The Prophet

This morning both the 4 train and the 6 train are not very crowded. Again I get a seat on both. On the 4 train there is a man sitting next to me with a homeless person cart. Homeless people always have a cart of some sort, stuffed to the brim with all of their belongings as well as various articles of garbage. However he was very clean-cut, wearing khakis and a blazer and did not smell. Perplexed that the pieces didn’t add up, I studied him for a bit. Then I realized he was reading one of those bible/religious/sermon/who-knows-what pamphlets very intently. He must be one of those Mormons or other people who goes around spreading the Lord’s word. He doesn’t try to spread anything to me. I turn my attention away from his book back to my own.


On this week’s commute I have been reading a collection of short stories by Miranda July. I have to admit I only bought the book because we share the same first name. I figured anyone else named Miranda has to be at least somewhat smart and interesting. The book is not good though. It is the kind of thing that intellectual literary critic-types probably go ape shit for however I apparently am not brilliant enough to get it.

Trapped

This afternoon I get on at the City Hall stop. I am doing errands after work and when finished I find myself closer to this stop than Fulton Street. I actually have never gotten on at City Hall before- I’ve never really had a reason to. I do know that it is the last stop on the 6 so I can take it straight to 68th street. As I descend down the stairs I see the train with its doors about to close- I rush in right before they shut. I think to myself how not-crowded the car is.

Once I look around I realize that there is NO ONE in the car. Not in my car or any of the others as far as I could see. Feeling sketched out, I uneasily take out the New York Times Sunday Styles section leftover from the weekend and start to read. The car lurches forward and starts crawling along, ascending away from the platform into the darkness of the tunnel. Then it stops. And it stays stopped.

I keep waiting for the announcement from the conductor saying there is a delay. Except there isn’t an announcement. Because I now realize that no one is supposed to be on the train. As the normal whirling noise from the train shuts down I feel tears sting in the back of my eyes and panic creep up my neck. I start pacing back and forth around the car and look out the windows into the blackness of the underground that surrounds me.

This is like a horror movie. I keep excepting some crazy subway monster, half rat-half homeless man to suddenly appear. What am I going to do? Of course I have no cell phone service down here. I have visions of myself getting out of the car and stumbling through the miles of scary scary tunnels of the New York City transportation system trying to find my way out. Or having to sleep in the car all night long- alone and underground.

Right before I am about to have a complete breakdown, the train starts to finally move, and I see light again, rolling right up to the platform into civilization and still at the City Hall stop. Apparently I was just at the other end of track, the wrong end where I guess you are not supposed to get on. It was probably stopped only about 10 minutes, probably just the conductor shift change at the end of the line or something, some maintenance maybe. However it had felt like light years and as my racing heart finally slows down I now have a new appreciation for what's above....what's above the street that is.

Bad Boys

I am going to start including observations from the other parts of my commute (i.e. walking) and not just confine things to the subway. I have decided this because just walking is about 15-20 minutes of my 45 minute commute. Also, I am worried that eventually I may run out of things to write about regarding the subway.

Where I get off the subway in the morning there is an incredibly busy intersection at Church and Liberty Street right next to ground zero with traffic cops directing pedestrian traffic. This particular morning on the corner there are about six NYPD officers questioning this suspicious looking guy. Absolutely nothing exciting is going on, no handcuffs, no yelling, and no scene. Yet myself and the 30 other people that are stopped waiting our turn to cross just all turn our heads and stare, intently watching the nothing that is happening. I guess no matter where you live in this country people are just fascinated with any sort of police activity.

Activity is defined as anything greater than a single police officer standing on the corner eating a doughnut.

Circle of Life

This morning on the 68th street platform there is a man playing violin to the tune of “Circle of Life” from the Lion king. It is one of those glorious rare mornings where I easily get a seat on not only the 6 but also on the 4 when I transfer.

In the afternoon there is something very sticky all over the floor of the 6. Not like somebody-spilled-soda sticky but as in the-stickiness-spread-over–the-floor-of-at -least–half-the–car sticky. The stick was so strong that when I get off the train my sandals kept sticking to the sidewalk as I walk home. Surprisingly I am not too terribly grossed out.http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=1376556526534822169&postID=2468747747185030013

The Pup

This morning there is a Latino teenager with a tiny puppy sitting next to me on the 6. It’s a baby pit pull, swaddled in a blue baby blanket, two weeks old. Probably the cutest thing I have ever seen, at least on my commute. Normally no one talks to anyone on the subway during the morning (or any other time for that matter) but women are surrounding this guy like a mildly attractive investment banker at a Manhattan singles bar. Everyone is asking him questions about the dog. Note to young boys out there- if your goal is to pick up hot older women on the subway, bring on a puppy. Not a destructive one however, or the only attention you will get is frustration from fellow commuters.

AM New York, the free daily newspaper they hand out before you swipe your card had an article in it this morning about rats taking over the subway. Apparently in record numbers they are “moving out of the tracks and onto the platforms.” I get squeamish when even I see them from safely above- sometimes I make myself stare at them for a few seconds to try to get over my fear. It hasn’t worked yet. I think I just might die if I see one running around my feet. This is bound to happen one of these afternoons.

Lipstick

This morning the 5 train is absolutely packed. Not normal rush-hour crowded but cattle car- pushing -frenzy-to-get-on packed. I am so squeezed into the businessman next to me that when I turn my head slightly I accidently smear my freshly applied red lipstick across the back of his expensive-looking tailored dress shirt.

I stare at the stain long and hard, feeling like a moron. It is a very big streak, surely everyone who walks behind him today in the office will see. I hope whoever he comes home to at night doesn’t think he was with another woman when he says he really was at happy hour. Should I discreetly try to wipe it off? Since I am not one of those who carries a stick of Shout in my purse that would be nearly impossible. Should I tell him and apologize? I figure that this would only produce two results- 1) he awkwardly doesn’t really understand when I try to explain what I did to him or 2) gets aggravated at me. Neither will get rid of the lipstick mark.

I decide to do nothing.

The Arm

This morning I was wedged against the door on the 5 train and a woman had to reach over me to get a grip on one of the poles. This spot on the car is always particularly awkward because in the middle is a no-mans land with nothing to grab onto. Either you hang onto nothing and risk being flung around or awkwardly and invasively lean over a stranger to reach a pole

Arm in my face, I got to study this woman, or at least her limb, very closely all the way from 14th street to the Brooklyn Bridge stop. There are not too many opportunities anywhere else to so closely absorb the intricate details of such a small portion of another’s physique. The arm was slender and lightly tanned but leathery with lots of little freckles, her saggy skin folds creasing around her elbow. They say with age it’s either face or fanny. Simple but harsh features, grayish blond hair too long for her age. In her late-forties, probably a “free-spirit” back in the day but probably now an annoying far-left college professor or maybe a self-involved artist. Definitely a vegetarian.

On the platform at Union Square this afternoon I saw a little plastic bag with poop in it. I think it was animal- not human. That’s better right?