Posts Tagged ‘Subway

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19
Jan
07

Busted

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York and Strangers Observed
Tags: ,

On the F train home from work today, I noticed a woman sitting not far from me across the aisle. She was accompanied by two men about her age. There wasn’t enough room in the car for them to sit together, so all three of them were on separate pieces of seating.

I was trying to get a good look at the woman’s teeth, surreptitiously, as one does on the subway, distracted by the jagged and unaligned row in her lower jaw and the horse-like protrusion of the upper row. She was talking and making faces in conversation very freely, unashamed — and why shouldn’t she be? Still, I did have the word “snaggletooth” on my mind. Not a personal judgment, right? Just an observation. Just feeling lucky — or, rather, just being aware of her misfortune.

One of her friends, who was sitting nearer to me on my side of the car, gestured toward her, and she extended her foot toward him. He tied her shoe, and she lowered her foot again.

The old man directly across from me turned his head away from them. He had been watching them interact, smiling at the guy tying her shoe. I looked back at the two, and saw how they were looking at each other, how they spoke. Of course! They were a couple. The old man was on to it. And I was noticing the wrong thing completely all along. There was much more to say about the shoe-tying than about her crooked teeth.

21
Aug
06

What Are You Looking At?

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Gay and Me
Tags: ,

I took great comfort this morning in the fact that, when I caught myself staring at a woman’s ass this morning on the F train, it was not her ass that I was contemplating but the stitching on her back pockets. This is absolutely true, and a perfectly legitimate subject of homosexual male interest.

Lord… if someone had called me on it, I would have been far less embarrassed by my staring at a woman’s butt than my staring at a woman’s butt. I hope no one saw me. As Hollywood said in the tragically unrerrated Andrew McCarthy/Kim Cattrall star-maker Mannequin: “I have a reputation to uphold.”

05
Jul
06

Feel it on My Fingertips. Hear it on my Window Pane.

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Weather and Work
Tags: , ,

For some rainstorms, umbrellas just don’t matter.

I am shivering in my air conditioned office now, while my pants hang immodestly over my office door and my socks hang over the doorknob. They’re nearly dry, but not completely. My shoes are another matter. Since removing them with a satisfying shlurrp! and far more effort than I am used to, I’ve set them on the floor to air out a bit. They may never be dry again.

This morning when I exited the F train, people were huddled at the foot of the steps that lead from the station out to the surface. Between the time I had entered the train in Queens and exited on the Lower East Side, the skies had opened up and let loose a torrent. I decided that I would walk the five blocks to my office rather than wait out the worst of the downpour. Who knew how long that wait might be? And I was already 10 minutes late for work.

My umbrella was strong, and it withheld the rain pretty well for about half a block. Then I realized my error. It wasn’t just the water coming down, but also the water that had already fallen. Some of the curbs were banking very high, very dramatically moving rivers, as the sudden flood rushed to the nearest sewage drains. I couldn’t even leap over some of them, so my shoes were drenched in short order.

The back of my pants from the knees down were soon soaked through. My socks were like cold rags. And my umbrella was beginning to sag under the pressure of so many gallons per second.

But my hair was still cute.

I was thrilled with the suddenly cooler temperature. This cloudburst represented a major victory against my arch nemesis, the high humidity we’ve seen in recent days. Usually it reduces me to a sweaty mess because nothing evaporates on some of the worst mornings. Today I was even wetter for a different reason, but at least I wasn’t boiling over from the heat.

What choice do we pedestrians have but to get wet when it rains? Should I stop and wait under and awning? Why delay the inevitable? I’m already soaked. Should I walk faster? or run the rest of the way? If so, I’d only splash myself from underneath and probably slip in these tractionless shoes anyway. Wet as I was, it made little sense to do anything but push onward. I was laughing for much of the way, it was so ridiculous and futile.

As the intensity surged up and down at intervals, I toyed with the idea of folding up my umbrella and, Lear-like, face the tempest as a simple man against nature. Sometimes the wind would pick up and send the rain sideways. What was the point of fighting this storm? My head and some portion of my shoulders were relatively dry. But little else.

Thank god my bag stayed dry. I love my sporty WNYC tote! When I got to work, I locked my office door behind me and changed into the post-gym clothes I brought with me. I feel like a fool wearing shorts and sneakers at work, but today I’d rather be dry than appropriately dressed.

10
May
06

Our Hands, Ourselves

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Strangers Observed
Tags: ,

I like to watch people’s hands while standing in the subway. During the morning and evening commutes, when the trains are crowded and people are standing and grasping at anything solid to keep their balance, hands are so exposed. Sometimes all I can see of a person is his or her hand.

Some bite their fingernails; others take exceptional care of their tips. They are brown and beige and pink and sallow and white. Some have spots. Some have finely formed ropes of veins down the arm, around the wrists and across the back of the hand. Some have hairy knuckles. Some with a firm grip show sinews and tendons straining against the skin. Some are fat and shapeless. Some are so thin, it’s a wonder they function at all.

There is a paradox about hands: While they are indeed exposed and open and very public, they are also extremely private and personal and intimate. Almost everything we do both privately and publicly involves hands. Why are we so skittish about genitalia and breasts when it is our hands that prepare our food, burp our babies, wipe our asses, wash our bodies, insert and remove our contact lenses, wear our wedding rings?

If the brain is the largest sex organ, surely the hand is the second largest. Indeed, sometimes sex involves the hands more than any other body part.

You put your hands where? And then you touched me? the doorknob? your french fries?

Of course, we wash them. And for the ultimate in OCD behavior, we can also waterlessly sanitize them. So, I’m not talking about dirt or germs here, but rather the idea of what we do with our hands.

We write with our hands, conducting our fears, memories and desires — and things much more banal — from the brain to the page. Some talk with their hands, expressing themselves with complete languages but without a single word. We construct with our hands: buildings, art, Web sites. We destroy with our hands.

We play with our hands — piano, rugby. A friend of mine, who does both, and who works on a laptop computer all day long, recently broke the smallest phalange of his ring finger. All the things he does that matter have become exercises in endurance, so central are his hands to his life.

We are defined by our hands. When that thumb showed up millions of years ago, everything changed. Forget fire, the wheel, moveable type, cheese in a can. The revolutionary hand started this whole crazy mess.

It’s kind of obscene, the way we so shamelessly expose people to our hands, given all the trouble they get up to. We should wear gloves.

06
Feb
06

Left on the Tracks

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Nostalgia
Tags: , ,

I often wonder about the stuff that gets lost on the subway tracks. Not the bottles and bags and wrappers — who cares? But a child’s shoe? A stuffed animal holding a heart that says “I Love You”? A wrapped bouquet of flowers? These things meant something to someone at one time. Maybe they meant the wrong thing. (I’d like to see how the flowers ended up down there.) But they meant something.

It’s kind of crazy, the things we place emotional value on. When I was a little kid, I had a wooden toy dog on wheels. The axles were bent, on purpose, I think, to make the dog wobble as you pulled him along on his red string. His little plastic ears hung down on swivels and swung forward and back as he hobbled along.

I used to have recurring nightmares of dropping that dog into Lake Michigan (technically, the Straits of Mackinac) while crossing the Mackinac Bridge on foot. I’d dangle it over the edge and watch it swing. You know that way kids take risks with their toys — or their lives — dangling things in dangerous places. Some of us as adults continue to do this.

I’ve never been on that bridge on foot, and I don’t know if it’s even possible to dangle anything over the edge. (Though I’ve been on it plenty of times in a car, and I do know it’s possible to get knocked off that bridge without dangling anything.) Nonetheless, it was horrifying for me to consider.

17
Jan
06

New York Lesson No. 330: Blame it on the Train

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York Lessons
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It was one of those “duh!” moments when I realized an important piece of mass transit physics. Let’s call it the Law of Conservation of Trains. When standing on a 7 platform in Darkest Queens waiting for a Manhattan-bound local train (for example, as I often do), and three Flushing-bound 7s and two Manhattan-bound express 7s pass before a jam-packed Manhattan-bound local finally pulls up, it’s important to remember that the converse phenomenon is absolutely just as likely to occur at some point. It only seems like the dark cloud is hanging over you, because you never see the experience of the people waiting for the Fluching-bound trains until you are that person. You only see the bad-luck story when it’s you, but you may rest assured it happens to every blessed one of us.

This leads to another central truth of subways: Never content yourself with the notion that the trains are late — unless there’s a mass transit strike, or an overturned and brightly burning diesel truck under the elevated tracks, or some other Act of God. No. It is your own stupid fault for getting there later than you meant to. In fact, on time is usually impossible if you are not early. The one fact about subway commutes that will never let you down is their unwavering unluckiness. (This has the benefit of making the lucky times seem so much more magical.)

I am from mass-transit-be-damned Detroit, and even I know this. The fifth or sixth or seventh time I was late to work, it struck me that, yeah, I’m really just an idiot, and I really just need to leave the house earlier, and none of the dyed-in-the-wool New Yawkers I work with is going to have much sympathy for the corn pone Midwesterner.

15
Dec
05

Mmm-mmm!

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York Minute and Strangers Observed
Tags: ,

Another F train story.

There was a man leaning against the doors one morning who noticed a woman sitting across the car. He walked over to her, placing himself directly behind me (I was standing and holding one of those brushed chrome vertical poles), and began flirting with her mercilessly, talking about how he wanted to marry her, how he’d treat her right, how he’d show her what it meant to be a woman, and other vague, thinly veiled sexual promises. “Mmm-mmm!” he’d say. “Mmm-mmm!.”

She was attractive but totally average-looking, in my opinion. No better-looking than half the women on the train.

She did her best to ignore him, but he did not let up. So, realizing she was not going to look up at him, the guy started to get belligerent.

She buried her attention deeper in the newspaper she had been trying to read. As I glanced around discreetly, I could see that she was clearly distressed. She may have been looking at the paper but she was definitely not reading it. Her eyes were not moving, and she looked nervous.

Then the train stopped in the tunnel somewhere between Roosevelt Avenue and 21st St. All went quiet. There was not even any unintelligible intercom announcement explaining the delay.

The guy started up again. “I work for myself. I’m my own boss,” he said. And “I got me a burger in his bag. I’m saving it for a homeless person.” He has so much money, he said. So much money, he’s going to go to Germany on business.

I can verify that he had a bag in his hand. But as for the rest of it, I can only assume he was … exaggerating the truth.

“I got more than 5 G’s at home, baby. It’s all mine. I’m my own boss. Ain’t no one gone tell me what to do.”

No one was coming to her aid. She didn’t want to cross him; she was scared of him. I did not want to cross him, because he was obviously crazy and not the kind of guy I want to be stuck with on a train in a tunnel.

And then who would come to my rescue? No one.

The train lurched into motion again.

Evidently someone looked at him, because he turned his attention to someone else. “What you looking at?” he snapped. “Fuck you.”

Then he began muttering to no one in particular. “People don’t mind they own god-damn business. What the hell is wrong wit you?” He said some more about Germany and all his money and his happy employment situation. I don’t know who he was talking to. He tried to assail the woman with his charms again, but she was ignoring him.

Then: “You want some money? I got money. I ain’t no fool. I’m my own boss. Here, I’ll give you some money. I don’t need no one.” I presumed he was talking to the person who had distracted him. He dug in his pockets and pulled out some change.

No response.

“Here, god-dammit. Take this god-damn money.”

The change fell to the floor, either rejected or ignored. It was a couple of quarters, by the look of it. The crazy guy stooped to pick it up in a fury. I seriously thought he was going to hit someone.

He then started to rant and philosophize. More of the same story. More about the hamburger. Sighs were audible all around the car.

Then the train stopped at 21st Street. The doors slid open. And the man tossed his change out the door onto the platform, shouting “Hey, world. Here’s some change. Give yourself a wake-up call.”

The woman stood up and left the car. I don’t know if she got back on. The good news is the guy did not leave the car to follow her. The bad news is the guy did not leave the car. Evidently he had business to attend to in Manhattan. And that’s where we went next. He continued talking to people who ignored him. I was desperately hoping he would not approach me. To make sure of it, I also left the car at the next stop, ran forward a few doors, and re-entered the train.

To my annoyance, I discovered I had gotten into the very same car — but at least I was down at the far end from him.

Then, as perfect, perverse luck would have it, he made his way down the car in my direction, leaving a trail of distressed but relieved passengers in his wake. I don’t even know what he was saying to people, because I wasn’t paying attention to the words anymore.

Then he announced. “I’m gone get off this train. I ain’t gone bother nobody no more. Fuck all ya’ll! I got to give this here burger to someone. Somebody need this.”

He got out at the next stop — “fuck all y’all” — shouting all the way.

08
Sep
05

Fat Woman in Black

By Eric 1 Comment
Categories: Strangers Observed
Tags:

I saw an enormous woman on the F train today. She was as round as a gourd. Her arms hung from her body at 45 degrees. She was very neat and almost angular, despite her evident softness — very clean and almost sharp. She wore clean black sneakers — her after-work shoes, I guessed — black tights and a black skirt that stretched across her legs and waist. It didn’t stretch in an uncomfortable-looking way.

Thank god she wears her size, I thought. I hoped it was out of sensibility and pride rather than resignation. Whatever the reason, it’s better than squeezing into something she’d spend the rest of the day spilling out of.

The only bit of color she wore was a lime green top, sleeveless, I would imagine, over which she wore a black jacket. Simple earrings. A bracelet or two. A neat hairdo, piled casually on top of her head.

She was totally captivating. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was beautiful and terrible. It was like examining something you see all the time — just a stranger on the train — something that all of a sudden looks totally foreign and reveals things you never think of otherwise.

I make up stories about people like this in my head. What’s her name? Where is she coming from and where is she going? How old is she? Where did she grow up? What is she reading? Is she covering her face with it hat newspaper? Who gave her that watch? Did she have a good day? Where does she work?

The most arresting thing about her was her face. Her face was swollen but very soft-looking and smooth. It was like a lump of ice cream sliding out of a cone. She had gorgeous, radiant skin. And she wore so much make up, very well applied, that the blush on her cheeks and the illusive shapes and contours she gave herself made her look severe and angry. Her face was a blank canvas shaped with color and shadow. Did it thin her out, or was it merely her style? What would she look like out of make-up?

Her eyeshadow was very dark. Black. No, almost black. I imagined she gets some happiness from knowing that it’s really a dark blue — even though people must surely think it’s black. Like a little trick she plays on the rest of the world. Like a secret.

Her fingernails were meticulous and done in a French manicure. Did she attend a wedding last weekend? Was she a bridesmaid? How big her dress must have been! I hoped it wasn’t one of those ruffled taffeta numbers. I hoped it wasn’t a bright color. I imagined she’s very picky about what she wears — and knows well by now what flatters her figure and what does not.

She takes such good care of herself, I thought. She clearly cares about her appearance. Why is she so fat?

I imagined her feet must hurt. Her shoes didn’t have laces. Just something that slips on and off. Something easy. Can she even touch her feet? She should sit down in the subway car, I thought.

She was reading a magazine. And she kept raiding it to cover her face. Like she was about to sneeze. Like she was hiding from something.

I have this perverse notion when I see a really fat person eating ice cream or a piece of cake, that he or she is very unhappy. That she hates every lick. Or that he puts every bite out of his mind and ignores that little voice on his shoulder.

Maybe it’s the one treat a month he allows himself. Maybe she’s just decided to start a diet.

Or maybe she’s happy with herself. Maybe I’m the freak for thinking so much about it. Maybe someone loves her. Maybe she loves herself.

28
Aug
05

Not an Animal

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York and Strangers Observed
Tags:

I’ll start with a story.

I take the F train from Jackson Heights in Queens all the way through to the Lower East Side of Manhattan to get to work. Most mornings I’m stuck right in the thick of bridge and tunnel rush hour. Those trains are packed. And you have to be pretty aggressive to get on sometimes, or those passengers will rush right past you — business men, little old ladies, moms with strollers.

Shoving is a way of life in the New York City subway. You give up apologizing for it after a while. And you put up with it from other people as long as you can until you want to scream. Sometimes it goes too far, and people lose all dignity and act like idiots to get on a subway car. Some people get close to the breaking point, I’m sure. One midwinter morning, I saw someone boil over.

I was crammed into one of the end cars, which are usually less crowded than those in the center of the train, and we were stopped at 21st Street/Queensbridge on our way out of Queens. The car was so full, there was no hope of getting anyone else in.

A man standing at the edge of the doorway began to react to a woman who was pushing him from behind. There was nowhere at all for him to go. There was no room for an other single person, and her pushing was totally useless. But she kept pressing herself against him, as if she were desperate to get in that car.

“Please don’t push me,” he said, sounding tired and annoyed. “I’m not an animal.”

Usually on the subway everyone is so quiet that when someone speaks up, everyone not lost in an iPod-induced haze hears it. Most of the passengers began to surreptitiously watch what was happening near the door. It’s an unobtrusive curiousity, a banal form of entertainment — anything is better than reading the same shampoo or community college ad for the 900th time. This is what mass transit reduces us to, sometimes.

Evidently she continued to push him, because he repeated himself. “Please stop pushing me,” he said more insistently. “There’s no room.”

She kept pushing, muttering something in a soft voice.

The man turned around and shouted, “There’s … no … room!” And emphasized the last word and shoved her back onto the platform with both hands.

The quick, painless, but somewhat violent action got everyone’s attention. Some people gasped. Some just looked nervously back and forth. And what should we do? There really was no room. The man ws clearly right, and the woman was clearly going to have to wait for the next train or try her luck at another door.

Undaunted, she leapt back toward the car and began pleading. She must have gotten a running start, because she managed to get slightly further in to the car — but not far enough to let the door close.

“Please. Please, just move in a little. Please — “

“There’s no room for you!” the man shouted. But she kept pushing.

He grasped the relatively small woman by her upper arms, lifted her up, pivoted and dropped her back onto the platform. It was not a particularly violent action, but it was certainly odd to see some one stranger laying hands on another and physically removing her from a subway car.

The woman sort of staggered back. And the doors closed, and the train lurched into motion.

Some people looked indignantly away from the doorway. Others shot dirty looks at the man. He ignored everyone but a woman who was evidently standing next to him. She began to argue with him and he would argue back. The atmosphere was tense and uncomfortable. But all the rest of us pretty much went on about our business.

I wasn’t sure how to feel: A man had just forcibly removed a woman from the subway. It felt like a fight had just occurred. Was someone calling the police right now? Would there be officers at the next stop waiting to arrest the man?

Then I remembered my headphones in my pocket. I nestled them into my ears, turned on my iPod and clicked around to my “favorites” playlist. “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey fired up, and I began to daydream about a city boy born and raised in south Detroit.

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the untallied hours