The answer was the language the teacher in Charlie Brown cartoons used: “Whaa wah whah wah.” Was the man wearing dirty gloves in August a cat burglar or just wanting to avoid covering himself in newsprint (which didn’t adhere as well in the old days)? If a car stopped for no reason and an incoherent explanation was made, which rarely happened since the subway pioneered the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy, riders would occasionally make eye contact to see if anyone else had a clue as to what was happening. Track fire? Teenagers wilding? Passenger heart attack? Maniac on the loose? Like most multiple choices tests, there were two equally good guesses about what would happen next. If the train had stopped moving, let out an enormous sigh, and was becoming hot, it was probably going out of service. If it was huffing impatiently then it was most likely turning into an express train, and you needed to decide whether to get out. Along similar lines, tourists often asked where to find the “schedule” for the subway and the answer was (in addition to a huge laugh) that it didn’t exist, and if it did, would be pointless anyway.
Then, as now, the subway served a dual purpose. It’s a low-cost mass transportation system in addition to being a free health-care information center. There are endless advertisements and they change regularly, but you won’t see any for yachts, diamonds, champagne, beluga, Armani, or dude ranches. No, these ads are for treating hemorrhoids, corns, warts, bunions, diabetes, torn earlobes, unsightly rashes, acne, nail fungus, hepatitis, and sexually transmitted diseases. It’s particularly disturbing to read “Chances are 1 in 4 you will get Herpes” when you’re the only one in the car. Visitors would have to think twice about becoming intimate with a New Yorker after seeing these never-ending banners proclaiming our festering, untreated maladies. This in itself cuts down on the transmission of infectious diseases, and it makes one wonder why the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention are in Atlanta and not Grand Central Terminal. The New York Lottery has appropriately chosen to advertise amidst all these cautionary tales and features their tagline, “Hey, you never know.”
Eventually, I came to know the subway system and all of its quirks. As I darted down the stairs at my local station I knew the exact
number of people I hoped to see standing on the platform, signifying that a train was just about to rumble into the station, and they’d done all of the waiting for me. Less than that and it meant sweating in the gloaming and breathing foul air while hoping for a train with its endless screech of ear-piercing brakes to miraculously appear. More people than the magic number meant that something was wrong and the train could be delayed interminably. This was decades before electronic signs (aka, “countdown clocks”) displaying train status removed the excitement of rudimentary prognostication – straining to see around the corners of dark tunnels in search of the glow of a headlight, listening for a rumbling noise, and feeling the ground for a vibration. We were in a state of constant anticipation – what the Boy Scouts, or in our case Homeland Security, might call “high alert.” Insiders dubbed the Lexington Avenue line the Muggers Express, the F the Forever train because of long wait times, and the N/R line the Never/Rarely.
In thirty years of riding the subway rails I’ve never once experienced what the New York penal code calls “forcible touching” in a crowded car. This may just be a statement about my particular body type because I’ve heard from women who have encountered grinders, grabbers, squeezers, and pinchers. My only observation is that this seems like a dumb move on the part of the groper since he is trapped in a small space, and if the gropee calls attention to the problem there are sure to be a number of people wearing sharp-heeled shoes who will feel obliged to step in and remedy the situation. In other words, hell hath no fury liked a subway car full of New York women who worked a long, hard day in an office, school, restaurant, or hospital.
You aren’t considered officially old at any particular age in the city, even though senior transportation discounts kick in at sixty-five. However, it’s customary to give up seats to the elderly, and that’s when we know we’re old. The first time this happens to New Yorkers they all go home and say the exact same thing: “You’ll never believe what happened to me today!” Conversely, it can be a tough call as to when to offer up your seat. Between cosmetic surgery, chemical peels, and Botox injections, it’s impossible to tell the approximate age of many riders. And I’ve seen more than a few passengers turn hostile when
accused of being senior citizens. A friend of mine likes to offer certain women seats “just to see the look on her facelift.”
Once I was on a crowded train with a man who had a child about the age of five. (Kids under forty-four inches tall ride the subway for free.) He and his daughter were sitting next to each other when an oversize older woman loudly informed him, “You need to keep that child on your lap since you didn’t pay for her to ride.” The man shot back, “You should only get half a seat since you paid half price.” It’s not the comebacks I love about New York so much as that people have them in the moment. I, on the other hand, always think of my oh-so-clever rejoinder about two weeks later while taking out the trash.
A terrific idea for absorbing the continuous congestion would be another subway line. Oh wait – this idea actually occurred to city planners a century ago, and in 1920 a Second Avenue subway was mapped out by a group of engineers who are all dead now. After a few delays because of the Great Depression and World War II, ground was finally broken in 1972 by a team of sandhogs who are also dead or long since retired. As of 2015 the first segment was still under construction. So if you are old enough to remember Ronald Reagan this subway won’t be finished in your lifetime. For anyone who ever said that New Yorkers don’t like children, let the record show that we love children and are inconvenienced daily in the centuries-long building of an entire subway line for our children, or more likely, our great-grandchildren. I don’t want to sound pessimistic, but China has been completing subways of similar length within the space of a year, even when hosting the Olympics between transportation projects. In 2000 Shanghai had one subway line and lots of rickshaws. In 2015 Shanghai had twelve new subway lines and no rickshaws. In 2015, New York hadn’t had a new subway line for 60 years, but we’re getting more rickshaws every day.
To expedite subway construction, perhaps it’s possible to raise money by creating first class cars outfitted with Barcaloungers and butlers who offer mimosas in the morning and Big Appletinis in the afternoon, and then wake you in time for your stop. Barbers, manicurists, psychiatrists, tech repair people, and newspaper page-turners would be available round the clock.
The New York subway system is known for its variety, so it should come as no surprise that animals are part of the multi-culti subterranean scene. I believe they’re allowed since I’ve witnessed plenty of cats, dogs, and geckos on their way to the vet or being transferred as a result of post-breakup joint-custody arrangements. And sometimes you see owners returning from the animal hospital with an empty leash or carrier and a tear in their eye, grieving privately in public. Condolences from strangers are proffered. Most of us have been there.
Pigeons and rats regularly make their way onto subway cars, along with a few raccoons and at least one opossum. Dad liked telling the story of an off-duty police officer who was attacked by a penguin while riding the subway back in the 1960s. The rogue bird was returned to its home at the Coney Island Aquarium, but only after five squad cars with sirens blaring came screeching to a halt at the 18th Avenue Station in Brooklyn as they responded to an “officer in distress” call.
During the Discovery Channel’s 2013 Shark Week, a three-foot-long dead shark was spotted on a Queens-bound N train. After reports of the car “smelling extremely fishy,” a supervisor disposed of the catch-of-the-day, though not before New Yorkers had a chance to post pictures of the shark in various poses, including smoking a cigarette alongside a MetroCard and a can of Red Bull. In the summer of 2013 two subway lines had to be shut down for several hours after a pair of kittens escaped. It was d
uring a mayoral election, and the candidates were immediately asked to take a stand on whether service should’ve been halted for a kitten search-and-rescue mission. Leave it to say the Anti-Kitten Candidate was beaten in a landslide. (Lesson learned: Much like abortion and taxes, cats also attract a large number of single-issue voters.)
Despite overcrowding and crippling debt, the subway and its environs are now a safe, fairly clean, well-lit place where people read, apply makeup, play video games, and listen to music through headphones. Platform graffiti has been replaced by licensed advertising, which is more uniform and easier to remove, but not necessarily more interesting. Otherwise, the city commissioned permanent mosaics in more than 300 subway stations that are truly spectacular and tour-wor
thy. A guide can be found online under “Arts for Transit and Urban Design.” Another art form called “hitting” has also taken the subway by storm of late. This involves young people (I’ve only spotted men thus far) performing gravity-busting acrobatic routines in the cars, while passengers try to prevent the airborne artists from hitting the bags and packages out of their hands or giving them a black eye. It seems to be the male equivalent to pole dancing and typically begins with the holler, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s showtime!”
In case you suddenly find yourself in need of cheap batteries, toys, churros, or candy bars, there are plenty of illegal hawkers shouting, “Come get it before the cops get it!” Speaking of which, the list of subway improvements does not include any Quiet Cars. Religious literature is available at most express stops, along with handshakes from politicians around election time. Transit Authority–approved performers busk in stations while offering their CDs or DVDs for sale. My guess is the guy playing the plastic buckets has not been approved. Likewise the man dancing a robust tango with a life-size doll whose feet are attached to the tops of his shoes. Itinerant musicians stroll through cars annoying more people than they please, but have been commended for knocking it off when a sleeping baby can be produced. Some mornings you just want to read the chlamydia ads in sleepy silence rather than be roused by a five-piece mariachi band pounding out “Guantanamera” or else a gaggle of Peruvian panpipers playing the best of the Beatles.
Panhandlers loudly proclaim that they’re not stealing to make a living. To the panhandlers’ credit, they tend not to be thieves and usually work the same subway line or street corner to build brand loyalty and a customer base. In fact, I’ve seen panhandlers make change for $10, $20, and even $50 bills. There’s a hilarious video on YouTube called Panhandler Party that riffs on all the wacky stories people come up with to elicit handouts.
It’s not enough just to beg in a town that’s home to big Broadway musicals. You need an act, a gimmick, a trademark. Even if it’s just asking tourists trivia questions such as “What’s the best nation in the world?” That would be a Donation. I’ve run across signs that say “Willworkforfood.com,” “Will Take Verbal Abuse for $10,” “Cut Out
the Middle Man,” “My Father Was Killed By a Ninja,” “Her Lawyer Was Better Than Mine,” and “I Need to Buy a Vowel.” Specificity is a popular strategy – “Do you have just a nickel?” or “I need $2.95 for a sandwich” or “My spaceship is broken and they have to send the part from Albuquerque which is going to cost $49.50.”
Keeping with the intergalactic theme, an ear-shattering saxophonist on the C train wearing pink fuzzy Martian antennae plays for a few painful moments before announcing to trapped passengers, “Give me money and I will stop.” Then there was a guy at my stop selling sniffs of women’s underwear for 25 cents apiece or three for a dollar, a somewhat counterintuitive pricing model unless it was meant as a comment on the quality of the experience.
It isn’t just the inventive signs that serve to make passersby skeptical. I’m certain that I am not the only one who has seen a supposedly blind or wheelchair-bound panhandler leap up and take off when approached by police or other signs of trouble. Disabled mendicants might do better if they could get a certificate to display, the way some vendors and musicians exhibit their licenses.
My only complaint about subway travel is that tablet computers and other such devices have rendered it impossible to tell what people are reading. It was always fun to size up riders based on their choice of newspaper, magazine, or novel. As a writer it was particularly nerve-wracking to come across a straphanger reading a book that I’d written and then have to study his face for the slightest hint of pleasure or loathing. Now, who knows? That interesting looking guy across a crowded car could be perusing Guns & Ammo, House Beautiful, or Street Gangs. So much for reading material as a conversation starter or creep alert. And if you didn’t have anything to read it was almost always possible to look at someone else’s newspaper or book over their shoulder. I always tried to be polite when I had an over-the-shoulder reader and left ample time before turning each page in the hopes that others would do the same for me.
The ongoing story of the subway is possibly best told through the contents of its Lost & Found. In addition to the usual umbrellas, briefcases, backpacks, eyeglasses, and cell phones there’ve been live
bombs left by forgetful terrorists, an original Salvador Dali, bags full of cash, artificial limbs, abandoned newborns, corpses, diamond rings, and a large refrigerator stuffed with bottles of Arizona iced tea. A severed head was found on the L train in 2012, the lesson there being don’t enter a tunnel through an emergency exit, especially while intoxicated.
Still, things have a way of going full circle. When I arrived in New York there were a number of pantsless riders, and you hustled to another car anytime you spotted one. Over the past few years, “No Pants Subway Rides,” where thousands of people show up sans slacks for a “celebration of silliness,” have become popular. The event has since spread to cities around the globe, in case anyone was doubtful about New York City’s continued dominance as a cultural trailblazer.
In the bad old days, many people took the bus because it was safer, even though it was also slower and so packed with senior citizens that it made you feel guilty about not visiting your grandparents. Nowadays, people ask, “Why take the bus instead of the subway?” On buses – the M1 and the M20 in particular – you can get good recommendations for plastic surgeons or cardiologists. You’re also able talk on your phone, which you can’t do underground because there’s little reception and most phones don’t work. Conversely, many riders would argue that the reason to take the subway instead of a bus is that screeching brakes, mariachi bands, bucket drummers, and yo-yo hawkers are preferable to the sound of folks yammering away on cell phones about their personal hang-ups, petty grievances, and perceived slights. Although the worst has to be overhearing the constant declarations of coordinates, “I’m just getting onto the bridge!” “We’re stopped at 59th and Fifth!” Like everything else in New York, that’s about to change as reception is brought to the subways, and soon enough we’ll be hearing, “I’m stuck on the F train right before Myrtle Avenue” with an accordion rendition of “Wake Up Little Susie” in the foreground.
Chapter 4
License to Thrill
At the end of the American Revolution, Manhattan did not extend more than ten blocks northward from the Battery. In 1807 Mayor DeWitt Clinton appointed the commission that would shape the city’s streets by imposing a grid onto undeveloped land north of Houston Street. By 1860 expansion had reached 42nd Street, by 1880 it had reached 90th Street, and by the new century Manhattan was completely carved into resident-filled blocks. The only way left to go was up. With some innovations in steel structure, elevators, central heating, and electrical plumbing pumps, that’s exactly what happened.
No space had been left to park horses and carriages, which would eventually translate into no space for automobiles. As a result, less than one-fifth of New Yorkers own cars. These city dwellers brag about not having cars the way midwesterners brag about having lawnmowers the size of cars. The percentage of New Yorkers who can drive is much lower than the national aver
age, though the percentage that can’t drive isn’t the same as the percentage that don’t drive.
A “New York Minute” is an instant. Or as comedian Johnny Carson once said, it’s the interval between a Manhattan traffic light turning green and the guy behind you honking his horn. In scientific terms this is known as an LHU (light-horn unit) and the equivalent of 1/100 of a second. As a result, New York is one of the few cities where people wear out horns before tires. But as with the origins of the “Big Apple” nickname, I’ve heard conflicting stories about the “New York Minute,”
as some insist it’s the interlude between the plates hitting the table in a restaurant and the waiter handing you the check.
A New York Minute is different from a New York Moment, which is something that can happen only in New York, such as a married governor who cracks down on prostitution and then resigns for engaging prostitutes and then runs for city comptroller, or a married congressman who resigns over a sexting scandal and then runs for mayor while continuing the sexting under the pseudonym Carlos Danger to attract the Hispanic vote. Before moving his show out of a declining city in the 1970s, Johnny Carson also said, “New York is an exciting town where something is happening all the time, most of it unsolved.”
Statistics show that despite a high rate of cantankerousness and complaining, New Yorkers actually live longer than the average population. This could be based on the New York Minute calculation or else on the fact that when transportation delays are taken into account life just feels longer. If New York City streets are giant arteries, then the cars are the white blood cells, taxis are red blood cells, buses are plaque, UPS/FEDEX trucks are platelets, street sweepers are cholesterol, and garbage trucks are humongous fat globules. Tyrannical bike messengers are the espresso, and Con Edison, which coagulates the avenues from six lanes down to one every few blocks while fixing equipment underground, serves as the mozzarella cheese.
Life in New York Page 3
