Ah, the subways. Any New Yorker will tell you how much they hate them. But secretly, these blessed yanks adore those snaky tin cans brambling through the boroughs. I can tell. I see them hang their heads in feigned indignity as they ride the Downtown, the Uptown, and the Cross-town, but I know the truth. If it weren’t for the trains, they’d have to drive, taxi, or (God save us all), take the bus. And for every smelly, scary, or otherwise ungodly (in a variety of ways) train car experience, there are just as many trains you’ll happen to be riding on that make you go, “Hmmm.” You can explore your deepest, darkest nightmares or witness the sweetest, most delicate validations of humanity – and you never know which one you're gonna get – that’s what makes it interesting. Life is like a tunnel of subway trains…
Like the ride I took from Queens back to Manhattan one day. It was on a mid-afternoon Tuesday, so everyone who was on the train either worked some sort of swing shift, or was in school, or a homemaker, or who knows? But this was an interesting group. Usually I hang my own head and stare at the ground, just to fit in… and to avoid the “wrong” kind of eye contact (whatever that is – I still haven’t quite figured out what they mean by that in the New York for Dummies book). So for some reason I decided to glance up, and noticed that everyone was smiling. I thought, well that’s kind of creepy. But then I followed the twinkling gazes to a stroller in the middle of the car that contained the cutest, silliest toddler that I – or anyone there besides his parents – had ever seen. And he knew it. A little boy in a red shirt and tiny little bluejeans, gawking up at people, grinning, giggling, and just grokking the whole scene for himself – and he was in control of that subway car, I guarantee you this. There was even this really big, kind of scary-looking dude with gang tattoos all up and down his arms and neck and sort of a general “I’m a Bad-Ass Mo-Fo, don’t mess wit me” look about him who was… wait, is he giggling?
Yes, he was.
And making peek-a-boo face.
As this went on, the train made another stop, and an older couple hobbled on – he with an accordion, she with a guitar, and they proceeded to stand and play some sweet, upbeat Mexican folk song that kind of reminded me of home, actually. It was charming. There are a lot of people wanting money from you in the subways, and you kind of feel bad passing by (most of) them, but to this couple I would definitely fork over some hard-earned. And I did so as they passed through the car to illegally move into the next one and play another song. I wanted to follow them. But that would have been, you know, weird.
The next thing I saw was what prompted me to break out the notepad and start chronicling everything I’d seen that day. Wait – I built that up too much, didn’t I? Yes, I sense you’re expecting to read about something really amazing – some spectacle of revelation that somehow brought me one step closer to understanding the truth of life. Not really. It was just this guy – this 30-something Latino-looking man (sitting) who tapped a slightly older white woman (standing) on the shoulder and graciously insisted that she take his seat. That kind of thing, I can fairly attest, rarely happens where I come from. There’s too much division. Too much animosity. And not enough trust. But there was something so sincere, so civilized, so NEW YORK about that scene. I had to start writing all this down and plan my next blog accordingly.
Of course, I’ve also been in subway cars where I was literally standing between two men who were about to start a fist fight. I’ve been in smelly ones. I’ve been in exceedingly crowded ones. I’ve seen a woman sit alone in a corner and cry silently to herself. I’ve seen couples fighting with each other. I’ve seen a mother verbally abuse her little girl and strangers try to step in, heightening the situation but at the same time giving that poor child a message that she’s not all by herself with that woman when she’s in public (did I mention how New Yorkers take care of their own?). And then there’s this little jerk who’s been on the news for riding the 4 or 6 (my Upper East Side train) and following women out of the subway, approaching them for directions, and then suddenly throwing them down on the ground, grabbing them under the skirt, and then running away. I hope they catch that little snot before his life is put in grave danger – you know, for trying it with me.
There’s this other aspect of the subway that makes it alluringly creepy, and that’s the train track itself. If you’re brave enough to step onto the Yellow Line that borders the platform and the track and look over, you’ll see all sorts of interesting things. Among the discarded Metro Cards, you might see a doll’s head. Or a foraging mouse. And always water… there is ALWAYS standing water on the tracks. I’m not sure why. And the sounds… oooh, the sounds. The screeching. The echoes. The turnstile alarms. The (useless) loudspeaker. I say (useless) because you can never understand what they’re saying, which makes it all the more eerie in there. All you hear is some humanoid voice going “JIDSAOM FNANFANAB AKWHOWIHAHU SAGHAWAUW SKOONA” and you only figure out later by your own observations that the humanoid was trying to tell you that the train is delayed, or canceled, or just that it’s one station away…
And then there’s the Yellow Line. Let me tell you about the Yellow Line…
If you step onto the Yellow Line, you’re on the edge. On one side, there’s the nice, flat, concrete platform of safety. On the other, a black, watery trench where the tracks are laid. Sometimes, when the station is crowded and you’re just trying to get out of the subway, you have to Walk the Line (apologies to Mr. Cash) and just hope to the highest heaven that there aren’t any nut cases around you who might decide it could be fun to just “bump” into you and push you into the trench.
Yes, I fear this. In my head. Often.
If you get pushed into the trench, it’s sort of a long way down, and you’re going to need some help getting out. So like, what if you get pushed in there while the train is coming? Uhhhhhhgggggh! I shudder to think about it. While Gary was here, we were taking the subway one day and there were some delays announced (at least I think that’s what they said) due to a “police investigation” on the track going the other way. That night on the news, I learned that some poor woman had passed out in the subway station, fell into the trench, and a train had hit and killed her. No one was able to help her out in time, of course, because to jump in after someone – especially someone passed out cold – would be putting your own life in grave danger. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for those who witnessed it.
So I steer clear of the Yellow Line as much as possible. The trains come in fast and hard, and the operator can’t exactly stop it on a dime. Subway deaths happen more often than we think, I’m sure. Just like the Grand Canyon jumps, they probably happen so often that they’re just not reported very much.
But one night, one freaky, surreal, semi-psychotic night, I decided I HAD to go out – if only to temporarily escape the screaming, giggling ninnies on my dorm room floor. I started at Grand Central. I wanted to just be out on the town for once, maybe have a drink, but not feel all weird like I was in a bar alone, so I thought, Grand Central – perfect! I can pretend I’m waiting for a train – everyone else will be doing the same – and I can relax and just enjoy my own company! So I ordered my signature Vodka cran.
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| The gods of Grand Central could not protect me from myself... |
By the time I paid the bartender, I’d gotten it into my head that I was going to HAVE me some of that New York pizza, dammit all, and I wasn’t going to find any at Grand Central, so I headed down Park Avenue toward Union Square. I passed by countless kitschy little restaurants, pubs, and hip hangouts where everyone was having a great time – with each other. I was texting Gary and sending random pics of the city to him and my friend Angela back home, but the loneliness really started to grind its way in this time.
By the time I got to Union Square, something snapped. My brain had started quoting Kerouac and Ginsberg and suddenly remembering everything I’d read of their New York observations – and their heated hungry beat voices grew very, very loud in my head. I found a Starbucks and fired up my iPod and posted some obscure tribute to Hunter S. Thompson that even I don’t really understand, but people seemed to “like” anyway. I found some great pizza in the Square (not that signature brick oven stuff, but it was really good), gobbled down a large slice, and reemerged into the concrete jungle. That’s when things got really warpy.
I hadn’t had that much to drink, so something else was definitely going on. I started to get defensive, angry, even militant. A drifter hobbled up to me begging for money, which usually works on me if I have some small cash, but this time I looked right at him and said, “Sorry, I don’t have anything.” He gazed up at me with shocked, accusing eyes and I just looked him dead in the face and returned the accusing stare, and he gave up and walked away. I thought to myself, did that just happen? Who has taken over my body? Because that’s completely not like me.
The full moon hanged itself over the buildings, and the warped Square now began to spin.
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| Stop the Square! I want to get off! |
I actually lost my balance at one point, had to lean against a building, and wait for the episode to pass. I started to panic – what was happening to me? Then I remembered, a long time ago at NAU when I worked with an instructor of a Hotel-Restaurant Management course. She had a section in her course that described Culture Shock. I remembered the symptoms – disoriented, defensive, easily provoked; all a built-in defense against overwhelming feelings of isolation and loneliness in a strange place. It hit me – maybe I had culture shock. A mild form of it, of course; I didn’t go ballistic and start fights with people or anything. But once I realized what was going on, I began to relax a little and went to sit on the steps of the Square and listen to the musicians and the conversations around me. I knew I would be OK if I could just sit for a few minutes and calm down. I texted another obscure note about it on Facebook, which prompted the husband to call. I sat on the steps and talked with Gary for about a half hour, and that brought me back to reality.
So I found myself some yummy frozen yogurt and headed back for the subway. I was still a little woozy, but that something that had “snapped” was still a bit… snappy, and I found myself walking the line. Yes, the Yellow Line. You know, just for funsies. Something I never do. Like, ever. And that’s when I took that photo you see at the top of this blog. See? The train is coming and everything! Yep. I was a bit cracked that night. No, not crocked. Cracked.
Um, it helped that the subway was virtually empty and that no one was likely going to push me over the edge (save for myself)... but that’s beside the point. I NEVER walk that Yellow Line if I can help it, crowds or not. And there I was, like some burnt out, used jet trash version of Dorothy, skipping along the dreaded path of danger and taking pictures.
But I’m still here; I survived the subway, I survived the minor culture shock ordeal, and I survived the Yellow Line. Next thing you know, I’ll be jaywalking. *gasp!*
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