Subway Ride

NYC Subway

It’s raining and I’m thankful that the subway entrance is just a few feet away from my office. I pace a few steps, look across the street at Pottery Barn, Zara, and just as my neck turns and my eyes gaze upon Banana Republic it’s time to collapse my umbrella and make my way down two flights of stairs. Just as I swipe my unlimited card through the turnstile, the 6 train opens it’s doors and a sea of people are released. The majority of them are headed towards the N line. It never fails. The crowd bottlenecks at the top of the stairs and they come to a halt as they wait their turn to proceed. It’s like merging on a highway. True veterans swiftly move in. New comers stumble into their blind side and disrupt the flow. 

Today I am straying from my routine commute. I have to detour into Brooklyn to feed my sister’s cat while she is on vacation. I take baby steps down the stairs to hop on the 4 or 5 express train. I’m scared of slipping. I wish there was an escalator. I make my way down and find an empty pillar to wait by. I stare up at the electronic sign and am thankful the next train will arrive in two minutes. The doors open, I grab on to a pole, and within five minutes I am at my transfer point.

Union Square is one of the busiest subway stations next to Grand Central, 34^th Street, and Times Square. I patiently wait to climb the stairs. Without fail, like salmon, there is always one person who defies the crowd and goes against the stream. I shake my head and wonder what rush this person is in that they can’t wait two minutes for the crowd to dissipate.

Typical Hipster (posted at theChive.com)

I have calculated my ride well. If you ride the same routes long enough, you know which subway car to ride in so that when you exit, you are closest to where you need to go. I turn the corner and part ways with the suits and ties. Perhaps I am the most conservative person walking in the crowd. The woman next to me has half long hair and half shaved head. The man in front of me is wearing cutoff jean shorts and his arms are covered in tattoos. I can count not one but two people in neon. Typical footwear includes platform shoes, Toms, and oxfords. I feel like I should be wearing Ray Bans even though it’s not sunny.

All aboard the L train. I’m in the thick of things. We stop at 1^st Avenue. A petite man walks in. He looks like he is going to take a stroll in the Hamptons despite the fact that his clothes don’t quite fit right and were probably bought at a second hand store. The train is extremely crowded. He pushes his way past me and settles on a spot right in front of me. Hampton man throws his duffle bag man purse over his shoulder. It presses against me. People who blatantly ignore subway etiquette and refuse to put their bags and backpacks down are one of my biggest pet peeves. I shake my head and do my best to not mutter out loud, “Hipster.”   

It takes less than 10 minutes to reach Bedford Avenue. The majority of the wannabe fashion plates step off the train.

I reach my stop further along the L line and am relieved to see the weather has stopped pouring buckets of rain. It’s just a little bit misty. I pick up my pace and as I walk past the bodega, I feel a sting to my hand. I lift and turn it slightly to see a black and white powdery substance on my knuckle. I have no idea what it is. I turn around and see a woman walking quickly with a cigarette caressed between her fingers. She had just burned and ashed me. I curse Bushwick and continue on with my business.

It is three hours later and all I want to do is go home. I know I am going to wait 10 minutes for a train so I pull a book out of my bag. I sheepishly hide what I am reading but the bright blue jacket cover gives it away. Mockingjay. It is a sign of the times and I, too, have been sucked in.

I get to Sixth Avenue where I transfer to the F train. It is late, almost midnight, and there is a group of teenagers yelling at the top of their lungs. I look at them in annoyance and wonder why they aren't home. Isn't it a bit late for a field trip? I have a sudden flashback to when I was eleven. I was in New Jersey visiting for the Summer and my grandmother scolded us children and instructed us to stay quiet on the subway. "It's not nice to yell," she said as she tried to instill manners in us. I didn't understand at the time what the big deal was. Now I do. The subway door opens and I hurry in to a car far away from the school kids. Peace and quiet. I sit and read a few pages. My eyes shut and I allow myself to sneak in a few minutes of shut eye. I'm confident I will wake up at my stop. I always do.