Since my last post, I took a brief sojourn to Paris (why not?) and came back through customs with a bit more recklessess in my step than when i left. Better that the details not be posted here, because i'd rather my wild moments be left to memory, not blogging commentary. But here I am, back, rejuvenated, with an anecdote to share:
I had a professor in college who felt that the subway experience, uniquely in New York (not London or Paris or Montreal) was a paradigm for the entirety of New York existence and psyche. He likened this to DeToquevillian ideas of humanity living in their own individual insular worlds but being forced to interact with one another, like atoms colliding, "with hearts and minds renewed." And while I may not be doing the explanation justice, I love this idea. One of the indispensable characteristics of growing up in New York, or living here, is that you are forced to interact with everything and anything on the subway. Riding it, day in and day out, makes you tougher, more seasoned, and generally a better person--because you are not sheltered from all that you might not elect to see or experience (schizophrenics, indecent exposure, trains suddenly going express without warning). Unlike in L.A., where you drive everywhere, and life is dainty and facile and comfortable, navigating New York is a trek, and you inherently earn each and every experience. And New Yorkers love to earn their gold stars, in any form.
In any case, my love for the subway is not always so shining. A few weeks ago, on a friday evening after a rather intense week of work, I descended the stairs to the truly heinous crowds of the Times Square 1/2/3 platform. Of course the uptown local was packed--I mean sardine packed--and I, in uncomfortable heels and huge bag, wedged myself in hoping the doors would close so that I could lean. No such luck, as seven people squirmed in after me, leaving me brushed up against a not fondly-remembered, smelly, older gentleman carrying a humongous cooler (what was inside? Cold beers? Black Market livers? Who the fuck knows).
Opposite me was a group of red-faced frat boys whom i didn't really notice until the train conductor started making announcements. "This train will be held in the station until we receive word from the dispatcher." "FUCK the dispatcher," screamed one of said-fratboys, "the dispatcher can suck it!" "Ohhhh i am so fucking drunk," screamed another one, "We're going to miss the start of the game." And then, a total non sequitur, the first one, making gyrating lewd movements, screamed, "Suck my dick, look how long and hard it is," etc. etc.
Now none of this was particularly appalling, but it was incredibly annoying, so i propped in my headphones to tune them out with some much needed post-work sounds of Daft Punk. "Shut up dude, look, that girl can't stand the idea of your dick, she's putting on her headphones." "What, you think you're too cool for us??" etc and so forth, as they verbally accosted me from across the car. The woman next to me, with full red lips and a severe updo, turned to me in solidarity and rolled her eyes. These assholes, clearly not from these parts, were literally terrorizing the car, hooting, hollering, and acting just so totally inappropriate. Keep in mind, we are still being held at the station with the conductor announcing "This uptown local will be moving momentarily, we apologize for the delay."
Like a stroke of brilliance, it suddenly occurs to me that this horrible group of boys, are in for a delicious taste of New York justice. I turn to this very cougar-esque woman next to me: "Umm, do you think these lovely gentlemen might be headed to the Rangers game?" Given their Rangers paraphernalia, this was a clear yes. The woman looks at me and instantly gets it: of course, they are on the wrong train.
"Whatever you do, DON'T TELL THEM," she implores, while they are profanely talking about "69-ing" in the background. I manage to keep it together but once the doors finally close, I start to collapse with laughter. She joins me, with her arm around my shoulder, and now everyone around us has figured it out too, including cooler guy, who is giving us the "shush" signal, as in, lets see how long it takes these assholes to figure it out.
"50th street," the conductor announces, and tears are streaming down my face from having to hold in laughter, and cougar's too. The doors are about to close when a very sharp, drunken "OH SHIT" is screamed in chorus. "WE'RE GOING THE WRONG DIRECTION!!! WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL US??" and looking around at an entire car of laughing commuters, the first guy (apparently with the big dick) goes, "Because you guys are douchebags."
As they catch the doors within inches of closing and race out on 50th street, a guy in a motorcycle jacket tells me that Karma is a bitch, and these guys deserved to be so thoroughly humiliated by an entire car of New Yorkers who, in solidarity, felt that they did not deserve to be told (especially since we were stationed at 42nd street for a total of 20 minutes).
But come on, how rare is it to have such a gratifying, tangible demonstration of justice? For the duration of the ride between 42nd street and 50th, everyone within a five body radius was thinking the exact same thing, exchanging smiles, back pats and thumbs-up. All the social walls of isolation were broken down. I turn to my newfound friends, my partners in crime (if only for a subway ride) and point out the best part: that at 50th street, you cannot transfer from uptown to downtown--that you have to exit, and then pay again to reenter across the street.
