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?

Lordy, what an ordeal in catching the 6:33 yesterday. I left the office with 13 minutes to spare, two minutes less than I prefer. I got to the 28th Street station just as the 6 train was ready to depart. I ran to the turnstile. So did another guy, and we both paused in an awkward “Shall we dance?” moment, Metrocards at the ready. Eight seconds wasted. During our stalemate, some weasel departing the train seized the moment and exited the turnstile in question. Another five seconds wasted.  

Still, the (packed) 6 train sat there, beckoning. I finally got through the turnstile and ran the 35 feet to the train. “Hold the door!” I yelled to a tiny Mexican man on board as the doors began to shut. Within three feet of the train, the doors found each other. The Mexican man didn’t move. We stared at each other through the window. I mouthed something unkind.

I looked down the track. Nothing coming. I looked at my watch. 6:23, ten minutes until departure. If I missed it, Little G might be asleep when I got home. I decided to forego the subway.  

I looked for a cab, even though it was hard to justify eating $2 for the subway, then another $6 for the cab. Nothing was available. I looked at a gypsy cab…10 bucks? 20 bucks?

Nine minutes to go, 14 blocks to cover, plus the 1-plus block slalom through Grand Central.  Like O.J. in the old Hertz commercials, I took off.  

I huffed and puffed in the 17 degree night, Hush Puppies (or whatever they are) creaking under the strain. I bypassed a circuitous sidewalk detour at 36th, running in the street like the bulls of Pamplona were on my heels.

I got to Pershing Square at 6:31. This might just work, I thought as I waited for the light. 

I read the departure screen at full speed. Track 33. A break.  

I climbed aboard the 6:33 with about 20 seconds to spare.  

I’ve got to make things easier on myself.

SPRINT BY THE NUMBERS

Blocks covered: 15

Time elapsed: 9 minutes

Near fights: 5 (man at turnstile, other man at turnstile, man on train, man on street, woman on street)
Blisters: 2 (one bad) 

I hadn’t seen this in forever. A beggar on the subway, like it was 1996 and Rudy G hadn’t yet banished the squeegee men to wherever it is that squeeguee men go. “I’m 36 and I’m homeless,” she said on the uptown 6 train at 5:58.

She was white, with mousy brown hair. She wore a red overcoat, gray chinos and running shoes. She had a backpack over both shoulders. She held out a dirty cardboard soup cup.

“I’m a widow and I have children,” she continued. “Please help.”

One lady offered a dollar, another gave change. To both she said, “Bless you.”

Two black women looked on, shared a joke and smiled. They had Caribbean-nanny accents, but I couldn’t make out the words because I had my iPod on.

She got out at 34th.

I’ve been riding the subways pretty regularly for 15 years, and never saw this until yesterday. I entered the 28th Street station just as the 6 was pulling away. There was a handful of people on the platform. Curiously, the dotted line of humanity stopped some 30 feet from the end of the platform, where people always wait so they can get on at the front of the train. 

 I got closer and saw that a few of them were peering ahead at something. A Bear Stearns suit coughing up a liquid lunch at Park Avenue Country Club? A homeless guy moving his bowels?

Neither. As I got closer, I saw a rat traipsing about at the end of the platform. I’ve seen mice scurrying across the platform into a hole. I’ve of course seen rats gamboling about on the tracks. But never a rat on the platform.

Rats on platforms. Wesley Autry on the track bed. Strange days, indeed.