Subway Madness, or "Walking the Yellow Line"

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.  

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. 

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!*

Here's looking atchoo, sweedhaaht.

Okay, now I need to write something happyish to make up for that Sylvia Plath post. 

I don’t know.  It was raining. 

Anyway…

So I guess my next endeavor is to start looking for gainful employment.  Around here?  Hopefully.  Other coast?  Perhaps.  I just don’t know anymore.

I LOVE LOVE LOVE it here so much that my heart shrinks up into a little wrinkled raisin when I think about having to leave, but my stupid brain (oxymoron – or is it?) keeps telling me how impractical it is to count on finding a job right away that will allow Gary and me to live the way Gary and I like to live.  (Yes, I did in fact use “me” and “I” correctly in that sentence.  Feel honored in the presence of the Empress of English.)

That's like where there’s a yard and a fence and a garage for a car (and a small sailboat?) and preferably no one living on the other side of the wall.  (You can do that in the boroughs, I hear.)

Then again, I’m game for whatever – if the potentially less-than-satisfactory living conditions are only temporary.  Gotta start somewhere, and even on the west coast, I think we’d have to live in what might easily become known to us as the equivalent of a “half-way house”. 

[Ha!  Beagles!  I love Beagles – they always sound like they’re just DYING and “OOOOMG, HOOOLP me! I’m being tooooortured, sooomebody save me!” And then you look to see who’s torturing their dog (not unlike how you would look to see what kind of awful parent must be “torturing” their poor child inside the local Wal-Mart) …and it’s just a Beagle, like, barking and howling at…  NOTHING.  Absolutely nothing.  Haha I love Beagles.]

OK, back to the blog… [I’m sitting outside Effy’s Café right now doing some serious people-watching as I type this, so please don’t be offended if I stray from my point every now and then.]

So yeah, anyway I would very much

[Mmmm.  Strawberries.]

So yeah I would very much like to stay here, because Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, etc. just don’t seem to hold a candle to NYC, boroughs and all.  In Seattle & Portland, they don’t have boroughs; not boroughs like these, that are so damn cute and chock full of yogurty-goodness in the way of culture – no, Seattle and Portland have suburbs.  White suburbs, usually.  And not very cute.  Not even hip, really.  NYC boroughs are for hipsters, and families, and artists, and normal people, and crazy people, and [Really?  What exactly did you just honk at, Mister Taxi Driver, huh?  What do you want her to do, just evaporate into thin air?   Sheesh…]

So why would I want to leave this city [that is the tiniest dog I’ve ever seen – my cat would accidentally swallow that dog and urp it up as a rumpled furball] when there’s just no comparison.  NO comparison.

But ugh, SO expensive.  So.  Expensive. 

Why must I always want to obtain the unattainable?  Is it attainable?  Is it obtainable?  Is there a difference?  Obtain a job here that allows me to attain status as a resident of NYC.  Is that right?  [That’s a really nice breeze! …why is that man staring at me? oh yeah, he must be wondering if I’m a burned-out, “she must have let herself go” version of Lisa Kudrow.  Just smile and nod…] 

But I guess I won’t ever know unless I try for it.  So for now, I can do all these wonderful and fun and apprenticeshippy-type things all summer long – we’ve budgeted for that (at least I hope we have).  But once the summer’s over, I’m gonna have to either go back home to Dragstaff, or figure something else out, but I can’t just keep working for free.  I do hope I can find something apprentice-y (Tina Fey?  My Obi-Wan?  I can dream...) or perhaps land a job that allows me to do what I do best – anything that involves writing or film editing.  Wonder if I should [wow that’s a really pretty blouse] take a Final Cut Pro class while I’m here.  Or just dive into the newest release and take it to the next level on my own.  Yeah, that would probably be a good idea.  [there’s that tiny little dog again!  I would legally name him Rumple Furbian Upchuck and I would just call him “Chuck”.]

[Bus – big bus, with huge ad banner on the side; why do Weeds and The Big C always go side-by-side together on the bus banners?  I know it’s because they’re airing on the same network, but it’s kind of ironic actually when you think about it because a lot of cancer patients use weed to counter the effects of chemo.  And it's really cool that both of these series star really strong kick-ass women types.  That’s pretty awesome.  Women have come a long, LONG way on television since the days of Ozzie & Harriet.  I could so work for that network… Googling...  Oooh, what’s this?  “Showtime Networks Inc. careers”...  Bookmark.]

Back to the blog… my resumé has recently been given a good revamping, so perhaps it’s time to start sending it out.  NBC, Showtime, film producers, film studios, network studios, wherever.  Time to hit the virtual pavement I guess, and see which coast responds – and then perhaps the Universe will just tell me where I truly belong.  I just wish I knew whether I could live as comfortably in NYC as I could in Seattle or Portland – or if Seattle or Portland could be as dynamic and engaging as NYC, regardless of having the house with the picket fence and all that rot.  But... suburbs?  I think they'd kick me out for being too weird.  Or something.

[Nice ink, dude.  Spider webs.  And various types of spiders around the webs.  Ah!  More spiders – oh wait, he turned around – yes, more spider webs!  You wear it well, Good Sir.  You must be an ichthyologist or something.  Wait, that’s for fish.  Sounds like the study of spiders should be called ick-theology, just because, you know, it’s somebody who worships icky things.  But spiders aren’t all icky I guess.  Just mostly.]

[It’s a really pretty day today on the Upper East Side.]

[I want a black and tan.]

[I don’t feel like worrying anymore about whether or not I can stay here.  I just want to Be Here.  Now.]

[Time for a toasted ‘everything bagel’ w/ cream cheese from the Nice man who calls me “sweedhaaht”.]

[N=PF².]

You Talkin' ta Me?

I don’t know if it’s just me, but New Yorkers seem nicer than people back home. They smile more, they’re funnier, and… dare I say this?  They’re more polite.

Or maybe it’s just me.

But I don’t think so. I have a theory. And since I share a birthday with Albert Einstein, my theories should be taken very, very seriously.

I have concluded that N=PF².

That is to say, the number of People (P) times the amount of square Feet (F²) of available space equals a naturally occurring sum of Nice (N).  Or, Nice equals People times Square Feet.

So the more people there are who must share a finite amount of space in the City, the nicer you kinda have to be to each other. It’s, like, a survival thing, I guess. Or maybe it’s tribal. Or species-al. (really? spell-check doesn’t have a problem with that word? weird.)

It’s my theory, and I’m stickin’ to it.

Because back home in the western states, everything is spread out. The buildings, the mountains, the towns, and the people – all spread out. So you don’t really have to be very nice, or even say hello to someone for an entire day if you don’t want to. You could go to the grocery store, grunt back at the girl beeping all your food past the register, get gas at the station by swiping your card and never even looking at a gas station attendant (do they even still have those?), go shopping at the mall, eat a burrito grande in the park, and make it home in time to catch up on Bret Michael’s Rock of Love without brushing someone’s arm or even making eye contact.

Not so much out here. If you drive, good luck not being honked at, waved at, or having some kind of expletive (in varying languages) spat in your general direction – all in good fun, of course, because that is how New Yorkers acknowledge each other and say to one another that “You are, most definitely, NOT invisible to me.” You exist!  You’re not a number – dammit you’re a man.  And you’re in everybody’s way and everybody is in your way and isn’t it great that we can all muck about and be in each other's ways these days?

You see, I consider being recognized, even with passing anonymous disdain, a much friendlier gesture than being ignored entirely. And that’s what they do out west – they ignore each other.  Booooring!

I can prove my theory. Remember those cheeky Westerns where the bad guy always says to the good guy, “This town ain’t big ‘nuff fer the two of us, pard’ner…”? Well, there’s your historical account of how people acted towards each other back in the wild west days.  I think the people who initially moved out there did it to get away from everyone – and it took one hell of a long journey in covered wagon to accomplish this. And now, thanks to genetic memory, those of us who’ve descended from those lone cowboys still feel a pang of violence toward that one other guy who seems to be taking up our space in our town.  Now that gun fights at high noon are (mostly) illegal, I think we’ve all just learned to ignore each other so as not to be startin’ somethin’ (sorry – I think that’s more Michael Jackson than cowboy talk). Maybe that’s where the lack of eye contact comes in as well… they say not to make eye contact with someone if you don’t want to start a fight…

Again – I digress. I digress a lot these days. Blogs are good for that.

Case in point: I was in Sedona a week before we left for NYC, and my watch got snagged on something and fell off somewhere around the Tlaquepaque shops. I noticed it almost instantly, since Gary knew he’d seen it on my wrist in the very last shop we came out of, so we retraced our steps multiple times, asking every shop owner along the path if someone might have turned it in, and stayed around long enough for someone to come clean and give back the watch. No one did. My watch was probably snapped up within a minute after it hit the ground. Someone obviously picked it up and kept it, not bothering to wonder or even care if its return might be greatly appreciated. It wasn’t even a very expensive watch, either.  I mean, geez.

A week later at the Roosevelt Hotel in Midtown Manhattan, Gary and I were in the business center of the hotel where guests can use the computers to check in to their flight and print out their boarding pass, etc. I was helping Gary do this for his return flight home, and I was a little bit flustered at the time and trying to hide how upset I really was that he wasn’t going to be able to stay with me.

We got back to our room, and as I sat down on the bed, silently pouting at his boarding pass, the phone rang. Gary answered, looked at me incredulously (I’ve always wanted to use that word), and said “Thank you! Thank you very much!” and hung up. He told me that the front desk had called to inform us that my purse had been turned in by somebody by the name of AWESOME and that they were holding it for me to come pick it up.  I didn't even realize I was missing it until we got the call.  I'd inadvertently left it – credit cards, cash, driver’s license, passport, and all – on the floor next to the computer. Everything was still there, down to the last penny.  Could have been a New Yorker who turned it in, could have been someone from out of town; didn’t matter. It was in the City, and because N=PF², the person who found it was the product of the sum of Nice.

The other day at the Museum of the City of New York, I got so starry-eyed at the Joel Grey display that I somehow left my camera on the display case and walked off (yeah, go ahead, raise your eyebrows at me – it is strange how often I seem to lose things these days). Once I realized I’d left it there, I went back to retrieve it and it was gone – and just as I was about to give up asking the staff if someone had turned it in, my friend Laura called after me and said “Margo! He has your camera!”  I whirled around (picture this in slow motion with violin music in the bg) to see a smiling older man – a very Nice man – holding my camera all safe and sound and warm in his pudgy little fingers. I thanked him profusely and my day was resurrected.

Not only are the people just plain friendlier, but weird and magical things tend to happen here. I was just telling Gary before last weekend how I’d suddenly realized, during a particularly humid walk home from Central Park, that I really would be needing an umbrella here, and felt stupid for not packing the little travel-sized one that I keep at home. So I promised him that within the next few days while Laura was in town, if we found ourselves at a shop where they sold umbrellas, I’d buy myself one. So the night Laura came out, we decided to walk along the Museum Mile, where you can gaze up at the Met Museum's eerily shadowed night lighting, when hardly anyone's around, and you can jump and play on the vast concrete steps that lead up to the remarkably mammoth Greco-Roman columns that signify the Museum’s grand entrance. As I skipped down the far side of the steps, my eye caught something in the light. Looking down, a single object lay parallel with the steps:

ella, ella, ay, ay, ay... Thaaaat’s riiiiight. An umbrella. Not just any old umbrella – a freaking New York Yankees umbrella. As Laura pointed out, it might as well have had a bow wrapped around it – and I pictured maybe even a small card that said, “To Margo, Happy New York.” Or something. Come on, admit it.  Say it with me: That was kind of spooky. Should I have turned it in?  Well, OK yeah, maybe.  But you see, when I opened the umbrella, I realized that it was dirty, slightly damaged and broken on one side, and kind of old - but usable.  The museum was closed, it was very late, and there was nobody around, so I took it home.  Maybe I should have turned it in the next day or something.  Crap.  Now I feel bad about it...  Maybe I haven't been here long enough yet to factor completely in to the realm of Nice.  I'm sorry - it must be genetic.  I'm working on it.  Irony in hindsight can be very unsettling... So not only do random New Yorkers seem to watch over my property for me, they also ask me things in the elevator.   “Going running in the park today?” “Do you like this weather we’re having?” “Where did you find those crazy shoes?”  You can’t avoid a conversation with a New Yorker, because they ask you things. Back home, you might hear someone say, “This dry heat sucks,” but you don’t necessarily have to respond. You could easily just vaguely nod and still avoid eye contact if you wanted to. Heck, they’ll even point out the most popular table to sit at in Effy’s Café, remind you in the shoe store not to leave your purse behind while you do the idiot walk of testing a potential new pair, and they’ll even stop you in the subway and say, “The 6 train’s not running today, you’ll have to go all the way to the Brooklyn Bridge and transfer back up on the 4…” – even if they have no idea where you’re actually headed.  It doesn’t matter where you’re headed. You’re there, you exist, the subways are jammed with people (remember, P x F2), so Nice will be in plentiful bounty all around you. Another friend of mine who grew up here pointed out that before 9/11, people weren’t quite so nice as they are now – so there are plenty of other factors that can weigh in on the sum of Nice. But it’s been 10 years since that horrific day, and I’d say that Nice in New York is here to stay. And maybe – just maybe, so am I. (...and now I feel really, really bad about not turning in that umbrella.)