Tag Archives: subway

A Long Night’s Journey… With Fury

Thanks to my fancy NBC friend, I checked out a screener of the new movie Pitch Perfect tonight. Afterward, I headed towards home but not first without stopping for a dozen eggs at a deli in Midtown. The movie ended before 9:00 P.M. so I had plenty of time to grab a few necessaries and still catch the express uptown.

However, without fail, if I am transporting a parcel in need of refrigeration I will come upon delays and climates of fire and brimstone.

Do you know about the Garbage Train, Reader? This enigma of the sub-terrain is usually something you see crossing your legs on the platform at 3:00 A.M. having the ill fate of selecting beer for your evening’s drink. It is a bad omen that the soft comforts of your bed are far far away from you.

Here’s a video so you can recognize your doom in the future:

If you’re waiting in the subway in New York and you see the Garbage Train, abandon all hope. I’m not even sure this train transports garbage, but it’s the evil twin convertible of the MTA subway system. Sucking the very soul from your lips, it is the Dementor of the underground.

With a dozen eggs in hand (no bag, because I’m a pious “green” asshole) I waited for a time, which felt like a scene out of a Samuel Beckett play.

I need only the “A” train to bring me home.

Yet, here’s the succession of trains that passed while I stood on the tiled steam room of the 59th St station stop:

Garbage Train (not even 9:15 P.M.! Hope remained intact)
D Express train
C Local train
A train! – Out of service
B Local train
D Express train
Another garbage train?!? (Hope abandoned)

Then, just when I considered biting the thirty dollar bullet and taking a cab, the A Express train arrived!

I boarded with the rest of the cattle and true to form ended up shoved against a questionable character flipping leisurely through a book of cancer photos. Cancer photos, Reader.

We wait. We wait idle at the platform until…
C Local train comes and goes.
B Local train comes and goes.
A Express train finally departs uptown!

Cue the PA system, “Ladies and gentleman, this train is making local stops to 125th St. All local stops.”

To those outside New York, the express A skips all seven stops of the pomp and circumstance of the Upper West Side making a bee-line straight to 125th St/Harlem and beyond.

I don’t need to explain that’s a lot of stops. And that five block jaunt from 81st St to 86th? Utter bullshit. At this point my eyes were seeping venom. Or tears of frustration, whatever you want to call it.

We inched farther and farther north and nearly ninety minutes later of what should have been a twenty-six minute ride, I arrived home having crushed the dozen eggs in my palm around 110th St.

So I guess what I’m getting at is, who wants to make me breakfast?


Posted in NYC | Tagged , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

But I Still Have My Wallet

Ok. A prostitute lost her balance and fell on me on the subway. Then a pan handler boarded and gave his spiel down the train car. She mumbled something to me about how annoying it was.

He then approached the hooker and said a man at the other end told him something in Spanish. He said to her, “come with me and tell me what he said,” followed by, “c’mon sweetheart.” And he picked up her purse from the floor and took her hand leading her down to the other end of the train.

They came back a few mins later and sat all cozy next to me. (I got up feigning anticipation for my stop).

Thoughts?

Posted in NYC, transit | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

Catch 22-Train

The NYC Subway token was phased out in the Spring of 2003 and the display screen on the turnstiles now all read “No Token”. Even if you had an old token, you couldn’t jam it into the slot anymore because the Metrocard has taken it’s place.

But, do you ever feel like the Metropolitan Transit Authority is fucking with you just because they can?

Such existentialism, Metropolitan Transit Authority. I took this as an invitation to jump the turnstiles.

Posted in None | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Criminal Declawing ***UPDATE*** Mass Transit Hell!

***UPDATED FROM CRIMINAL DECLAWING***

Okay, fine! I’ll deal with the occasional subway nail clippers. And I’ll tolerate those who eat entire overly aromatic meals on the train, so as long as this never happens to me again:

It’s the Friday before a holiday weekend. I left work in a good mood. One might say chipper. You may be in the same boat, too.

I boarded the Uptown A express at 59th St. and sat next to a man dozing off. Minutes later he awoke from my shoulder riddled with apologies. That was fine. I didn’t mind a bit. Rest your head upon me, good sir. That’s all fine by comparison to my near future.

At 125th St. an enormous man boarded and sat perpendicular to me. He emitted a smell only a 400lb man on a humid day could; that sour scent that rises out of the pours betwixt the rolls of an overheated neck. A neck in desperate need of a good scrub. I wore a skirt today; he wore cut-off sweatpants.  Our knees grazed, but it was a crowded train; I dealt with it. It happens.

Sleepy Man and I chatted until his stop at 175th St. He bid me adieu and a good weekend. I reciprocated with a bon voyage on his weekend vacation to Florida.

I then subtly focused my peripheral vision once again on the giant man to my left. His flip-flops revealed he was not in violation of public (or even private) toenail clipping. If you haven’t already understood this, I’ll spell it out: he was icky. Not homeless, that’s an affliction I look towards with great compassion. He was just giant and icky and proved this by doing the unthinkable.

I know what you’re assuming right now likely involves sweaty man junk, nay, that’s thinkable (and yes, worse, but hear me out). As I awaited my station stop, this mass of ooze and juice extended his pore-clogged neck towards me and before I could retreat or duck, he purposely and breathfully coughed directly onto my face. I can think of worse things he could have done directly onto my face, nevertheless, I recoiled in disgust and horror feeling his warm breath pouring over my skin.

I lept from my seat out of any possibility of continued fire. I could feel his air still on my eyes, my cheek, my forehead. All I could think of is tuberculosis, tuberculosis, tuberculosis. Is that even a thing anymore? Fuck if I know. I just knew I desperately needed my stop to come so I could dash out into the open air, sprint home, and wash my face.

My friend Pat always jokes I should carry a loaded glock in my purse at all times. This would have been an appropriate time to have used it.

Have a good weekend, Reader. Make sure your purse glock is loaded.

 

Posted in NYC, Subway | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

One Balloon. Three Decades. One Catchphrase

Today, Reader, is my 30th birthday. Please, hold your applause.

I celebrated the last night of my 20’s eating chain-restaurant Mexican food and sipping margaritas off the happy hour menu with a friend in Times Square. That might sound like a pathetic way to end a decade, the peak of my youth, the final years of excused irresponsibility; but nevertheless, fun was had all thanks to good company and one shimmering mylar balloon.

The check came and we said our goodbyes and I marched to the nearest subway station, birthday balloon in hand.

It’s a wonder how one seemingly insignificant prop can attract the attention of strangers near and far. I received a smattering of birthday wishes from pedestrians and, for New York, an uncanny dose of smiles. I boarded the uptown A train taking the first available seat… next to a drunken man with a comically large cane. It could have been Donatello’s bo staff with a hook attached. He swayed with the movement of the train car and once he perked up and laid eyes upon my shimmering balloon, I knew amusement with a dash mortal concern would ensue.

“Welllllllll, lookie there!” he howled, violently poking a sleeping man across the car with the cane, his companion.
The man awoke with a grunt.
“Eustace!” (yes, his name was Eustace) “this little lady’s havin her ma’fuckin’ birthday!”
Eustace did not care and returned to his snooze.

When a stranger opens a conversation including the phrase “ma’fuckin’”, danger is lurking near. Maybe it was stupidity or laziness or perhaps my overwhelming need to be amused among strangers, but I never considered moving my seat. The threat of his cane pummeling me over the head was apparent, but I wanted to stay for more. More ma’fuckin’ entertainment!

Bum Wine focused his blurred gaze upon me. In a simulated sweet tone he asked, “how’s that birthday comin’ along, little lady?”
“Well, it’s not quite my birthday yet so– ”
“You can’t get what you ma’fuckin’ want!” waving his cane dangerously overhead.
Whoa! Whoa! I didn’t ask for anything, not even a pony!
“It’s actually tomorr–”
“But if you try, you’ll get what you ma’fuckin’ need!”
Okay, Mick. I get it.
He became quiet and I assumed the show was over, until….

“You a ma’fuckin’ baby. Not like me, I’m old as shit…”
Suddenly this was becoming a very long train ride.
“Smoke on the ma’fuckin’ water!”
“I don’t know what that means?” Dangerous reply. I should have had deep purple bruises at this point, but thankfully the train reached my stop.

I rose to exit politely allowing those before me file out first just as Bum Wine surprisingly began to follow. Crap. Thankfully he pushed in front of me and my balloon muttering a series of incoherent rants with the occasional “ma’fuckin’ birthday” sprinkled on top. He moved so slowly that the doors began to close.

Ma’fucker, I thought, if I have to walk home from the next station stop I will kill you.

Just then, he shoved his cane through the closing double doors attempting to pry them apart. Aggressively yanking the cane back and forth, other passengers and I backed away as his face turned red and his tone infuriated, “What the fuck is wrong with you! Open the ma’fuckin’ doors, you ma’fuckin asshole!” At the front most car, the conductor’s “cockpit” lies mere feet from where we stood. He shoved his hand through the sliver available, his skin decayed. His long fingernails now visible as he wrenched the doors open screaming the whole way.

The doors finally released and we were free. He walked ahead of me and I watched him approach the conductor’s window tapping the cane against the plexiglass, “Why don’t you let me out the ma’fuckin’ train!?!” As I neared the stairs passing his massive body, he abruptly stopped shouting at the moving train and turned to face me on the platform. He had me blocked. Leaning in frighteningly close to my face, so quickly I didn’t see it coming…

“Happy birthday, little lady,” and he hobbled away.

*I’m now considering perpetually roaming the underground holding a balloon as an experiment. Science is Fun.

Posted in NYC, transit | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Criminal Declawing

The people of New York City are divided into two very distinct classes: filthy inconsiderate cretins blind to social norms and personal hygiene, raised by drug-addicted blood-thirsty wolf mothers… and people who don’t clip their nails on the subway.

Somehow it has become vaguely acceptable for a person to fish through their pocket, retrieve their silvery chopping tool and proceed to fling pieces of themselves about the car. Pocket space comes at a premium; for me, it’s saved solely for hair bands, a Metrocard, and maybe a couple of bucks. Purse space is no different, required items include: keys, cell phone, wallet, book, and chapstick. I’m aware others have different needs; perhaps an extra pair of shoes, a laptop, or maybe a lunch. So the mind reels to even consider a person leaving their apartment, collecting the standard items and thinking, “Gosh, these nails could use a trim, but I’m so pressed for time! I’ll tuck these clippers into my pocket and take care of it on the way.”

No! Wrong! Make time! At home!

Artist Jason Shelowitz agrees. Last spring, he created an art installation amid NYC Subways educating those less informed on obvious unacceptable behavior:

Brilliant, but how quickly people forget.

During rush hour yesterday, I sat on the train reading in peace when suddenly I heard the unmistakable “plink!” noise and felt something graze my cheek. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” I said, turning to see that less than a foot from my face a woman had brandished her clippers and began grooming herself on the downtown A train.

I submitted my best “Really?” face which translates into a squint combined with a look of disbelief. No acknowledgement and she continued. As I picked nail shrapnel from my hair, I heightened my combat to an audible wide-eyed, “Really?!” paired with aforementioned facial expression. Her return reaction was a non-verbal, “what’s the problem?” (Subtext: “doesn’t everyone jettison their unwanted hardened protein on the train?”). Disgusted, I stood to move my seat. Other passengers took notice and began backing away from her mine field, too.

I’ve seen much worse, but always from a distance. If you’re going to be brazen enough to do this in public, at least try to avoid innocent bystanders.

Upon exiting the subway, opportunity appeared in navy blue.
“Pardon me, officer?” cheery, but infuriated by my experience, “just curious, can you give a ticket to someone clipping their nails on the train? You know, littering or whatever?”
He agreed it should be a crime but the assailant, safely whisked away to the next stop, will go on to stab others with her perpetually regenerating flying talons.

On the next edition of “What The Fuck Is Wrong With People”, we’ll learn about creating discomfort with your camera phone use on public buses!
Until then, Readers, ride the rails safely and wear protective eye goggles.


Posted in NYC | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment