Leaners

I know, I know. The sign says, do not lean against the subway door.

But have you ever noticed how many people do? I did an informal survey today on the F train, 8 o’clock run from Jackson Heights. We averaged one person per door in a crowded car. In order to hold the study to a higher standard I chose my car by random, closing my eyes as the train pulled up and opening them only as I heard the sigh of the doors ease open.

I entered the closest car. I observed only and did not push or shove anyone against the doors, even though I had to mumble curses under my breath as I entered because two people were blocking the entrance and I had to squeeze between them.

To muddy the waters though, I have to count myself as one of the offenders. I’ve read the sign so I know what I’m supposed to do – not lean on the door – but I find my body drawn to that stainless steel door with the black rubber guard like a fly to a bug zapper.

Don’t go towards the light.

I have to.

But the light will zap you.

I want to be zapped.

The light is good.

The light is bad.

I want to be bad.

I can’t help myself.

Even when I lean away from the stainless steel, a bump or sudden jerk of the car on the rails usually throws me against its shiny surface, sometimes three or four times in rapid succession with enough force to cause a concussion, or at least a wicked coffee spill.

 

Is it dangerous? It must be. That’s why the sign’s there. Do I generally take risks like bungee jumping or riding a mechanical horse or leaving the toilet seat up in my house? No, but I did play rugby for 16 years.

But that’s neither here or there. I’m a leaner. It’s what I am. When I can’t get a seat and my legs are aching from a day of teaching, that door is my nirvana.

Leaners of the underground unite–and remember to watch your back when the train doors open at the station.

–Joe Lunievicz