Porta Potty

This afternoon on the 6 the entire car smells TERRIBLE. As in cross
between porta potty and something-just-died terrible. There is a
homeless man sprawled out, relaxing across the seats. He can do this
because nobody, I mean nobody wants to be near him. In fact, given
this rush hour crowd he provokes an unusual phenomenon. Every single
person is squished into either the front or the back of the car,
clustered away from him. This leaves a big, gaping space surrounding
this guy in the middle of the car. Yes, everyone always tries to keep
away from the smelly person in a subway car but this is the most
extreme I have ever seen it. The guy is lounging, aware of the space
he has created and is clearly enjoying it.

The stench is so overpowering that at the very next stop I hop out,
brave the crush of people on the platform and switch cars. It is not
until I am seated that I notice this new car smells exactly the same!
Group think blamed the homeless man but clearly it was instead
something brought on by the MTA themselves!

I should have known, I think I have mentioned this porta potty smell
before. It must be the chemical the MTA uses to clean with. It is not
just me that is clearly fazed by it. Even in this new car people are
reacting, as nearly everyone has their hand or scarf in front of their
face to prevent them from inhaling these brain-rotting fumes.

The Slow Descent into Insanity

I can sense the bus driver of the x90 slowly starting to crack. This is the same driver that I have discussed in a previous post several weeks ago who accidentally went the wrong direction and nearly flipped over the whole bus.

Ever since that day he has not been the same. He is now sullen and bleary-eyed nearly every afternoon. He is also silent, whereas he used to engage in robust conversations with whoever was lucky (or unlucky enough) to occupy the front two seats. More alarmingly, he has grown increasingly erratic. The x90 now blows through the tail end of yellow lights, brakes jerkily on the FDR, and sometimes completely misses stops.

I am sure he has a family. Tucked away in some one-bedroom apartment in a remote neighborhood in Queens. He hates what he is doing but has to get by in this city. His job is slowly dragging him down into a bottomless pit, but at least he has a job. Just like the rest of us.

My commute lately has been a pretty even mix of the x90 bus or the 6 train, whichever suits me that day. Maybe I’ll just stick to the 6 now. However, I read in the Daily News the other day that the subway is now at a more heightened terrorist threat for the holidays. Which is a greater risk of causing my demise? Having the x90 driver veer off the FDR into the swollen East River or getting blown up in the subway? Oh the decisions we make.

There is rumor of a possible transit strike in mid-January so maybe I will have neither option…

Beast of a Woman

This afternoon the 5 train is miserably packed like a cattle car. Not that this is out of the norm, however a horrid woman is insisting she get on even though there is obviously not a space for her. She is semi-middle aged, has caramel-colored skin and a graying funky afro. Tall and broad, she has the authoritative presence of a cover model of a 1980s feminist magazine. She decides to body slam her way in, leaving not even a millimeter of space now for anyone to breath.

To make matters worse, as we start to move Power Afro insists there is some space in the middle of the car and tries to tell everyone to move in so she won’t be squished against the door. No one even looks at her because there is clearly no place to move to. She announces she is taking matters into her own hands and tries to plow her way to where there is supposedly more room. Of course she doesn’t get more than a body or two deep. Power Afro ends up jammed next to me, squishing my rib cage until I can barely breath. I push against her because well I am not pushing against the person on the other side of me when this whole mess her fault. Power Afro tightens her body and pushes back at me. We stand against each other ass cheek to ass cheek. Thank god it is not summer as we are semi-protected by our winter coats. We are now digging up against each other in a silent power struggle. Who does she think she is? If I ever had a homicidal tendency it would be now. I really did want to rip this woman up.

She wins however as I abandon ship and squeeze off at Union Square, a stop before I really have to change over to the 6. Another day of defeat.

A Different Commute

Today instead of either taking the x90 bus or the 6 train home I have to go to suburban New Jeresy for mundane reasons not worth going into. This means that I have to take the E train to the Port Authority to catch a NJ Transit bus. To get to the E train from the World Financial center I have to go down Vesey street which is a flat, straight and only for pedestrians. The majority of the rush hour crowd is walking against me, trying to reach the PATH train that runs underneath the building. From my viewpoint I could see the enormousness of hundreds and hundreds of fellow white collar workers as one. A sea of bodies all wearing black overcoats that match their black umbrellas, all with identical looks of determination only the true New York commuter can have.

During my ride on the E train, and in the bustling Port Authority I take note of the sheer volume of people. I do my same commute day in and day out without really thinking about how many hundreds of other different commutes there are into office buildings all across Manhattan. And each of those hundreds of different commutes- whether it be the Port Authority buses to the suburbs, the PATH train from Hoboken, the ferry from Staten Island, the Long Island Rail, etc- there are literally thousands of people doing each of these commutes. It is truly mind boggling.

As I sit in the darkened NJ transit bus I look around me and notice everyone sunken in their seat, exhausted. These are the people who have way worse commutes then mine. Every day in and day out they leave their house with backyard and their children at the depths of dawn, drive to the bus station, and wait for the bus. They get on their crowded buses, maybe have to stand for the hour plus it takes to Port Authority, get on a crappy subway line such as the E to finally take them to their careers. And yet they do it day in and day out. We all do. Every day.

What is it we are all working for? Damned if I have figured it out....

Statue of Liberty

This morning as the x90 bus passes by Battery Park I notice one of the Statue of Liberty impersonators already out and about at this early hour.

These performers congregate daily around where the ferry to the actual statue docks. They parade around in long gray costumes on very high crazy stilts and charge tourists to take their picture with them. I actually read a piece devoted to these very people in the Times once -they are usually Colombian immigrants and are apparently extremely competitive over their turf.

Anyways, this particular lady liberty only had his costume half on. Standing there in the morning sunshine he was peeing in some bushes in the middle of the park.

It is not every day you see the Statue of Liberty herself half-drunk and taking a piss.

A Ham and Salami on White Please

So it is an annoyance of mine when people eat on the subway. I believe I am so grossed out because eating is a messy and often smelly habit to begin with that is now multiplied when we are all packed in so closely. The egg salad sandwich of the person standing next to you now becomes your egg salad sandwich. Only you don’t get to eat any of it, nor would you want to. Also, with people from all ends of the spectrum ethnicity and hygiene wise you never really know what anyone is really shoving in their mouths. I am not alone on this- it is against the rules and you are supposed to get fined for eating on the train

The 6 is packed as usual in the evening rush hour but luckily I get a seat. As I squish myself between two people, the women who I had the luck of sitting next to pulls a Subway sandwich out of a paper bag. I am actually going to label said person as a he/she. Although I originally judge her as a women the more I study I realize he/she is clearly of an ambiguous kind. He/she is dressed in the most horribly gender neutral clothes possible with a classic she-man haircut (see early post.)

I try not to pay attention to the chewing and gobbling that is going on a few inches away from my face. Honey mustard is spewing out of the sandwich and dripping all down his/her hands and arms. Since there is no room to inch away I try to pretend I am in another place. This person then does something impossible to block out. Once finished, he/she stuffs all the Subway wrappings back into the bag and begins to start LICKING the mustard off herself. And not just a little cleaning of the fingertips like many people sometimes do in the privacy of their homes. I am talking tongue going everywhere, even licking all the way down his/her arm. Like a giraffe cleaning her young.

Really?

Orange and Crispy

This morning on the subway I see a mother and baby. I notice the mother right away- she would definitely fit the definition of a “MILF". Young (or at least “young-looking”), long blond hair, and dressed flawlessly- your typical new Manhattan mother. She even had the requisite 3.25 carat engagement ring glittering away on the hand holding her child to her chest.

The reason she stands out is because she has a slightly unusually shaped head and is extremely orange. The head shape is irrelevant in comparison to her alien tan. When I say orange I mean way to orange for New York. In December. Maybe in south Florida would her degree of faux bronze be acceptable. MAYBE. She is radiating, even worse than the typical Staten Island girl shade of tanning booth (no offense to my readers from this very fine borough!)

The issue that is really compelling though is her infant. It too is orange!!!! Just like mom. What- did she take the baby tanning too? Or maybe she passed down her day-glo hue via womb.

I know I have a subway starting problem, I know I do.