thought to using his services.

[For the uninitiated, Dr. Zizmor’s ubiquitous ads in every fifth car of the NYC subway system have developed a sort of cult following. ''Is your skin loose? Do you have more than one chin? Has your skin lost its firmness and tightness? Do you think you look older than you should for your age?'' Never fear. Dr. Z is here. With the image of Dr. Z himself at the end of the rainbow, he says, “Now you can have beautiful, clear skin.”]

Poetry in Motion

2008-02-11T14:05:00.001-05:00

On this frightengly cold morning (- 3 with the wind chill) I stepped into the sardine can they call the B train. I haven't taken the B train in a while, but it was the closest to my doctor's appointment. (Oh I will never compain about you again, 2 train!)

These two poems were posted in the train car, one right next to the other. As my butt rubbed against the guy behind me (unfortunately he looked nothing like Johnny Depp), I read the poems and was transported.

Here they are. May you read them in a comfortable chair without having some lady sneeze on you.

For all of the aspiring writers out there:

Utterance
Sitting over words
very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing
not far
like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark
the echo of everything that has ever
been spoken
still spinning its one syllable
between the earth and silence

~W.S. Merwin

An early Valentine's gift:

love is a place

love is a place
& through this place of
love move(with brightness of peace)
all places

yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live(skilfully curled)
all worlds

~ e.e. cummings

You Know You've Been Riding the Subway Too Long When... (# 2)

2008-02-08T13:45:00.001-05:00

even if you've never been to that station before, you have a sixth sense about which end of the platform to watch for the next arriving train.

(Note: Regular riders will always stare down the tracks looking for the headlights of the next train. It doesn't matter if a train just left the station 2 seconds ago.)

Rat Race

2008-02-06T22:12:00.000-05:00

Ahh, the elections, or as Jon Stewart fondly refers to it: Indecision 2008.

The campaign supporters and volunteers were out in force in 22 states yesterday, including New York, for Super Tuesday (or if you’re watching MSNBC: Monster Super Tuesday). I suppose in most places voters are bombarded with leaflets and brochures at the places they most often gather like traffic lights or the food court at the mall. In New Haven, CT, however, voters may be treated to a cup of Joe and friendly banter right at the polls by former first daughter Chelsea Clinton, which, I mention as an aside, is against the law.

In New York City, when campaigners want to reach the most voters in a precinct, they take to the subway. For the past week, commuters have been virtually pummeled from all sides as they enter and leave the stations. There’s no way to escape without feeling like you’ve been covered in mud as you pass them. Actually most times, I slink away as if I were a sort of dastardly scab worker crossing the union picket line. I don’t know why.

Another aside: While writing an article a few years back, I had to do some research on voting and elections. It surprised me to learn that almost forty percent of eligible voters don’t cast a ballot. I decided to conduct a very informal poll.

“Why do you vote?” I asked a colleague in Manhattan.

“If you don’t vote, you can’t complain about the way the country is being run.”

“You’re saying you vote so you can complain later?” I asked.

“That’s right.” A New Yorker to the core.

Then I put the question to a friend while we were riding the D train home one night. “It’s our responsibility as citizens,” she said.

Sounded like rhetoric to me. “Why?”

“Because a lot of other people around the world would like to vote, but they can’t.”

Not one person mentioned that they voted to, as former slave turned abolitionist Frederick Douglass argued, “choose rules and make laws.” Several people told me they didn’t vote at all. “Maybe when there’s someone worth voting for I’ll dust off my registration card. It’s not like anyone wins by one vote,” said one Ivy League educated woman.

Maybe not. But that probably wasn’t even on the minds of the women demanding, among other rights, the right to vote in 1848. After the first Women’s National Convention, the newspapers called the women “heretics” and “sexless old maids.” One said the convention was “amusing,” and one claimed that equal rights would “prove a monstrous injury to all mankind.”

Convention organizer Elizabeth Cady Stanton sensed that the right to vote would be a long time coming. “We are sowing winter wheat and won’t be alive to see the spring harvest.” (She was right. It would take 72 more years before the 19th Amendment was ratified giving women the right to vote in 1920. And every day – every day – until she died she worked for the future she would never see, chipping away at the establishment.)

So here’s my little plug, for whatever it’s worth. If you can’t muster the desire to vote for yourself or your future, then do it for Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony and the thousands of other men and women who spent their entire lives wishing they could part a curtain, click a few boxes and “make their voices heard,” as one leaflet given to me promised.

In the end, I think that’s what all the campaign supporters are doing at the subway stations – trying to make their voices heard. It’s so easy to get caught up in the din, especially when they are competing for attention with supporters from other camps. Like the buskers who follow unspoken rules to keep to certain areas of the station, so do the volunteers. The Clinton team waits at the top of the stairs as you enter the station and the Obama team is near the turnstile. They have catchy little slogans (“It’s Obama-rama.”), colorful placards and expensively-produced brochures. But sometimes, the lines get blurred when tensions run high.

On Monday, I approached the turnstile at Grand Army Plaza in the middle of an argument between two campaigners. It was getting heated. I didn’t hear all of what was being said, but it was something like, “Your candidate’s momma wears combat boots.” Fingers were pointing, nostrils were flaring, and it didn’t seem long before fists might come out. There were people around trying to break it up. I ducked my head and hurried down to the platform.

Maybe that’s why I feel strange when I pass the campaigners hanging around the subway stations. I hope they understand what they’re really fighting for.

A Study in Perfection

2008-02-01T19:23:00.001-05:00

Consider these two scenarios from separate train rides this week:

On an uptown 2 train, a nicely dressed man escorts his daughter to school. She appears to be about nine years old. They are facing each other with the silver pole between them. He carries her pink backpack slung over one shoulder.

The father decides to use their commute time wisely. He quizzes her on her times tables. She is eager to do well so her father can be proud of her.

The father asks, “What’s four times five?”

“Twenty! That’s easy!”

“Okay. How about seven times eight?”

A little harder. She thinks. “Forty –two?”

“Nooo. Think.”

The girl ticks her fingers as if she could use them to count that high. “Forty-nine?”

“Are you guessing, or do you know?”

“Uhm. Fifty-five?”

Frustration shadows across the father’s face. “How can you not know the answer to this? We’ve studied the seven times tables over and over. Night after night.”

“Fifty-nine?” She almost whispers.

The father shakes his head. “How do you expect to get into the magnet school? You’re competing against kids that know their times tables already. Everything builds from here.”

The corners of her mouth downturn and tears start to roll down her cheeks. In mere seconds she is bawling. “I-I-I’m sor-sor-sorry.”

“Stop crying.” The father pulls a hankie from his pocket. He pats her on the shoulder. “We’re just going to have to study harder. That’s all.”

************************************************************

The Brooklyn-bound Q train is crowded but most people who want one have found a seat. A heavy-set and eccentric father is sitting closest to the door while his daughter has the middle seat next to him. It’s clear where she has gotten her taste in clothes, but it could also be partially a result of the onset of her teenage years.

Resting on his stomach the father holds the Times crossword puzzle. He is smiling all over.

“We need a four-letter word for ‘Waterloo pop group.’”

“Abba.”

“Of course! Abba.” He writes it in the squares. “You weren’t even alive then.”

“I went to see Mamma Mia, remember?”

“Yes, yes.” He nods. “How about ‘Melville captain?’”

“Ahab!” They both say at the same time.

“Eight down: ‘Before to bards.’”

“How many letters?”

“Three.”

The girl looked at the ceiling with her Bette Davis eyes, eyes that will someday be her favorite feature, and said, “I don’t know.” She rested her head on her father’s ample arm.

“Okay, let’s try another one.” He scanned the clues. “Got the gold.”

“First,” she said.

“You’re first in my book,” the father said.

The girl rolled her eyes as only teenagers can, but her lips curled ever so slightly.

Getting to Know You...

2008-01-27T20:12:00.001-05:00

At this time of year it gets dark about 4:45 p.m., so when I take my dog for his evening stroll, I get the added benefit of checking out what the neighbors are up to. The warm glow coming from brownstone windows attracts me like a moth to a flame. Whose kids are throwing tantrums, whose Christmas decorations are still up (!), who is eating take-out from La Taqueria while watching Project Runway.

It satisfies the voyeur in me.

I don’t know these people personally, but I feel like I do. They are part of my vast extended family, my community in the truest sense of the word. A barrier is removed that’s more than just physical when there’s nothing between you but a window, rather than, as in the suburbs, a fence, a driveway and a half-acre of grass. Those that live in gated, manicured subdivisions, I think, are missing out on the meaning of community despite the lovely clubhouse, heated pool and tennis courts that sold them in the first place with the hope of “getting to know their neighbors”

I like that my neighbors leave magazines and old books on their stoops. Pick them up as you please then pass them on. Did your kid lose a glove? Go back to where you last saw it and you’ll likely find it waving back at you from the finial of a wrought iron handrail. If your dog is thirsty, walk him by the brownstone where the owner leaves a large bowl of water and hose for refills.

Statesman of Ancient Rome Cicero said, “We were born to unite with our fellow men, and to join in community with the human race.” (And, while I’m at it, the idea of community can even connect us to past generations. Poet and fellow Brooklynite Walt Whitman reminds us, “What is it then between us? / What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? / Whatever it is, it avails not – distance avails not, and place avails not, I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine.”)There are many neighborhoods like mine around the country fulfilling those aspirations, but nowhere is that truer than on the subway.

During Friday morning’s ride, the conductor is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. At the Nevins Street stop, “Five train pulling in across the platform. Step lively and make your transfer, Brooklyn.”

At Hoyt Street, as if he’s working the crowd at Yankee Stadium, he says, “Hoooyyytt! Hoooyyytt, here!”

Then at Borough Hall, “Hey Brooklyn, wake up! How you doin’ this morning?” It’s not like we can answer him, but regardless, I think to myself. “I’m okay.”

The guy next to me is not okay, apparently. He’s reading the results from his employer’s random drug screening. I know this because, master of deduction that I am, I see the paper he’s holding says in bright red letters across the top of the page, “Substance Toxicology Report.” I can also see that he has failed.

You may be thinking to yourself, why would he be reading such a personal document in public? He doesn’t feel he’s in public, not in a general anonymous sense. He’s in his community – a personal, comfortable space. It’s the same reason the lady across the street from me will walk to the corner coffee shop in her slippers on Sunday morning. These areas are an extension of their private spaces.

So people read a lot of things on the train that would otherwise be classified as personal – bank statements, retribution summaries from lawyers, 401K reports, etc. It’s like an informal state of the union – getting up to date on your community. He looks wealthy, but just got evicted; She received a sizeable inheritance; He is failing every class, except gym. I just got a jury summons. (Note to NYC residents: you’ll regret filling out that benign-looking questionnaire.) People out in the ‘burbs buy People Magazine or watch Entertainment Tonight to catch up on the goings-on (most of which has dubious information at best); I just get on the subway and get the real scoop.

Young and Foolish

2008-01-22T16:22:00.001-05:00

The train screeches into the 7th Avenue station while I am descending from the street. By the time I swipe my Metrocard and take the stairs two at a time down to the platform, I hear the annoying bing-bong sound of the doors closing, and I am left standing by while the train gathers speed to the next stop. I wonder how little events could have transpired or conspired so that I would have been able to make the train. If I had made the green light at Lincoln Place on my walk to the station...If I hadn’t gotten the “too fast-swipe again at this turnstile” message (which honestly only makes me swipe faster in frustration)…If I hadn’t changed my clothes twice…This last one is less about a vain concern for my appearance and more about a subconscious ploy to procrastinate going to work.

Now that I have the time, I walk toward the back of the train. For all of the stations I frequent I am well aware of the location of the exits. If I’m going to work, I want to be at the back of the train because when I arrive at West 4th Street the stairs to the street are closest to that end. When I go to the gym, I get in the very first car with the train operator. In other cities where the trains and platforms aren’t as long, this probably is not common practice. I figure right now while I’m waiting for the next train, I’m on the MTA’s time. But when I get to West 4th Street, I’m on my clock and I don’t want to waste precious minutes walking the length of ten train cars to get to my exit.

The Q train arrives and I’m waiting for the B so I step back to give those now running down the stairs for their train a wide berth. I have a friend from Atlanta who refused to run for the train when she was visiting. I understand this. She’s on vacation and there will be another train along in a few minutes. Though, let’s be honest, even then I have to fight the urge to sprint to the waiting train. I mean, if I can get where I’m going five minutes faster, why wouldn’t I hurry? She clucked that I had become too “New York minute,” always rushing, and I should ease my pace before I have a heart attack. This is the same person who will breakneck down I-85 twenty miles per hour above the speed limit, weaving in and out of traffic, to shave a minute off her commute. But I digress.

During the day, when trains come every few minutes, my friend’s philosophy is fine, but not at one a.m. when time between trains can be twenty to thirty minutes. Then I turn into Jackie Joyner-Kersee. I’ll hurdle garbage cans, sleeping homeless people and small rats to be on that train before the doors close.

This has led me to another interesting point. New York’s subway is the only major subway system in the world to operate twenty-four hours a day. In more civilized places, the local government expects people to be deep into slumber by midnight when their trains stop running for the night. So when my friend refused to run for the train as the clock struck one, I knew we were in for a long wait and in terms of subway creepiness, there is a big difference between 1:00 am and 1:30. Why were we even in the subway at that hour? (Note to my mother: Please stop reading here.) The answer is simple: money. At the time I was an assistant to the assistant and, weighing the fifty dollars it would have cost us to take a cab versus the then-$1.50 to ride the train, there didn’t seem to be a contest. As we walked from the train station to my apartment after two a.m., I could see the headline: Foolish Women Should Have Taken Cab. (Or if it was the Post: Hacked for 50 Smacks.)

Not long ago an eighteen-year-old girl was struck and killed by a train because she had jumped on the tracks to retrieve her new cell phone. The train operator, who watched helplessly as he saw her struggling to get back onto the platform, but couldn’t stop in time, will probably be in therapy for the rest of his life, as will the two men who tried to pull her up from the tracks but instead had her ripped from their hands as the train barreled into the station. The cost of the phone? Fifty dollars. People who weren’t there shook their heads at how stupid she was to risk her life for that amount of money.

Digging Up the Good Dirt

2008-01-21T09:43:00.001-05:00

I think most people are basically good (yes, even in New York City). I get a lot of raised eyebrows and looks of pity when I say this. I understand your disbelief if you watch the television news.

A quick review of the top stories yesterday evening at 6 p.m. goes like this: ‘5-Car Crash Kills 3 in Hoboken,’ ‘Bronx Man Sentenced in Screwdriver Killing,’ ‘Jersey City Police Discover Body in Vehicle.’ I know I’m going to sound either whiny or deluded when I say I honestly wonder why the stations can’t air more positive stories. Defenders and non-challengers of the status quo say the answer is simply that bad news sells.

I want to be a well-informed citizen of my city, country and world, but the local television news (and often the national news) airs enough doomsday reports to make me not want to leave my apartment. Ever. Obviously sticking one’s head in the sand isn’t a good idea either, but really how can anyone’s day be enriched by learning that a 5-year-old boy was killed in a forklift accident at his father’s place of business?

Besides, isn’t it just as important, perhaps even more important, to share some feel-good news? There really are plenty of encouraging things going on these days, but you have to dig to find it. Here is a story I learned about a few days ago from one of the free morning papers. It didn’t appear on the nightly television news, or in the award-winning newspapers, or even on their corresponding websites.

Seemingly this would be an attention-grabbing story: a man clings to the railing right next to the tracks on the Williamsburg Bridge, and he’s threatening to jump.

For almost 45 minutes, as six MTA employees inched ever closer, the man incoherently mumbled his good-byes to this world. The workers, three track employees and three crew members of the Manhattan-bound J train, tried to calm the man to keep him from plunging into the icy waters of the East River.

The poor soul on the bridge screamed, “I want to be with my wife. I want to be with my wife.” Every time the man looked down to cry, the workers took another step closer. I know what the New Yorkers are thinking: What about all of the people on the train? Were they all late to work? (Admit it. You know it’s true.)

Finally the man reached over to shake one of the worker’s hands. The worker, Thomas Bodai, seized the opportunity and grabbed the man’s waist. He and the others pulled him to safety. Later, Bodai said, “You do what you have to do. It’s part of being a New Yorker.”

In the end, this story probably didn’t make headlines because there was no bloodshed or visit from the coroner. So for now I’m going to do what I have to do and keep the news turned off. Maybe if it doesn’t sell, they’ll get the message.

You Know You've Been Riding the Subway Too Long When...

2008-01-17T06:53:00.001-05:00

you don't even notice that your jury summons lists directions to the courthouse by subway and by bus but not by car.

Pickles 1, Me 0

2008-01-15T13:20:00.000-05:00

There are several things one doesn’t expect to see while riding the subway, among them: wheelchairs, pets, people having sex, aerobeds (see November 27th post), Santa Claus and rain inside the station. I’m not saying that these things never appear on the subway, but it’s rare. So when you happen upon one, you are stirred out of your general comatose-like state and take notice.

I awoke yesterday to find, instead of the 4-7 inches of snow predicted, nary a flake on the ground, so I was already in a good mood when I got to Grand Army Plaza, not having had to trudge through slush and sludge. Then the train came quickly and I got the last seat in the car. Monday was off to a kick-ass start.

The man on my left looked impeccable – tailored trench coat, cuff links peeking out from the sleeves, wing-tipped shoes. His hands rested on a monogrammed duffle bag on his lap. I would have sworn he had a manicure.

I had my book open (Amy Bloom’s latest Away), but felt my lids were sinking, sinking closed. (This is in no way a commentary on Ms. Bloom’s novel.) I thought I felt something brush against my thigh, but nothing alarming. Then I felt it again, a little harder. My eyes flicked open. Generally, touching of a fondling or pick-pocket nature doesn’t happen while one is sitting and usually only on very crowded trains. My mind wasn’t grasping what was going on.

A dog – a 10 lb, brown dachshund – had his two front paws on my leg and his two back paws on the man to my left. First thought: “Whaaa?” Second thought: “Awww!”

The man, flustered, attempted to lift the dog off of me. “I’m really sorry. He just leapt out.” He pointed to the duffle bag. Then, he talked to the dog. “Pickles, you have to stay in the bag. You know that.”

Pickles did not want to go back in the bag. He resisted in the style of a Tom and Jerry cartoon where Tom splays all limbs across a doorway to avoid being pushed through. I’ll admit I was a little flattered that Pickles was interested in me.

“Don’t worry. He probably just smells my dog,” I said. I returned to my book, trying not to stare at adorable little Pickles.

But Pickles was a sly one. He lay down on the man’s lap and gave him a don’t-worry-about-me-I’m-just-resting glance. The second the man relaxed, Pickles was up like a shot and sniffing all around my legs, leaving gobs of drool on my coat. This was going too far – Pickles and I barely knew each other.

The man was trying to rein him in a sort of lackluster way while Pickles was pointing his long snout in my pocket, rooting around. I tried to grab his collar to pull him off when he backed away all on his own, triumphant in his victory. From my pocket Pickles emerged with a rawhide I must have forgotten to give to my dog before I left the apartment.

Note to self: Prior to entering the subway station, empty pockets of all keys, money, cell phone and dog treats.

Dear Oprah

2008-01-14T14:20:00.000-05:00

When I was planning the book launch event for The Subway Chronicles two summers ago, I knew the party wouldn’t be complete without good music. It was apropos to ask a subway busker to play.

I sent invitations to a few members of Musicians Under New York (MUNY), and then I stumbled on Susan Cagle’s CD at the cash register of a local coffee shop. Of course it caught my eye. It’s titled, The Subway Recordings. I found her website, her agent, her My Space page and proceeded to shamelessly stalk her. And then I learned why she wasn’t responding and probably never would.

Susan Cagle had hit the big time. In the subway.

She and her band were discovered performing in the Times Square station by famed music producer Jay Levine. Faster than you can say “stand clear of the closing doors,” Susan Cagle was recording her first album for Sony/BMG. Listen to a sample of her song “Shakespeare” (actually recorded in the subway) with WMP.

“If you can play in the subway and get a crowd and be successful, you can play pretty much anywhere,” said Susan. It’s up to you, New York, New York.

Here she performs in the Times Square station for an MTV video. The song began as a letter she wrote in her diary when she was 16, so she titled it “Dear Oprah.” Then Oprah answered Susan’s letter last year by having her on the show.

The same principle doesn’t really apply to writers. I’ve penned a number of Dear Oprah letters in my day, but as yet she hasn’t responded. I’ll share one with you now, which goes something like this: Dear Oprah, Please choose my novel for your next book club selection. I promise I won’t snub you the way Jonathan Franzen did. I’ll let you put as many book club stickers on the cover as you want. I have no problem “selling out” to crass commercialism. Yours truly, A Writer, formerly known as A Poor Starving Writer.

Though, let it be known that one writer did get discovered on the subway. Mr. Heru Ptah is the author of A Hip-Hop Story, a modern version of West Side Story. He self-published his book and began selling it while walking through the subway cars. Between November 2002 and July 2003, he says he sold 10,000 copies, which is an astounding rate.

Then one night in 2003, Jacob Hoye, publishing director of MTV Books, purchased A Hip-Hop Story while riding the A train home to Brooklyn. He read the entire thing in one night and left a message for Ptah at 3:30 in the morning.

Hoye said he normally ignores salespeople on the train, but the author had such a charming spiel. ''I'm a young writer,'' he recalled Ptah saying. “It doesn't cost a thing to take a look. Just a glimpse? A glance? A peek? This is going to be the No. 1 book in the country. One year from now, No. 1 in the world. You see me here today. Tomorrow you see me on Oprah.''

Get in line, Mr. Ptah. Get in line.

An Honest Audience

2008-01-09T15:52:00.002-05:00

My last experience playing a musical instrument of any kind was about 15 years ago. I was in the supposedly soundproof practice rooms of my college’s music building. After I spent not an insignificant amount of time tuning my borrowed guitar, I launched into a show-stopping rendition of Row, Row, Row Your Boat. When I finished I distinctly heard a beautiful melody coming from the next room in which there apparently was a protégé of Yo Yo Ma doing Bach.

I know everyone has to begin somewhere, a journey of 1,000 miles begins with one step, etc. etc, but since then I’ve not been inclined to play the guitar while any souls are within a 100-yard radius. Considering I live in spitting distance of 8 million people, you can safely conclude I don’t play at all. Note: this also applies to karaoke no matter how many drinks I’ve had.

So I admire the folks who put themselves out there, get up on stage and bare their souls. It’s indeed a strange exercise to subject oneself to extreme vulnerability on a regular basis. (You writers know what I’m talking about, too.) The hardiest of these is the subway busker. Some are great and some should take a vow of silence, but either way, these people have guts. They play in hostile environments – trains roaring into the stations, brakes squealing, heat, gross stuff being thrown into their instrument cases, and possibly the worst, people just ignoring them. It’s a bit masochistic if you think about. Most do it, not for the pittance of change they get, but because they are driven to play music for people.

That’s one of the reasons I invited Don Witter to play at the book release party for The Subway Chronicles at the New York Transit Museum, housed in a converted subway station. He left his job in 1994 as a computer network troubleshooter to play classical guitar full time. He considers playing in the subway “as natural as anything else.”

Grand Army Plaza is his preferred station. I see him every Wednesday morning. He positions himself on a stool under his banner and plays one soothing tune after another. My favorite is Girl from Ipanema. Yeah, I’d rather be on a beach in Brazil than 100 feet underground on my way to work.

Recently at Grand Army Plaza there has been a man playing a full-size harp. I mean, good gracious, how dedicated (read crazy) you must be to lug that thing from your apartment, all the way to the station and then down at least two flights of stairs to the platform. (See the Rainy Days post.)

It’s a misunderstanding to think that buskers perform in the stations because they can’t get other gigs. Don, who is a member of Music Under New York (MUNY), an MTA group that boasts membership of 100 musicians and organizes the stations and times of their performances, regularly plays around the city, including venues like Lincoln Center. The musicians in MUNY range from the Big Apple Quartet (barbershop) to the Ebony Hillbillies (left) to Sean Grissom, the Cajun Cellist (linked on YouTube). From what I understand the auditions are fairly rigorous.

But I’m just not sure what to make of the Saw Lady. I guess if teenage boys can turn plastic containers into drums, why can’t she wield music from a saw? She’s performed in Paris, Rome, Florence, Prague and Tel-Aviv, but likes busking in New York best. “New Yorkers make an honest audience.”

I think that’s all that anyone, be it musician, writer, tax attorney… is looking for: an honest audience. Validation is a powerful thing. When I ask trusted friends to read my work, the absolute worst response I could receive is, “It’s good.” If I wanted an answer like that I’d just give it to my mom, who thinks everything I put on paper is better than Hemingway. (Thanks, Mom!)

That’s the blessing and curse that buskers live with – instant feedback. As Don put it, “You have to have character to play there.” He has also learned some valuable tips from playing on the platform. "If someone is hanging around too long, do not have too much money in your case. Play every single note well and bring your business cards because you never know who might hire you."

That’s probably Susan Cagle’s mantra, ‘You never know.’ More on her tomorrow.

Listen to Don Witter play Girl from Ipanema here.
Listen to the Saw Lady here.

So easy. You just smile, okay?

2008-01-07T20:26:00.001-05:00

I’ll admit I’m getting a bit worried. The homeless man who hangs out at Grand Army Plaza every morning hasn’t shown up for about a week now. He has been there for years without fail, save one brief period, occupying a seat on the platform during the morning commute, and gone in the evening. When a homeless person doesn’t make his appointed stops, there’s a reason. We all have our routines.

There’s something about this guy that’s a little bit different. Something about him I like. He’s Burmese (as I overheard him tell another woman one day) with stringy gray hair down the middle of his back, but so sparse on top his scalp is visible. He pushes a shopping cart that’s been rigged like this: the front end has been sawed off so that only the handle and back wheels are in tact, and in place of the missing basket is a granny cart held on by bungee cords.

Despite the fact that all of his earthly possessions fit inside a shopping cart (or perhaps because of it) he seems, to me, to be a genuinely happy guy. He works on the sudoku puzzle in one of the free morning newspapers. He eats bagged salad with chopsticks and washes it down with Coke swigged from the bottle. He watches the comings and goings of the trains like a Buddha. He laughs a lot. I don’t know if it’s with us frantic commuters or at us.

Maybe he moved on to greener pastures like Union Square, suddenly deciding that Grand Army Plaza was no longer appealing. The last time he disappeared for several days, he returned with this latest cart incarnation. Of course the cynical side of me assumes that the old one had been cart-jacked during some sort of scuffle, but he might have just figured he needed new wheels.

I know one other Burmese man who goes by the name So. So works in my building as a greeter. (Though knowing my company, his official title is probably something along the lines of Executive Salutation Assistant.) This is the happiest man alive. He is relentlessly cheerful. He says hello to everyone who appears from the elevator bank in a grand sing-songy voice. There is something about So’s energy that is so peaceful and calm, your spirits are lifted immediately. Even the normally grumpy bike messengers offer a handshake and a wave when they see him. Now he’s trying to expand his English by watching television and picking up bits and pieces from his co-workers.

“Hello! It crazy, sick cold outside, yes?” (Laugh) “My bum about to freeze off from Jack Frost. (Another laugh) “You got one package waiting here for you, okay?”

I’ve been teaching him a few words in Italian because he wanted to know. Now he also says things like, “Ciao! Buon giorno!” as he walks the halls for his hourly rounds. In exchange he tells me things about his country. “We like food things hot, hot, hot. Too hot for you, yes. But a-okay for me!” (Smile and laugh)

I don’t know much about So’s life in Burma (now Myanmar ), but I suspect it wasn’t cushy, probably much like my friend on the train platform. Yet they both give off a serenity and happiness that can’t be faked. Is it because they have learned to be truly grateful for what little they may already have rather than deciding to be happy only when they acquire a laundry list of things? Maybe it's as So succinctly put it one day, “It so easy. You just smile. Okay?”

I hope I see the guy on the Grand Army platform again soon. I’ll give him a big smile and the sudoku puzzle book I’ve taken to carrying around with me. Just in case.

My Favorite Part of the Ride

2008-01-06T21:57:00.001-05:00

This is my favorite part of the ride. I'm taking the Q train home from the city. We start a slow incline out of the tunnel from Canal Street to cross the Manhattan Bridge to the Brooklyn side. The tracks carry us over Chinatown. From here, without the putrid smells and incessant horn honking, it looks inviting. The red signs with gold Chinese lettering decorate every storefront. Vendors spill out onto the narrow, winding streets hawking their cheap kitsch for tourists. Fresh laundry blows on a line leading from an open window.

Then the East River is below and the downtown city skyscrapers come into view. The sun is setting on the other side of the Hudson River casting a cotton candy glow around the skyline. I always try to spot the Trinity Church spire. It’s not easy to find. Long overtaken by steel and glass around it, it was once the tallest building in New York. If I look down, I can see the Fulton Fish Market. After almost 200 years of operation from the Lower East Side, the fish mongers have moved to a new facility in the Bronx. The trains usually slow to a crawl about halfway over the bridge, and today is no exception. A biker on the path next to the train is keeping pace.

It gives me time to check out the venerable Brooklyn Bridge just to the south. The lights trimming the tension wires are twinkling in the dusk. Its stone-and-mortar construction makes it unique among all the bridges connecting to Manhattan, but I think New Yorkers are so fond of it because it was first.

Brooklyn comes into view with comparatively low buildings, just a little higher than the train windows. As we begin the descent into the tunnel, I can see Fulton’s Landing, a now grassy spot where General George Washington, outmanned and outgunned by the British pressing down from the hill above in the Battle of Brooklyn, stole away in the middle of the night avoiding capture and kept the Americans’ hopes for independence alive. There is a small playground painted in primary colors next to the landing area and a boy is being pushed on a swing by his mother.

New construction rises next to old graffitied buildings. A clock tower is on top of one of the many loft buildings that are being converted from warehouses and factories as people rediscover the neighborhood of DUMBO. It’s 4:30. We slide into the tunnel and I’m almost home.

SOLIDIFY

2008-01-03T21:13:00.002-05:00

It isn’t often that I get a seat on the way home from work. By happenstance, today I am standing in front of someone who vacates her seat at Park Place. You can’t hesitate for a moment if you want a seat on a crowded train. Polite people stand a lot.

I’m engrossed in my latest read, Eat, Pray, Love, when the woman to my left asks me a question.

“Do you know what this word means?” She points to solidify in her book. She has a pleasingly round face and shaved head with a five o’clock shadow. The lack of hair makes her pink lipstick stand out against her chocolate skin.

“It means to make stronger.”

We smile at each other and return to our books. After a long day at work (and let’s face it, every day at work is a long day), I’m not in the mood for idle chit chat with strangers. I wish it could come naturally for me to be one of those people who love people, but I have to work at it. I make a New Year’s Resolution every January 1 to be friendlier to random strangers, and by January 5th, I’m hoping another Blanche DuBois-type depending on the kindness of strangers doesn’t disturb me from my book.

Then the woman says, “I’m going to write that down in the back of my book so I don’t forget it.” She flips the pages to show me a long list of words on which she needed clarification.

I nod, unsure what else to say, and give her my polite this-conversation-has-run-its-course look. But she hits me with a question out of left field. “How do you know if you’re a visual or aural learner?”

I’m stumped. I don’t know how you know, but you just do. “I guess whichever comes easier for you.”

“Which one are you?”

Now this seems a bit personal. I glance out the window to see that we are only at Clark Street, a full 6 stops from home. There’s no way to end it politely so I give in and close my book. “I’m definitely a visual learner.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I’d rather read directions rather than hear them, for example.”

She writes this down, too. It seems that she is also a visual learner, but she just doesn’t realize it. Her face really is pleasant and she gives off a kind vibe, not a creepy one. “Do you have any tips for taking a test? I’m always looking for tips.”

It’s been many years since I’ve taken any tests. The last one, to complete my Master’s Degree, was a horror show – one essay question from each of seven courses completed. We were allotted one hour per question to write our answers in blue books. Remembering it even now makes me shudder – the studying, the aloofness from professors, the pressure.

But it wasn’t too long ago that I gave tests as an adjunct instructor at a local college. I try to tell her what I would have told my students. “Be confident and don’t second-guess your answers. Your first instinct is nearly always right.”

She goes on to tell me how inspired she is by the book she’s reading and since she’s read all three books by the author, she doesn’t know what she’ll read when she’s done. So now she’s trying to read very slowly. She also thanks me for talking to her. “You know, every time I get on the train I ask God to put me next to someone smarter than me. I’m trying to learn all of the things I didn’t learn when I was younger. I know I’m kind of old for this. It’s not easy starting from scratch.”

“No, but you can’t give up. It’s never too late.” The train pulls into Grand Army Plaza and I take my leave of her.

In a ten minute conversation with a woman I’d never laid eyes on before, and probably never will again, I’ve been reminded to trust my instincts, that smarts don’t only come from a book and the power of tenacity. As it happens, all things on which my soul needed a bit of a refresher.

You can’t get that driving bumper-to-bumper in your SUV, now can you?

An Idea Grows on the Subway

2007-12-28T09:49:00.000-05:00

One day Genevieve Piturro was riding the subway to her boring day job. She knew that there was something more for her than being a marketing executive at a large corporation, something she alone was born to do. Genevieve had been spending her spare time with a Manhattan program that organizes volunteers to read bedtime stories to foster children. She was on the right track, but it wasn't her exact calling. Then the idea came to her while she was lost in thought on the subway: pajamas.

Genevieve had learned that most of the children she read to every night slept in their regular clothes and some didn't even know what pajamas are. She decided while on the train that she would bring pajamas to her group of foster kids at the shelter. That was five years ago. Now, her non-profit group, Pajama Program, has distributed more than 1 million pajamas to kids worldwide. And, if you're in the NYC area, they also have a reading center on 39th Street in the City.

While I'm on the subject of kids and reading, there's another wonderful non-profit group, near to my heart, designed to put books in children's hands. It's Room to Read. Realizing that 115 million children worldwide are not receiving any type of organized eduction, Room to Read also got involved in building schools and libraries in rural villages. Some of these children have never held a book, never flipped through the pages and magically been transported to another world. Give a kid a book. You can change his life.

So if you're still lookng for a great way to give back this holiday season, you can donate new pajamas or books by going to their websites. As for me, I'm going to use my subway time to dream a little bigger in 2008.

All the White People, Sing!

2007-12-13T12:21:00.001-05:00

Today is a “Grid-Lock Alert Day” as if it is special or different from the traffic jams we get most days. There are about six or seven of these Grid-Lock Alert Days throughout the holiday season in NYC. Some are understandable: the night of the Rockefeller tree lighting or Black Friday, for instance. But today, who knows?

We are also getting a snowstorm with expected accumulation of about three inches in the City and up to six or seven inches upstate. In NY this doesn’t faze us in the least. We are all at work and school (though some schools upstate are planning to close early) and watching the snow come down outside the window. You cannot call out from work, or if you do, plan to use a personal day.

The Grid-Lock Alert and snow combine to make the subway much more crowded than usual. People who might normally drive or take the bus shuffle underground to avoid traffic snarls. On the 2 train we are smooshed together like a threesome in a twin bed, everyone getting a little feisty and irked.

So it is into this environment that a man walks into the train car, complete with guitar and amplifier to spread some holiday cheer. I can’t see him, but he warms up with some random chords. As soon as the doors close (it’s standard protocol to wait until the doors close), he launches into “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town,” but with his own twist.

“He sees you when he’s sleeping, little girl in the red coat. He knows when you’re awake, man with the big hat. He knows if you’ve been bad or good, Mr. Wall Street guy, so be good for goodness sake…

“Okay, you know how it goes. Sing along with me. White people, you join in, too!

“Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town. Oh he surely is. Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town. Right here to Brooklyn, USA…”

He finishes that song and decides, apparently, that the people on this car are collectively not much into the spirit at this hour of the morning. Maybe The Jackson Five will help.

“This one is dedicated to the lady with the glasses.

“You and I must make a pact. We must bring salvation back. Where there is love, lady with the glasses, I’ll be there.

“Sing along with me, lady with the glasses. If you should ever find someone new, I’d know he’d better be good to you.”

The lady with the glasses is not singing along. No one is. But people are chuckling behind their newspapers and books.

“Now, all the white people sing! I’ll be there. I’ll be there. Just call my name, and I’ll be there.”

I leave the train and the guy singing, feeling just a little bit better than I did about 30 minutes ago.

Crime and Punishment

2007-12-12T13:56:00.001-05:00

Two ladies near me on the Chambers St. platform were discussing the recent tragic events at a Nebraska mall. They looked like they could be from middle America themselves. One was wearing a red beret and the other wore an oversized sweatjacket with glow-in-the-dark white sneakers.

“What is the world coming to? All those people.” The woman wearing the red beret shook her head.

“And they say New Yorkers are nuts. At least the shooter had the decency to turn the gun on himself. Spare us all some ridiculous alibi about his mental problems,” said pristine sneaker woman.

“Do you think he’ll go to heaven?”

A train on the downtown tracks squeals its brakes and I couldn’t hear the response. The woman in the red beret took up again. “But God forgives everyone who asks for forgiveness.”

The shooter indeed left a note behind in which, among other things, he apologized for what he had been about to do and wrote, “I’ve just snapped.” It made me think about how the word “sorry,” like so many others, has lost its meaning. I think this is due in part that as a society we seem to enjoy building our heroes up, only to tear them down. Then we expect them to repent, to offer up whatever lame-ass excuse they can find, so we can feel good about liking them again. I offer you a smattering of examples:

- Mel Gibson’s explanation for his anti-Semitic remarks in 2005: "That wasn't really me, it was the booze talking, I have inner rage, I have a dark side, I'm in rehab"

- After a tabloid photo was published showing model Kate Moss snorting cocaine, she apologized to “all the people I have let down.” Moments it seemed after being released from a rehab clinic she signed contracts with Calvin Klein and Virgin Mobile.

- Years ago when Hugh Grant was caught with prostitute Divine Brown, he went on what many like to call his “mea culpa” tour of talk shows classifying his cheating on then-girlfriend Liz Hurley “disloyal and shabby and goatish.” His movie career continues to thrive.

- Former New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey, who resigned after having an affair with a gay man he hired to serve as the state's homeland security advisor, at least used the word sorry in his farewell speech: "I am sorry that I have disappointed the citizens of the state of New Jersey who gave me this enormous trust." He went on to say that there is a climate in this country in which "we smile in person and then throw each other under the bus when we leave the room."

I don’t even pretend to know if, like the woman wearing the red beret on the train platform said, God forgives anyone who asks for forgiveness. That’s a topic for a completely different blog. It does suggest that we all crave a second chance. But I wonder if these people are truly sorry for their mis-actions or are they just sorry they got caught? Maybe apologizing means never having to say you're sorry.

Is it or isn't it?

2007-12-11T22:00:00.000-05:00

I was riding the 1 train downtown when I spotted a familiar face across the aisle. He had that air of someone you vaguely remember but haven’t seen in ages. I scanned all of the places I could have met a partially bald, slight man with salt-and-pepper beard: work, coffee shop, library.

Then a name popped into my head. Barry. Barry Lewis! Not exactly an A-list celebrity, I know, but in New York he’s well known for his PBS series, “A Walk Around…” As in “A Walk Around Brooklyn” or “A Walk Around Harlem.” He takes you to places of interest and gives you nuggets of social, political and architectural history with such enthusiasm, I dare you to turn the program off. And here he was on the same train.

I have spotted a few honest-to-God celebrities while riding the subway. Michael Imperioli of The Sopranos and Steve Buscemi come to mind. Steve Buscemi has, shall we say, such a unique look about him that you’re not left wondering if that was really him or just his doppelganger. Because the more I looked (okay, stared) at Barry Lewis, the more I doubted my first judgment.

(My best celebrity sighting hands down was Harrison Ford in the Village. He was heading east on Houston; I was heading west. I turned to search for him in the crowd but he was gone. Like two ships passing in the night. Oh, Hans!)

When I got off the train at Chambers to transfer to the 2/3 heading to Brooklyn, Barry stayed on the 1, which terminates in a few stops at South Ferry. Now I truly second-guessed myself. He’s going to Staten Island? That seems crazy.

Robert Lanham has a funny essay in The Subway Chronicles book called Straphanger Doppelganger in which he seeks out his look-alike after numerous friends have mistaken his doppelganger for him. Lanham points out, “According to mythology, a doppelganger is the living incarnation of a person’s dark side. Their shadowy opposite.” Maybe this person who sat across from me was Barry Lewis’s double: a Staten Island-bound, insurance adjuster who didn’t know or care about the difference between Central Park and Bryant Park. Lanham goes on to say that coming to terms with the existence of our nonbiological twin is part of living in New York. In a city this size, everyone is bound to have one.

As if to prove the truth in that statement, today I sat next to an elderly black woman on the commute to work. I might not have noticed her except that she scooted over and motioned for me to sit. She had a calmness and elegance that reminded me of my high school English teacher, Mrs. Sutton. Everything about Mrs. Sutton was grace personified. Her reputation was one of toughness and an unwillingness to compromise. For us seniors, there would be no easy “A”. She wasn’t our friend or confidant; she didn’t stand at the front of the class to entertain us. And I loved her for it. Mrs. Sutton was a big part of the reason I decided to major in English. Lately, another opportunity to second-guess myself.

In the creative arts, one of the few professional tracks where there is a high likelihood that you will never be able to support yourself in your chosen field, it’s easy to doubt your choices and your ability. Maybe doppelgangers don’t always stem from the dark side, the Darth Vaders of the Force. Maybe they appear in order to remind us of someone or something we’d lost track of along the way, giving us an opportunity to reconnect with that part of ourselves we had misgivings about.

Ho! Ho! Ho!

2007-12-08T17:51:00.000-05:00

Get The Subway Chronicles for everyone you know!

At my office grab bag holiday party last week, someone actually got a wooden ying/yang salt-and-pepper shaker.

Don't be that person! (Here comes my plug...)

Pick up a copy of The Subway Chronicles: Scenes from Life in New York for everyone on your gift list. They'll love you for it!

It's only $14.00 (discounted if you order from Amazon or Barnes and Noble.com). Can't think of a better stocking stuffer.

Check out the table of contents in my profile section or visit the website for more details.

On a Scale of 1 to 5

2007-12-05T22:29:00.002-05:00

My HR department sent a company-wide email reminding all employees that annual performance reviews are lurking in the new year. We would be concerned if these reviews actually meant something. If they were used, for example, as a basis for salary increases or promotions, we might take a more hearty interest. They are not. Why, you’d like to know? Having even asked such a question shows that you are thinking along a certain logical path which is clearly at odds with the inner workings of a multi-national, multi-billion dollar corporation.

So we employees treat the performance reviews with something approaching apathetic carelessness. The paperwork involves listing your professional goals for the coming year, and then, as if HR knows you’re just copying your answers from a website you found, they also require you to list how you’re planning to achieve said goals. Last year I can recall I gave my goals and strategies serious thought while riding the B train on the way in to the office. An advertisement for a local commuter college offered some ideas – “Enroll today and in less than 18 months, you could go from dead-end to high-end.”

Meanwhile, your boss also completes a review of how well you performed in the past year. On a scale of 1 to 5, you are ranked in several categories, including attendance and initiative. Ya-wn. No wonder no one cares. Want the staff to take an interest? Let’s liven things up by selecting more exciting ways to judge the employees’ progress or lack thereof and hand out awards as such.

We might borrow the Straphangers Campaign’s list of categories which they use to rate the bus and train lines. For example, instead of giving the Pokey Award to the slowest bus route (the M23 bus route, by the way, clocked in at a blistering average pace of 4 m.p.h. in 2007), the employee who arrives at his or her desk the latest each morning gets recognized. The prize, an alarm clock of course. Or the Shleppie Award, given to the bus route plagued with bunching/gaps in service, meaning that two buses might arrive within 30 seconds of each other, then no bus would arrive for about 5 hours. (The M1 takes home this prize.) At the office, the employee who whiles away the day trolling the internet, chatting on the phone relaying the same story to everyone she knows and making twelve trips an hour for coffee before finally settling down to business at 4:36 p.m., and then frantically declaring how frantic she is, wins this prize, which I think would be a swift kick in the ass at 9:01.

I’m submitting my proposal for a change to the performance review system first thing in the morning. Well, after I get my coffee, make a few phone calls and surf the internet a bit.

Zen and the Art of Subway Riding

2007-12-01T23:34:00.001-05:00

Zen Buddhist Master Thich Nhat Hanh defined mindfulness as keeping one’s consciousness alive to the present reality. I’ve been working on that; it’s so much harder than it seems. Focusing on the current moment and not worrying about what comes in the next hour, day or week is counterintuitive to life in 21st century New York. (Really, 21st century anywhere. You probably wouldn’t be surprised to learn that even Easter Island, a place so remote it is 2500 miles from any other land mass, now has high-speed internet.) My M.O., I’m embarrassed to say, usually involves something like simultaneously eating dinner with the radio on to hear what’s happening now, watching t.v. with the sound turned down to get the weather for tomorrow and reading the newspaper to find out what happened yesterday.

So I’m conducting a small experiment, and I’m doing it on the subway. During a commute I decided I would just ride home. I wouldn’t distract myself from the present reality with a book or music or falling into a strange state of semi consciousness, a condition that seems to befall me during these winter months when I leave for work in the dark and come home from work in the dark. (Note to self: this topic deserves its own post.)

I tried this twice last week with very interesting results.

Both times I chose the evening commute because it’s the time of day I am in the most need of decompressing. After a hectic and stressful day at the office, I generally spend my subway time in lament of the fools I’ve had to suffer during the day and the ridiculousness that is often the multi-national corporation. (Motto: Red tape is your friend.)

At first I found myself at a loss of where to rest my eyes. The ads rimming the cars only hold your attention for so long. I couldn’t very well overtly look at people. In other places, it’s welcoming and friendly to look someone in the eye. In New York, especially on the subway, it’s an act of aggression. But curiosity killed the cat, as they say, and I ended up stealing glances at people I thought interesting enough to take the risk.

Across from me was a woman reading a magazine. She wore a sort of half grin that never faded, not once during my ride. A green paisley scarf was wrapped around her head in a sort of swashbuckler way. I didn’t see any tendrils of hair peeking out from beneath the scarf, and I couldn’t help but notice that her eyebrows were missing and her skin was completely without the faint peach fuzz we all have but spend a lot of time and money to keep under control. Had I been engrossed in a book or newspaper I would have never noticed. I wanted to tell her, “I see you. You’re not just one of many, part of the masses (leading lives of quiet desperation, as Thoreau would point out).” Then my writer’s brain checked in. That’s where I start filling in the blanks when not enough information has been provided to me. Maybe she is in remission after many long months of treatment, thus the smile. A happy secret she has all to herself. Or maybe it’s too late. She’s been given a sentence – two weeks, a month, three months. Her smile instead is a wistful one thinking of all the things she’ll soon miss that she never gave a second thought, like riding the subway for instance.

I transferred to the 2 train, which was oddly empty, so I sat between a woman nodding off and a heavy-set man. Upon further investigation, he wasn’t heavy at all. In fact he was quite thin. He just seemed thick because he was wearing every piece of clothing he owned – at least three shirts and two sport coats on top and two pairs of pants, plus several layers of socks. Like a little kid extra-bundled to play in the snow, he couldn’t bend his arms at the elbow. It was definitely chilly outside, but I guessed this was an effort to thwart potential thieves wherever it was he laid his head.

He mumbled something and made a quick exit which gave me the opportunity to notice a mother with a stroller. She was young and pretty and thin, so I immediately thought: nanny. But no. The diamond on her ring finger could have been used as a method of self-defense. She had long, black hair and swung her head in such a way that made me wonder if she had been watching too many Cher videos. But even that didn’t irritate me as much as her need to narrate her every move and schedule for the rest of the day’s events to the little girl, who might have been all of two, in a sing-songy voice at a volume for the rest of the car to hear. “Let me put your binky in my bag. We don’t want to lose it, do we? No, we don’t. I’m just going to put these mittens on you. Okay? Okay. I’ll put the mittens on. Here goes the left one. Putting on the left mitten. Now the right one. Right. Right. Right. I should comb your hair. This is a comb. C-O-M-B. You want to look so pretty for your play date with Tyler, don’t you? I’ll drop you off there and pick you up before dinner. Then we’ll have mashed potatoes, your favorite.” In a few stops, they left the car and I could hear her voice trail all the way down the platform until, mercifully, the doors closed.

I know this isn’t exactly what Thich Nhat Hanh had in mind when he wrote of staying in the present moment. In fact he admonished people whose minds are like monkeys “swinging from branch to branch throughout the forest.” But I’d like to think he’d cut me a break as a novice on the road to mindfulness.

Rainy Days and Mondays Always Get Me Down

2007-11-27T20:19:00.001-05:00

I understand that it’s hard for people who get into their cars and drive to work to sympathize with the plight of the public transit commuter.

Take yesterday, for instance.

I had to return two heavy and awkward wall shelves to a store in Manhattan . They totaled 22 pounds. When I had purchased the shelves on my lunch hour, I deposited them in my office, and took one home at a time. It seemed like a drawn-out process to do the same on the return trip, and I’d postponed the inevitable long enough that my 30-day refund policy was about to expire. Monday was the day.

For those of you tooling around in a vehicle, you would pop the shelves into the trunk of the car, and this would be the end of the story. But not for me.

I put each shelf into a separate bag, banged them down 5 flights of stairs from my apartment, slugged about one-half mile to the subway station, banged down another flight of stairs underground, and squeezed through the turnstiles.

Did I mention it was raining? Of course it was.

By the time I reached the station the shelves and I were soaking wet (can’t use an umbrella if you’ve got a shelf in each hand). Not giving it a second thought, I'd used paper bags which quickly disintegrated into a soggy mess. So I then hoisted each shelf under an armpit. I was thankful at least I wasn’t wearing light-colored pants which would show every drip and drop of mud below the knees. This is something not mentioned in your “Big Apple Welcome Packet" when you move to the City, but learn only after a few bad thunder/snowstorms. On the train, I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, propping the shelves up against the pole.

This wasn’t the first time I’d carried a ridiculous item on the subway. One memorable experience involved an aerobed. In the store, the aerobed seemed manageable, light even. The clerk attached those fantastic plastic handles to the box, necessity being the mother of invention in a city where everyone has to carry everything. The subway station was a mere two blocks. I barely made it to the corner before I had to stop to rest, panting and heaving worse than an emphysema patient. When I reached the station and the long flight down to the turnstile, I gave up. I perched the large box on the edge of the top stair and gave it a swift kick. The box tumbled, flipped and skidded to the first landing. I did it again (it felt so good) to the bottom of the stairs.

A large man, who looked like he burrowed holes in the ground for a living, had been watching me. “Can I help you?”

Sweat dripping down my face and back, I nodded yes. Oh yes! He carried the aerobed through the turnstile and all the way to the platform, then turned and headed back up the stairs to another train line. When I finally got the thing home, pushing it along the sidewalk, I noticed on the side of the box the product weight was 30 pounds.

On Monday no one was offering to help me with my shelves. But I made it. Sure, my mascara was streaming in lines down my cheeks, my hair was a tangled rat’s nest, and my fingers were swollen red sausages, but it didn’t matter. I made it and I vowed right there that on Tuesday I would bring to work nothing larger than my cell phone.

Found: $220 Million!

2007-11-24T16:37:00.001-05:00

Toward the end of every year it seems warnings resume anew about an inevitable fare increase for subway riders. The discussion between the transit authority, politicians, union groups and advocacy organizations feels almost scripted.

MTA: Remember that $32 billion we borrowed over the last 25 years? Well, the bill's coming due. Time to raise fares.

Governor Spitzer: On behalf of all of the low income workers in New York City, this is an injustice! There must be something we can do. As you know my proposed legislation to give driver's licenses to illegal immigrants failed, so I am jumping on the "no fare increase" bandwagon to divert all of that bad publicity.

Straphangers Campaign: Can't the MTA wait at least until March 2008 to raise fares? That's when they submit their five-year, multi-billion dollar capital rebuilding plan for approval. Seems kind of short-sighted to ask for an increase now. Anyone?

Mayor Bloomberg: No comment.

MTA: Wait just a minute! What do we have here? Looks like we found $220 million laying around in this old shoebox marked "Extra money." Guess we don't need to increase fares in 2008 after all.

Governor Spitzer: Whew! But come to think of it, Albany is running at a $4.3 billion defecit. We should at least raise the unlimited Metrocard fares. Four percent seems like just the right amount not to ruffle any feathers.

Straphangers Campaign: Well that about does it. See you this time next year.

A Book By Its Cover

2007-11-15T22:03:00.001-05:00

I’m rereading In a Sunburned Country, a book by one of my favorite authors, Bill Bryson. This book is autographed by him. I’d had the good fortune to attend a recent book signing/reading – the only one he’d done in New York City on this tour.

Permit me to digress here on an unrelated note to say that this event was standing room only – at least 150 people crammed into a little section of the bookstore. When Bryson appeared and made his way to the podium, the audience gave him a standing ovation, before he even said a word. Compare this, if you will, to many Subway Chronicles readings where I’ve actually asked store cashiers to sit in the seats so at least the authors could read to a live person.

If you’ve any familiarity with Bryson’s work, you’ll agree he’s an incredibly astute and humorous writer, honing in on the “everyman” quality of any situation he’s in. It’s not uncommon to be chuckling or suppressing an outright laugh should you find yourself reading his books in public, an experience I had just this morning, which I’ll get to in a moment. Really it couldn’t be avoided as close to 90 percent of my reading is in fact done in public.

My subway commute gives me an hour per day of reading time. Occasionally I read magazines and the free AMNY or Metro newspapers that get shoved into my hand at the station entrances, but most often, I’m reading a book. As a novelist-to-be (Do I say “to be” if I’ve spent six years of my life on the damn thing and am just waiting to hear back from the agent? C’mon Agent, call me!) I’ve got many books in my queue, more than I’ll ever get to in a lifetime, classified as: books I should read (A Tale of Two Cities), books I need to read to stay current (Prep), books I’ve tried to read many times, but just can’t seem to connect with (Mrs. Dalloway, sorry Virginia Woolf) and books I want to read to complete some sort of compendium (all books by James Thurber, for example).

Another digression: A recent article in Slate queried well-known writers to find out which books they’ve never read, but felt they should have. They called it their “gravest literary omissions.” For Amy Bloom, it’s Moby Dick; for Myla Goldberg, it’s To the Lighthouse (another Woolf avoider); for Lucinda Rosenfeld, it’s Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury (BTW – read her fabulous essay in The Subway Chronicles: Scenes From Life in New York); amazingly for John Crowley, it’s To Kill a Mockingbird. This last one, of course, is really unforgivable. No excuses. Here is an occasion, I’d let him slide by just seeing the movie – Gregory Peck makes an indomitable Atticus Finch.

I get a lot of reading material suggestions from riding the subway. A few years ago nearly every literate citizen of New York was reading Jonathan Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn. I ran out to buy a copy with the picture of the blurred elevated tracks to see what all the fuss was about. Then you couldn’t throw a Metrocard without hitting the chalkboard-like cover of Me Talk Pretty One Day, a collection of essays by David Sedaris. Or Eat, Pray, Love, the title outlined in pasta, prayer beads and silk fabric is so creative, it compels me to believe the writing is also (which it is), however ridiculous this seems. Lately I feel I can’t escape the little crown-wearing green frog of Curtis Sittenfeld’s Man of My Dreams. I like the frog. It makes me want to read the book.

As I was reading In a Sunburned Country on the 2 train, a passage made an uncontrollable snort issue from the back of my throat. My eyes darted around like the worst espionage spy ever while I sneaked a look to see who might have witnessed my embarrassing outburst. A man sitting in front of me laughed and pointed. I was horrified that I was the object of his ridicule.

“That’s a great read,” he said. “Bryson’s the best.”

I smiled and nodded, satisfied that he was pointing at the kangaroo on the cover and just recalling his own Bryson moment – proof that you can judge a book by its cover.

Second Avenue Line: There's No Telling

2007-11-13T21:41:00.000-05:00

A few months ago an article in The Hartford Courant lamented the question most New Yorkers stopped asking ages ago: "Why does it take so long to get anything built?"

After all, the Empire State Building was built in about 18 months. The entire Erie Canal, trenched out with animals and plows, finished up in 1825, just eight years after they broke ground. Before dump trucks and bulldozers, the city's first subway line, the IRT running from City Hall to Grand Central, over to Times Square and then up to 145th Street with 28 stations, took just four years to complete in 1904.

This recently came to a head as the tunneling for the Second Avenue subway line gets underway after an on-again, off-again relationship that would make Britney and K-Fed's heads spin. The ceremonial spade has broken ground and two traffic lanes have been closed for the transportation nightmare that will be the estimated five year, $5 billion project for the first phase.

Maybe this problem is an American one. Phase 1 of the Dehli Metro in India spans 65 km with 59 stations. It was completed in four years for US $2.4 billion. Beijing boasts that their city will have five subway lines when the Olympics opens in 2008. They had only one just a dozen years ago.

This first phase of the Second Avenue line (to be called the "T" line) will link 96th Street to the tunnel already built at 63rd Street with only three new stations. Phase two, well, I'll keep you in suspense, but rest assured it will take longer and be more expensive. The tunnel at 63rd Street was completed in the 70's. This is a thirty-year gripe in the making, folks. Don't think the Upper East Siders aren't going to milk it for all it's worth.

But really these complaints are nothing new. Turn-of-the-century New Yorkers took plenty of pot shots at the IRT, built speedily by today's standards. The New York Times reports that "even the workers had stopped trying to bet on when. 'Anyone who tries to say exactly when this work will be finished,' one mining forman said, 'is a blamed fool. There's no telling.'"

Photo credits: Curbed.com

The Subway Chronicles in Brooklyn Eagle

2007-11-06T20:03:00.000-05:00

Thanks to everyone at the Brooklyn Eagle for a great article about The Subway Chronicles!

"Ranging from humorous to reflective, informative to frustrating, the musings of these insightful straphangers is much more entertaining than most subway commutes."

Read the full article here.

Treats, No Tricks

2007-11-01T20:07:00.001-04:00

There is a man I see every morning at the 7th Avenue station. He appears to be homeless with torn clothes and hair that hasn’t been combed since the first Bush was in office. Despite his scraggly appearance, he never panders for money, just sits in the same spot directly across from the booth on a waiting area bench. The bench, I should mention, is just inside the turnstiles. It was made with built-in barriers to keep guys like him from lying down for a nap, but he seems to enjoy the bustle. He watches the comings and goings in this busy station with basset hound eyes, legs crossed at the ankles. When I return to this station in the evenings he’s never here.

He keeps a hat, brim up, next to him. Occasionally I notice several dollar bills in there, enough to buy a Big Mac or pint of beer. Even though he rarely moves a limb and seems as much a part of the bench as the grain itself, somehow this guy has broken through the cloak of invisibility that most homeless people in this city wear. Riders stop and chat with him as they pass on their way downstairs to the tracks. I’ve tried to eavesdrop without success, but their body language belies a familiarity that comes over time. I imagine striking up a conversation with him, although I don’t know what I would say. My last interaction with a homeless person involved him forming a gun with his thumb and first finger and pretending to shoot me because I didn’t give him money.

This morning a girl, about seven or eight, approaches him with her father behind. Her hair is trimmed into a bob style just under her chin and her face still bears the remains of Halloween make-up that either wouldn’t wash off or she wouldn’t permit to be washed off. She says something to the man. He nods in the slightest of movements. Then she hands over a plastic bag with several pieces of Halloween candy and he offers a small wave before her father escorts her to the train platform. All treats and no tricks here.

You Can't Get There From Here

2007-10-31T21:28:00.001-04:00

I have been talked into attending the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade by a few friends. Each year people dress in their strangest to be part of the festivities along Sixth Avenue. It’s simultaneously fun and ridiculous. One of those once-in-a-lifetime events that seems to be a great idea, like driving across country and skydiving, but then as soon as you set off, you immediately can’t help wondering why in God’s name you agreed to do it.

The parade is nothing more than an excuse for people to dress and behave in ways they wouldn’t normally dress and behave. This is despite the fact that only five people actually have a view of the parade itself. Most everyone else mills about the sidelines bumping into one another, craning to get a glimpse. When my friends and I realize that we wouldn’t even get close enough to the parade to crane, we go for a drink and head home. I do not find this upsetting in the least.

As this is the thirty-fourth year of the parade, the police and MTA have the proceedings down to a science, sort of. Some subway station stairs are changed to entrance only and some are exit only. There are miles of blue police barricades to shuttle people more efficiently and officers position themselves every few feet, above and below ground. One crucial bit of information they’ve left out is to put up signs to tell passengers which station entrances to use. My friend, who takes the same train, and I try to get underground at one of the Christopher Street station entrances. After we are halfway down the stairs, a policeman tells us in an exasperated voice that this is exit only. We must go back up and cross over Christopher Street to enter via a different set of stairs. My reasoning that we are almost to the turnstiles is met with a motion of his hand to leave.

We follow along the barricades, at a pace equivalent to the movement of tectonic plates, to cross the street. In this 50 yard walk, I see Superman, two pirates, a pregnant nun and the Tasmanian devil. When we reach the station entrance we feel certain we were told to use, another policeman asks, “Where do you think you’re going?” I wish I had dressed as Dorothy and could click my ruby slippers to magically transport me home. He points to yet another set of stairs, this time on the same side of the street. With considerable effort we get back into the crowd and shuffle along. This is the height of the parade and throngs of people who think they are going to see something are still pouring into the Village. Finally we get to the one place at which the police will allow us to enter the station. I swipe my metrocard and the train comes within a few minutes packed with passengers. But this is no normal train. The doors slide open and the first one off is a man wearing a coconut bra over his green turtleneck. Then a menagerie of animals, long-dead historical figures and superheroes follow. Just before the doors close a monkey hops out drinking an iced latte. They don’t call this the urban jungle for nothing.

Can I get a price check?

2007-10-30T21:24:00.001-04:00

Today it is chilly enough to get out my new fall coat, a gray peacoat. After the long Indian summer everyone is eager to change their closets to sweaters and corduroy. Proving it, most people on the 2 train this morning are a little too bundled for the temperature in the low 50's this morning.

I snake my way through the crowd on the train and hang on to the overhead bar. I feel as Sex and the City-sophisticated as I'll ever get - I'm reading The Atlantic Monthly. My hair is cooperating since the lower humidity has cut me a break. Maybe I've even lost a few pounds. A seat opens up and I decline - why sit when you've got the confidence only a new outfit can give you?

At the office a co-worker says, "I like your new coat."

"Thanks," I reply, a little confused. "How did you know it was new?"

"The price tag is still hanging from your armpit."

Peeves

2007-10-28T22:10:00.000-04:00

I’ve been trying to keep my subway pet peeves out of this blog, well, because they are my peeves. Idiosyncratic and unreasonable, it probably wouldn’t make much sense to you why I get so pissed off when I’m confronted by a person or persons doing something I consider irresistibly stupid or just plain rude. But I feel I must share a peeve with you now because if I stop just one person from doing it, I will have done my part to make the world a better place.

I’d like to label this peeve “no standing.” It happens when a seemingly bright, able-bodied person, let’s call him John for the purpose of this argument, trucks down the stairs at lightening speed, nearly bowling me over in an incredible rush to get to the turnstile, wherein he comes to a screeching halt, holding up everyone behind him while he scrounges through his messenger bag to find his Metrocard. At this point I’ve almost run into John’s backside since he’s blocked entrance to the platform. He searches through this pocket and that, oblivious that he should kindly step aside while digging. He is the same person that will be walking along the platform, arrive at his preferred waiting spot and stop, dead on in the middle of the walkway, forcing people to squeeze by him to pass. John is also the same guy who decides that, upon entering the train first, he will stand by the train doors blocking everyone else from getting on or off. By now, you see my point. I bet John’s momma raised him better.

What is it about the Johns of the world that make them think they are the only ones on the planet? There does seem to be a conglomeration of these types in New York, a city with roughly eight million inhabitants, which makes it ironic that they live in NYC at all. I mean, if you don’t want to be courteous to your neighbors, Montana or Siberia might be a better place to call home.

My friend Helen says that this behavior can be summed up as a basic sociological assertion, the official name of which has escaped me. (Any sociologists out there?) The premise is that in hyper-populated urban areas people subconsciously need to set themselves apart from the masses, crying out, “I’m here. Notice me!” To do this, they act out in small ways: throw trash on the sidewalk, cut in line, let the door slam in your face. It’s an adult version of a child throwing a tantrum in McDonald’s. By no means is this limited to the human race. With all of the trees, grass and curbs in the neighborhood, my dog often chooses to pee right in the middle of the sidewalk.

In writing this I realize that maybe you, too, share my peeve. If so, email me. Maybe we can start a support group.

Franken-hottie

2007-10-23T08:00:00.000-04:00

A man and I board the B train through the same door. I hadn't noticed him on the platform, but I should have. He's breathtakingly gorgeous. Imagine the best parts of Jude Law, early Marlon Brando, George Clooney and Johnny Depp (not the Willy Wonka Depp) all melded into one Franken-hottie. Does he really live in Brooklyn? I thought people who look like this are quarantined to the Upper East Side to keep the gene pool pure. He takes a sip of coffee and picks a song on his iPod. Of course I'm not actually going to speak to him. What on earth would I say? Come here often? Or So are you a 'light and sweet' man?

I just stare at him for a while, over the top of my book, while I suavely pretend to read, not acknowledging any words on the page.

Business As Usual

2007-10-15T20:29:00.000-04:00

Police officers are at the turnstile when I arrive. They're laughing and teasing each other about someone named Charlie. Sometimes they are at the station for "presence" – to make the general public feel better about things we no longer feel good about. And petty crime on the subway has gone way down, so I try to focus on that and not the reason I know they are really here. Because the truth is with seven million passengers a day, 468 stations and 26 train lines, how could you possibly prevent…I'm going to stop there. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt.

Today the three of them are standing behind a folding table and signage that they have the right to inspect our bags. No one is singled out from the clump of people around me swiping their Metrocards. Some of the items in my messenger bag might make me a suspicious character: one screwdriver (Philips), empty plastic wrapping from gum, a worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye, a flyer announcing upcoming events at the KGB Bar, a book of matches from a restaurant I was at last night.

Since inspections began shortly after the London bombings in July 2005, I've witnessed only one woman having her bags opened on the folding table. In fact, I have seen people enter the subway wheeling dozens of boxes stacked on dollies, usually messengers. They pay their fare, get buzzed in through the special door, the one right next to the inspection table, and carry on. An unscientific survey of people I know reveals only one young Asian male was subjected to an inspection, which he described as "made me miss my train but no big deal."

September 11th and the London bombings spawned a new generation of "SubTalk" posters, which in this age of non-culpability, I like to classify as the "We warned you" series. These posters let the riders know that "if you see something, say something," meaning "we can't be held responsible for what happens if we're unaware." One image is of a mysterious black duffel bag left unattended under a seat. I think about the messengers heading unheeded to the platform with all of their boxes. Realistically can they be subjected to inspections every day when they're most likely just trying to do their jobs? If they are waved through unchecked, how do I know when to "say something" about the duffel bag under the seat? Because if I tell a conductor then all the trains on that line get backed up and rerouted because of an "incident."

Borrowing the color system of alerts from the Department of Homeland Security, an incident would be red while a police action or signal problem/door malfunction would be orange and the sick passenger yellow (appropriately enough). An announcement of any of the above produces a wave of clucking and eye rolling among the passengers but it gives me an indication as to the course of action to take. If there is an incident, I'm off that train like a shot trying to find alternate routes. Unless, of course, the conductor tells us while we're in the tunnel. Then I just worry because there's nothing to do but wait. The problem is the word. Incident. It gives no indication to the severity or magnitude of the problem. There was an incident years ago when a deluge of rain flooded portions of subway tracks for hours while the pumps tried to catch up. Then there was the incident when my train was greeted at West 4th Street by Hazmat wearing gas masks. Don't forget the incident on September 11th.

In addition to the helpful posters, other new items in the war on terror include tiny police booths on either end of the entrance to subway tunnels that run under the East River and clear garbage cans. The garbage cans with silver trim and oblong shape look like they've been deposited by an alien spaceship. At my first sighting in the Jay St./Borough Hall station I wasn't the only one who circled around it. A police officer tapped it with his shoe and peered inside. Yup, it's a garbage can. It's the New York way. We aren't fond of change. Throw something new at us and we're discombobulated for a few minutes. Once we've scrutinized the situation and accepted it, it's business as usual, like it's been that way forever.

This line is rated D for Duh.

2007-10-03T23:13:00.000-04:00

Before I swipe my Metrocard, I am handed a pamphlet by an official-looking man in a burgundy vest. The pamphlet is just as official-looking - plain, white cardstock with black type.

RIDER REPORT CARD

Tell us what you think about your subway line.

This is the first such survey done by the MTA in its 100-year history. The Straphangers Campaign, a non-profit organization started in 1979 when times were bleak for the subways and New York City in general, has been conducting rider report cards for years. But the MTA needs to do something to justify its latest quest for another fare increase. If they get their way, the fare will jump to $2.40 per ride from $2.00 over the next two years, still pretty cheap by most metro standards.

According to the the last Straphangers Campaign survey, the 2 line ties for 15th place out of the 22 subway lines in the system. The B train, the line I gave up on because it is always Mardi Gras-crowded, ranked 20 out of 22. Yet the survey showed the line's one saving grace is that it's the system's cleanest. Really? I guess these respondents have never sat next to a bag of half-eaten chicken bones tucked discreetly under a seat for hours so the putrid stench initiates an immediate gag reflex.

And that's sort of the problem with these kinds of surveys. Usually the people who fill them out have grievances they want to air. Add to that the survey is being done in New York City, a place where people live to kevetch, and you quickly realize that an honest answer is more likely to be had at an OJ Simpson trial.

I suppose these report cards have some benefit; I'll throw in my two cents. But it seems a waste of money to go to all of this trouble when I can simply tell the MTA what the riders want: short waits, clean train cars and understandable announcements. Oh, and how about not having my local train zip on by my stop without giving me advance notice so I can get off beforehand.

I know. I know. You give 'em an inch...

Back in the Day

2007-09-29T20:42:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago the MTA decided to celebrate the 75th anniversary of the A train by sending a group of pre-WWII subway cars on one run. The Harlem - Rockaway line was the first one entirely owned and operated by the city while all other lines had been built by independent companies.

Every now and then the MTA dusts off these historic cars for a commemorative run, sort of like trotting out the old timers on opening day at Yankee Stadium. I caught one of these rides last year in a stroke of good timing. It's hard to believe that these cars can still lumber down the tracks. Most anything that old is just for show.

Some of the cars had rattan-weave seats and all had celing fans. How did previous straphangers, in their ties and jackets, make it to work alive in the dog days of summer?

They also had some of the old posters touting the cost of sending a letter - a nickel - and riding the subway - fifteen cents. Both, supposedly fast and convenient. Duke Ellington did say the quickest way to get to Harlem was to take the A train. That's probably still true, even riding in one of these classics.

A Penny Will Do

2007-09-29T20:30:00.002-04:00

A long time ago I made it a policy not to give money to people begging on the subway. Not to people with one leg. Or people who say they've lost all of their belongings in a fire. Or even talented singers, accordion players, doo-wop groups (although I do have a soft spot for them), teenagers doing Le Cirque-esque tricks on the center poles, men who outright admit that they'll be using your donation to buy a bottle of Southern Comfort at the next bodega they stumble across.

I've listened to the schpiels over and over: "Hi, My name is Sonny Payne. I'm homeless and I'm hungry," he repeats like a mantra as he shuffles from one end of the car to the other. "If you don't have it, I can understand because I don't have it. But if you have a dime, a nickel, or a piece of fruit, please help."

I figured that I could just make the decision not to give on the subway and then I wouldn't have to think about it again. This way I'd ease any guilt I might feel in the process. Because, I thought, if I gave to one, the floodgates would open and I'd be reaching into my pocket constantly for spare change. Spare change I need. I'm not living on Park Avenue or even in a doorman building in Queens. I struggle to pay my bills. Increases to my income are paltry. Though, let's face it, when I chose to major in English I basically shut the door on six figure bonuses anyway.

I'm not pretending most of these people don't need my change more than I do. But if I were to break my standing rule, who gets it? Do I then have to give money to every Sonny Payne I meet or, for that matter, every time I meet Sonny Payne?

Every once in a while I start to rethink my position. Take today. A man with torn clothes, but not all together unkempt came through the car with his baseball cap extended for donations. "Just a penny. A penny will do. A penny. A penny," he said as if he was composing a song. At first I wasn't moved to contribute. A few other people began making the standard maneuvers to find change – shifting in their seats, reaching deep into their pockets. The man paused, not wanting to assume or be pushy, but anxious to move on. Time is money.

I noticed something I've known to be true, but hadn't really brought to conscious thought before. Nine times out of ten the people giving money don't seem to be in a position to give. They're not the ones carrying smart leather briefcases, tapping away on their iPhones. They're wearing faded t-shirts and ratty jeans. Maybe the ones who appear to have less know what it's like to need it more. The pangs of guilt I'd always hoped to avoid chimed loudly.

The man waited patiently for a woman still digging through various zippered pockets in her purse. Like someone who'd lost her keys she kept trying the same pocket over and over as if change would magically appear. The train came to a stop at the next station, his cue to move on to the next car, but she was still searching. His head hung low, maybe debating the further loss of dignity of continuing to wait while she grabbed at crumbs and empty wrappers.
"That's alright, miss. You can get me next time." He continued down the aisle, the train now rumbling on to the next station. "Just a penny. A penny will do…"

I reached for my wallet, but it was too late.

GAG ME

2007-09-25T23:18:00.001-04:00

Morning rush hour on the subway is usually quiet. The mental fog has not yet lifted and talking is at a minimum so people keep to themselves. No one is selling anything or pandering for money. I wonder if the commuters on the lines going to the financial district spend the a.m. rush pumping each other up because they have to be ready for the trading bell. Those of us on the west side lines generally stare at nothing in a trance-like state.

This explains why I can hear a clicking noise coming from the other side of the car. The clicks are irregular and it's difficult to pinpoint the exact location until I see a woman give up her seat to stand near the door. Now that she's gone I have a clear sight to a man clipping his fingernails. The nails are flying. Then he bites what remains of the cuticle and spits it out. I shudder and close my eyes to blot the image out. But I can still hear the clicks. It's like nails against a chalkboard. This is why man invented iPod. I jam my earbuds in and turn the volume up. Think puppies, balloons, the Yankees, the latte I'm going to get on my way to work. Anything to get my mind off the image. The only consolation is that he's not clipping his toenails.

I'm trying to let my eyes rest elsewhere and that's when I spot an elderly woman flossing her teeth just a few seats down. I wish I could say that she is discreetly trying to extract something from an incisor. She's examining the stuff that comes out on the floss and then putting it on her tongue. Just writing this down is enough to stimulate my gag reflex.

Of course flossing is part of good hygiene, it's something we should all do, not just the morning we have our teeth cleaned, etc, etc, so before you alert the ADA you should know I'm simply advocating boundaries. Certain things are privacy-of-your-own-home things, like smoking in New York City and watching Deal or No Deal.

Are these people sane but just confused about public versus private spaces? Maybe they only appear sane, but are really fresh from Belleview. I know there are crazy people, let's call them quirky, everywhere. But in New York, quirky people aren't confined to their cars and backyards. They're on the train clipping their fingernails.

My Subway Blog

2007-09-13T21:25:00.001-04:00

I'll admit that I was a little concerned I wouldn't find enough material when I decided to undertake this subway blog. I ride to work. I ride home. For days on end, it seems that uneventful. Then of course I remembered that this is New York and when you're riding with seven million people things are bound to get interesting.

Here is the adventure that is my subway experience.