We almost forgot to mention, the freebie NYC paper Metro thought enough of our take on commuter angst to run our essay about subway misbehavior in its “Voices” section last week, the part of the paper that influences policy-makers, informs CEOs and decides presidents.
Since we can’t seem to dig it up online, here’s the unedited, slightly longer version than what ran in the paper (the director’s cut, if you will). It’s worth noting that the idea for the essay was actually hatched here at Trainjotting.
Putting Train Transgressors On Ice
As the MTA figures out what to do with the unused token booths in subway stations around the city, we’d like to offer a modest proposal: Take a cue from the National Hockey League and use the booths as penalty boxes. Token clerks, as much a Gotham anachronism as a winning Knicks squad, shall don the referee’s stripes, and turn their surly demeanor on the iPod blasters, greasy-food eaters and feet-on-the-seaters while ushering them to the nearest subterranean sin bin.
2-Minute Minors
Start punishing the less heinous infractions, and riders might think twice about committing them next time. That guy whose cranking iPod makes the F train feel like Don Hill’s some time after midnight, we hope you can hear the ref’s whistle over the din. That woman leaving her Post on the 7, in you go. The cougher whose hacks turn the 2 train into his own personal Petri dish and the man with the backpack the size of a Volkswagen Passat–you’ve been served.
And that New York newbie who hasn’t quite figured out the rhythm of swiping the card through the turnstile and is holding up those who are perfectly capable of doing so: Consider yourself warned.
5-Minute Majors
On to the more serious crimes against humanity: Blocking the doors, improper disposal of gelatinous nasal mucus (boogers, in street terms), and taking up more seats than you have derrieres–that’s five minutes in the penalty box. Oh lithesome jumper of turnstiles, the police may have missed you, but the wearer of the whistle hath not. Get in the booth and think about what you did wrong.
And you, ma’am, filling the 6 train with the sight, smell, and, Good Lord, can it be, even the sound of your unthinkably greasy Big Nasty Breakfast, then leaving the refuse for the rats: Get your grubby mug in the box.
Then to that otherwise perfectly normal chap we saw flossing that morning on the N, please come with us. Lucky for you, the fact that you daintily retired the spent floss to the breast pocket of your shirt saved you from a…
Game Misconduct
The day has been a long one, and we all want to go home. But not you, young man on the W, as you hold the door for your slacker friend, barely visible beyond the thicket of turnstiles. You like it so much here, pal, you can spend the next few hours in the station.
And while you’re at it, take the guy who stormed onto the train as people patiently waited to step off, throwing his body at the mass of humanity like Black Friday shoppers on a bargain. In you go.
Match Penalty
Yes, the coup de grace of culpability is reserved for only the most rarified of wrongdoings. Such as the guy who pecks away at his Blackberry like a kid with a new Gameboy on Christmas, two perfectly good legs resting beneath him as the pregnant lady, elderly man and crippled nun stand above him. The elusive Match Penalty for you, dude. Call the boss, because you’re in the box for the rest of the day.
And after that, you can clean up after Miss Big Nasty Breakfast.