It was, quite simply, the least amount of time I’ve ever given myself to catch a train.

And I’ve pushed the limits quite a bit.

I had my eye on the 5:46. I’d like to say I had something absolutely crucial to do in Westchester at 6:30–put out a ticking bomb planted by the Russkies (Jack Bauer was, in fact, having a nap), or go over final wedding plans with Bill and Hill up in Clintonville.

In fact, I just wanted to get home to play with the kiddies and give The Missus a breather.

I’d had a 5:15 phone meeting scheduled and figured it wouldn’t go beyond 5:30, which is when I try to leave for the 5:46.

5:15, no call. 5:20, nothing.

Finally, the guy calls at 5:25. Maybe I can make it really short, I thought.

We did our business while I eyed the clock. It was 5:32 when we were winding down. I shut down my computer and loaded my backpack. We made small talk about Mad Men, and I thought of Don Draper rushing to catch the express to Ossining.

I huge up at 5:34; could I actually exit work and sprint to Grand Central, and track 108, in the next 12 minutes?

I hit the elevators, then the street at 28th. It was 5:37. No, I couldn’t sprint it, not even in my lean, mean prime. My only hope was the 6 train.

Just as I entered the station at 28th, I saw just what I hoped to see: a subway at the platform. I ran my card through and bolted for it–then watched the doors shut and the train take off just as I got there.

I’d be on the 6:10, I conceded. Mission failed. Russkies win. Again.

The new-ish electronic scoreboard in the station said the next train would arrive in three minutes. I clung to a distant hope.

Indeed, there it was, three minutes later. The on-train clock said 5:41. Could I go two stops, then bust through the rush-hour crush in Grand Central to make the 5:46?

I was sure as hell going to try.

We made it to 33rd in a flash, while the run to 42nd snaked slowly through the dark tunnel. I moved closer to the door for pole position and stretched my legs for the sprint.

I looked at my new Timex Iron Man: 5:44:20 as the doors opened. I had less than two minutes to navigate the GCT obstacle course.

I bolted out of the train, pushed through the human morass at the stairs, climbed the steps, bumped off an old man as I headed through the turnstiles, and headed up the stairs to Grand Central.

5:45.

I prayed for the typical 40-seconds late Metro-North train as I galloped down the GCT corridor to the concourse. Then it was down the way-too-narrow escalator  to track 108 (Going up the stairs, only to go down the escalator. Must it be that way?)

I committed the faux pas of actually passing people on the one-person-width escalator, earning me a few stink-eyes. Still, I soldiered on.

It was a straight sprint across the basement level to 108, cutting through a Hudson News to shave off a few seconds (”Crossing the Hudson,” in commuter parlance.). I hit the ramp at 5:45:40 and the lights of my train were flashing. The conductor’s head was out of the window like a Whack-A-Mole. He spied me and offered a faint mask of disgust.

I stepped onto the train just as the doors shut.

A new NYC commuter record. My fellow riders toasted me with a gold medal, a crown made of an olive branch, and a seat on the aisle.

We were all just outside the 6 train at 28th and Park. A woman in white scrubs was trying to get an elderly woman into a cab. The elderly woman’s partner, a heavyset old man, stood nearby in a suit, watching the proceedings.

Also watching were four construction workers. Fit, burly, strapping, you know–construction workers.

The aide in the scrubs was having lots of trouble. The old woman just didn’t bend very well. The southbound cab was in traffic, cars whizzing by. It was almost a scene.

Still, the hard hats, working at 404 Park Avenue South, stood and watched.

I was walking by so I hustled over to pitch in. I asked the chubby old guy if they needed help. He said yes. I put my bag o’ breakfast on an orange pylon and assessed how I might make myself useful. In fact, it was tough to figure out–the aide was blocking most of the elderly woman as the two did their danse macabre at the cab door.

Fortunately, another passer-by was far more adept than me. He was better spoken too–his “may I offer some assistance?” absolutely creaming my “hey, do you need some help?”

He instantly found a hold on the elderly woman’s upper body, and within a minute, they had her in the cab.

Through it all, the construction workers watched.

Thanks to the new work locale two blocks closer to Grand Central, I’ve been exiting the 6 train out the ass-end (perhaps there is a better way to rephrase that) at 28th, as opposed to the front end at 26th I used to use.

As a result I noticed the electronic scoreboards that tell you when your train is coming.

I’m sure these have been in place at 28th for some time, but I first encountered them–on both the uptown and downtown sides–pretty cool.

My first encounter with signs like this was, like many people, in London. I remember there was a stop called Seven Sisters, which struck me as just so English. Wikipedia says the Seven Sisters are located in Tottenham and represent seven clustered oak trees. So the Seven Sisters are not the women involved in Seven Brides For Seven Brothers, in case you were wondering.

I saw those signs in London about a decade ago.

Nice to see the MTA joining the Y2K era.

From June 29, 2009

The woman who muttered a sarcastic “thank you” to my back after I cut her off at the 28th Street stop this morning.

First off, Ma’am, I don’t think I was really, truly in the wrong.

It’s the slow approach to the two revolving doors under the 6 train’s special 28th Street entrance/exit that lets out at 25th and Park.

I’ve written about this unique spot before. Dozens of commuters stagger toward a pair of antiquated revolving doors. Why people need to exit through revolving doors as opposed to, say, I don’t know, maybe a wide-open corridor, is beyond me. I assume it has something to do with the Met Life building being on some list of historic places, so everything that’s under its roof is exempt from being knocked down.

The egression congestion problem was never more acute than a few weeks back, when one revolving door was broken, so the whole of the 6 train exiting at that spot had to file through a lone revolving door. Thank you, preservationists of New York City.  

Anyway, the spot offers an interesting snapshot of New York mass transit protocol. A pair of informal lines develop before the revolving doors, but since they’re not official lines, people sneak up the side of them and cut.

Which is what you were doing at 9:35 this morning, Ma’am. I saw you out of the corner of my eye, sneaking up the eastern flank or the revolving door on the right. I know from experience that eastern flank sneakers are easy to thwart, as one enters the revolving door from the western flank. One has to be extra-crafty to sneak up on the right, and still get in the door before the rest of the line.

You–a 40something black woman, short gray hair–were not quite crafty enough. You tried to sneak in, but I got my big dopey body in first. I’m not sure how it looked to the 60-odd people behind us–who they would find as the offending party, or if they would even notice at all.

Ma’am, I did make an extra effort to get in the door before you, and probably was seen by some (albeit those with a blind eye to etiquette) as an overly aggressive thug. About that I’m not particularly proud. But it was merely a response to your offending action; you were offsides, and then fair game for such malfeasance. If you venture into the goalie’s crease, Ma’am, you really can’t complain about an abrupt hip check.

You did not go quietly in my wake, Ma’am. No, after I’d clearly gotten my frame into the the next available Trivial Pursuit slice of the revolving door, you muttered a sarcastic “Thank you” into my back. I’d received no small degree of sunburn on my (previously) pale Irish neck over the weekend (so much for the Curse of Ezekiel Marcus!), and could feel your words burn into my sensitive nape.

I’ve learned from my actions, Ma’am. Perhaps I’ll be less aggressive in penalizing the improper behavior of others; surely that’s a Sysyphean task in a metropolis such as ours.

Hopefully you’ll learn too–to take your rightful place in the informal line, or at least keep the sarcastic barbs nestled behind your lips when someone calls you on your breach of subway etiquette.

Sort of apologetically but mostly not,

Trainjotting

UPDATE: To show that I’m a changed man from the experience, I just five minutes ago held open the door for three people behind me as I approached Gregory’s for some coffee, even though I knew that would place me behind them on line. I only cut ahead of them when they were dawdling inside the store while discussing Hoboken.

The Man Who Put on the Necktie While Standing on the 6 Train.

You were a short fellow, Asian, black hair flecked with gray. I’d say you were 45.

You got on the 6 at 42nd Street and illuminated the car with your hot pink shirt. You stood in front of the side doors, in the middle of the floor, and opted not to cling to a pole.

As the train pulled out of Grand Central, you commenced putting on a purple tie with white polka dots. The train bucked and swerved, as it is prone to do, yet you still did not opt for the steely caress of a pole.

That’s because you were busy putting on your tie. The fat part of the tie looped around the skinny part, fat part was guided through the loop, the length was perfect, and you tightened the whole shebang up. Presto. 

A perfect Windsor knot.

Just as we pulled into 33rd Street, you buttoned your top button and flipped down your collar, cool as can be. The stop into the station was a rough one, yet you still did not reach for a pole. It was a staggering feat, Purple Necktie–simply riding without holding on would be downright Herculean, while actually executing a Windsor knot in full train motion is hardly the stuff of mortals.

At 28th you stepped off the train, you Real Man of Genius, your cool demeanor at odds with the heroic actions you’d pulled off moments ago.

But we have to ask–pink shirt and purple tie?

Respectfully,

Trainjotting

[image: personalbrandingblog.wordpress.com]

The guy in the white dress shirt and khakis, throwing his weight around at the 28th Street stop this morning.

The 6 train heading down from Grand Central was jammed. We spilled out at 28th, happy for the fresher air of the subway platform.

A large mass shuffled toward the two revolving doors heading out of the exit at 26th Street. (Two revolving doors servicing a busy subway station…Quaint, or entirely impractical?)

Protocol gets a bit dicey at this exit. People gradually form two loose lines for the two doors, but frequently, people sneak up the flank and cut the line. It’s not exactly like cutting the line at the bank or Duane Reade, since the lines are never proper single-file, people are moving all the while, and no one’s ever waiting too long.

Still, it’s a breach of commuter etiquette when you step in front of other people waiting to use the doors.

And that’s what happened today. A man of about 30–skinny, corn-row braids, tugging a large suitcase on wheels–snuck up on the right. You, Mr. White Dress Shirt and Tan Khakis–also about 30, in gelled blond hair–watched as this man cut in front of you, and the other 40 people waiting to leave.

You’re not a tall man, but you have square shoulders and a stocky build; you look like you played a little linebacker in high school, or was a hooker in the SUNY Oneonta scrum a decade before.

Your broad back was to me, but I could sense your body tense as the man cut the line. You were going to address it. I knew you were.

You did not disappoint.

As you stepped into the revolving door just behind Corn Rows, you gave the door a little extra shove. The door hit Corn Rows in the back, and caused him to stumble just a bit. We’re never one to advocate violence in the subways, but we feel you struck just the right balance–enough to let Corn Rows know he’d broken the rules, but not enough to hurt him, or even elicit a counterattack. It was as if Corn Rows had fallen offsides at a ruck on that Oneonta rugby pitch, and you politely but firmly suggested he get back onside with the sharpened studs of your size 10 Reeboks.

As we stepped up the stairs and out into the sunlight, you pulled a Marlboro from your pocket and sparked it up.

You’d earned it.

Respectfully,

Trainjotting 

They duked it out next to the steps of the 6 train at 28th Street and Park.

He was a black man of about 30, in a Yankee cap, baggy jeans and an oversize black bomber jacket.

She was about the same age, with freckles on light brown skin, in jeans, a denim jacket, and clunky white high-tops.

I walked by around 1:22, en route to grabbing lunch. I saw her right cross catch the guy in the side of the head. It looked like a hockey fight: both were clutching the other’s clothing in an effort to impede the other’s punching power.

I happened to be the first one by. I walked about 10 feet past and stopped, adrenaline starting to course as I figured out what to do: jump in, shout something from the perimeter about the cops coming, or continue walking, keeping intact New Yorkers’ hard-earned reps, accurate or not, for walking away in the face of human need.

I sized up the situation. The man was clearly not the aggressor, doing all he could to keep the woman from punching him. Every minute or so, she would throw a right, narrating the fight with statements like “No good…no job…motherf***er!!!”

By this time, a handful–maybe 10–people had amassed, all keeping a good 10 feet between them and the combatants.  I imagined how my interjection would be received: They’d size up a very white dude in business-casual attire and probably tell me to beat it.

I crossed 28th and called 9-1-1 from a payphone. The dispatcher asked the details. I gave them. She asked for a number. I gave them my cell.

Back at the punch-up, it was the same old story, the woman throwing a haymaker every minute or so, the guy trying to talk her down, their tangled mass occasionally spilling into a car in the parking lot. A tiny Latina with a sandwich sign proclaiming the merits of eyebrow-threading moved to another section of the corner.

A guy in dreads emerged from the subway stairs and attempted to break them up with his soothing tone. “I ain’t talkin’ to you, I talkin’ to him!” came the woman’s predictable response, gesturing toward Mr. No Job/No Good.

The situation seemed to be pretty much in hand. The cops would come, the couple would be arrested, the crowd would break up. I headed to the deli and ordered.

Around 1:30, I headed back toward that corner. The fighting couple was walking toward me, crossing 28th just west of Park. She was in the lead, mumbling angrily. He was six feet behind her, trying to catch up, trying to plead his case. He fiddled with what looked like a PSP player on a string around his neck, making sure it wasn’t damaged in the fracas.

A cop car blinked its lights and sounded its siren on Park, but went on past 28th.

At 1:40, I got a call on my cell. PD. I told the dispatcher they’d missed the action.

I opened the Times and ate my Caesar wrap.

The 28th Street platform for the uptown 6 was pretty full. The train eased in and it too was full. I squeezed on.

A young Asian woman with a streak of blond in her bangs stood near the door. There was a bit of room behind her. Since I could feel people pushing behind me to get in, I said, “Do you think you could move over a bit?” and nodded toward the open space.

I said it nicely. I asked, I didn’t demand.

“I’m getting off at the next stop,” came her reply. She inched forward and I squeezed past her to free up a little space.

The doors eventually shut and we headed uptown. A black man in diamond earrings and a black baseball hat with the size sticker still on the brim (7 7/8) asked a middle aged blonde woman if she wanted his seat. She smiled and declined. A hipster-y chick read a book with the chapter heading “Anton Tries Buttsex–Hilarity Does Not Ensue.”

Me, I held on to the pole and hoped I didn’t come off as unpleasant in that exchange.  

We got to 33rd Street. The doors opened. People got off. People got on. The young Asian woman froze.  Seats opened. I grabbed one. The Asian woman took the one next to me.

I found myself wondering about her as we ambled toward 42nd, not six inches from each other. Had she changed her travel plans on the fly? Had she thought of some unpleasant incident at 33rd and decided to avoid it? Had she flat-out lied to me? Why?

I wanted to ask, but I didn’t.

6 train platform at 28th Street, 5:35 p.m. yesterday.

Skell (gray hair, fidgety manner, concave meth-head cheeks) gambols by on the platform. He’s yanking the tabs on a pull-tab card.

“You BASTARD!” he screams at the card. “A f***ing dollar?”

What’s this guy like when he loses?

We’ve all seen someone fall on the subway. Unwitting dolts who didn’t anticipate the force of a train starting up from a dead stop.

Well, I joined their inauspicious ranks today. Perhaps still groggy from my week in the sun, I took a full-on tumble on a packed 6 train at rush hour.

Here’s how it happened.

The uptown 6 was nearly full at 28th. As we approached 33rd, I decided to move from where the doors were opening to a less-populated spot a few feet away. You know, make room for people. Do right by New York.

A large woman stood in my way. I said excuse me. She didn’t move. I muttered a sarcastic “thank you” as I squeezed between her and the pole, next to which a man and a woman shared a two-seater.

Mind you, the train had just pulled into 33rd. It wasn’t moving and I don’t think people had even started getting on yet. None of the usual fall-factors were at work.

I’d taken my backpack off back at 28th, again to free up room for my fellow riders (there’s more space for it swinging knee-level from my hand than clamped to my back), again to do right by New York. Perhaps that had me off-balance. Perhaps the dour, large woman threw a subtle hip-check.

Either way, I fell sideways, dropping 200 pounds of dopey Irishman onto the man and woman in the two-seater.

“I’m sorry!” I exclaimed as I jumped to my feet. People looked. People snickered. I cast a dirty look at the shrew, pretending it was all her fault. The train crawled out of 33rd, all eyes on yours truly.

We’ve all had someone fall on us on the subway. And unless we’re truly injured, we try to console them, assuage their humiliation. (If we’re injured, we smite them.) Not these two, especially the man, a prissy 40-ish Asian guy with a suit on. He pushed me away and hissed.

A week in Mexico, and I’ve lost my commuter skill. How long before it returns?