Subway Musings

Is leaving your ankle exposed to the bitter cold a thing? I am crouching on the subway, tiger style, and the little boy sitting next to me seems to think so. His ankles are exposed in this 8 degrees weather, and I wonder briefly if it is his idea, or his doting parents. At least his dad has the decency of wrapping his giant hands around the boy's ankles for warmth. He could have tucked the jeans lower, but how else would the world know his son is wearing designer sneakers? Fashion before function.

It isn't enough. The boy's body trembles with every cough, and doses the compartment liberally with germs. In the 1900s, I might have have been worried that he has pneumonia, and won't make it through the night.

It's 2018. He'd live.

I get off the train, and aim for a transfer. The guy shuffling in front of me has an AOL patch on his Jansport backpack. Does he know AOL no longer exists? Should I be the person to break it to him, or is he doing it for the sake of irony? Alas, I have a train to catch; someone else can break his heart.

"Please be the E. Please be the E," I mutter in my head and stare blankly into the tunnel of oblivion. They are making another announcement overheard, something about train rerouting due to construction. Weekends, where everything can go wrong, and time does not matter.

By a small miracle, my train arrives in under five minutes. The conductor must have somewhere urgent to be, or is ending his shift. It wobbles dangerously against the current, and speeds into the light.

The train is crowded, but I somehow manage to snag a seat. Miracle number 2. I cross my legs, then remember what my friend said from years ago. Crossing legs can block circulation, and that is how people have spider veins. I quickly uncross them, even though it means I have to take up more space. No one is particularly interesting on the train today. I'm the emerald drowning in a sea of greys and blacks. No one looks especially content, save one couple, where the guy gesticulates animatedly, and the girl looks at him adoringly.

I glare at them and their blatant happiness.

Another couple is clearly getting off at Penn Station, or Port Authority. With a carry on, three backpacks between the two of them, it's hard to be anywhere else. They whisper urgently to each other, and look out frantically at every stop. The backpack on top of the carry on topples under the enormous weight, and the combination hit me flat on the foot.

Ow.

Darn. Missed my stop.
Darn. There is no train going back.
Darn. This train just stopped moving.
Darn. Darn. Darn.

And that's the weekend train for you. No matter how early, or how late you plan, it never works out. Unless you plan two hours ahead, then the joke's on me.

I hop back to the earlier train, but the door won't shut. Cold air seeps through the crack like Dementors, and with no service in this dreadful tunnel of disillusion, I am once again seeking entertainment from my fellow passengers. The guy sitting next to me is wearing avant garde earphones, the ones that snap onto your temporal bone. He is watching a hip hop concert on his iPhone X, and bobs his head to the music. The phone emanates strobes of lights, and the peripheral makes me think it should come with a epilepsy warning.

Ten headache inducing minutes later, I'm still stuck at 50th Street. I get off the train, along with a number of other disgruntled passengers. Naturally the train starts up the moment we get off, and we quickly run back. At least I'm no longer sitting next to the epileptic shock dude, even if the new person smells like cabbage soup.

The train is back on normal speed. Going without a transfer means I have to walk five additional blocks to my destination, or seven additional minutes travel time. A herd of people rushed in at 34th Street, full of nonchalance. The rest of us glare at the newcomers with disdain. They have no idea what we have to endure. A little boy is selling fruit snacks, but no one acknowledges him. A guy with heavy lashes has only a Supreme camouflaged hoodie on, and skinny jeans. His burgundy scarf covers half of his face like a renegade, and another yellow scarf drapes carelessly around his hoodie. Maybe he's partial to the Gryffindor house, maybe it's Maybeline. At least his hands are warm. They are protected by snowboard gloves with wrist guards. I look at my own hands: blistered from this unforgiving weather, flaky from the lack of lotion, replete with paper cuts from work. Abashed, I hide them in my leather gloves.

"Canal Street," the synthetic voice chimed. I take one last survey of my fellow comrades, and step off the train.

Until next time.