We’ve long heard that subways run on some sort of actual schedule, similar to commuter trains. Like, the 6 train is due in at 9:15, and if you miss that one, the next one is due in at 9:20, or something like that.

We always kind of chalked that up to an urban myth, like the Samaritan who grabbed the stray puppy off the mean streets of Gotham, only to have it turn out to be a giant rat, or the one about the family who was robbed of everything but their camera and (tainted) toothbrushes.

Well, the MTA actually makes these subways schedules available online (our apologies to everyone who’s known this since the ’60s). Here’s the link.

Back to that 6 train–if it seems like she’s pulling into Grand Central every three minutes or so during rush hour, she is, at least theoretically. The 6 is scheduled to arrive at 9:04, then 9:07, then 9:10, and on, until it lags to every four minutes at 9:23.

Good luck downloading the sked to your Blackberry–it’s a pdf file.

The young man who barged onto the 6 train this morning.

The train pulled up around 9:10. Usually, the 6 comes in every few minutes in the morning; today, it had been a little longer.

We waited patiently at the perimeter of the “Train Stops Here” box, known among our hockey brethren as the “crease.”

But you, young man of about 18, Asian, spikey black hair, white t-shirt and faded jeans, you barged right to the middle of the crease. Right in the middle! It didn’t matter that 10 of us waited on the perimeter, or that a few dozen people were about to stream out of the subway.

No, Spikey Hair Guy, you were concerned with one person, and one person only. Before the first subway rider had the chance to set foot on the platform, you tried to worm your way into the car, and looked surprised when everyone wanted to get out.

Tapping my (admittedly limited…not to mentino rusty) knowledge of Jedi mind tricks, I willed an old man to throw you an elbow, and he did–though being old it was a few seconds after you’d passed. On you slalomed through the full car, jostling riders left and right as you sought out a seat.

Perhaps it was your first time on the subway, or you come from a place where those on the platform have the right of way over those in the car. (Lord, what a dreadful place that would be!) I don’t know.

I can only hope that someday, I’ll be the one on the train as you push through, and I’ll recently have sharpened my elbow.

Sincerely,

Trainjotting

PS: What’s with the spikey hair, Billy Idol?

From those demented souls over at Overheard in New York:

Guy: Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention for a second, please? [All the strap hangers look at him.] Thank you for your attention. [Gets off the train.]–6 train

The whole of the 6 train car smelled, quite disturbingly, of fish.

It was the Grand Central stop. The source of the smell came from a homeless guy huddled in the corner. He had a large wheelie suitcase that was likely the source of the fishy smell. He was half-sleeping and his face was buried in his black bomber coat. He filled a ginger ale bottle with vodka without even looking up, then slipped the bottle into his mouth.

As one might expect, riders gave the man a wide berth as they entered the 6 train. This caused a bottleneck at the door, with one man blocking the way.

He was a skinny white guy, around 50, gray hair, a sweater over a denim shirt and a necktie. His chin stuck way out–not like in the Marlboro Man way but more in the manner of that father from one of the B-list animated Christmas specials of our youth.

A woman spied the open space and pushed for it. The man with the chin stood in her way.

“You really wanna go over there?” he said, hoping she’d realize there was a stankin’ homeless guy there and they’d enjoy some whimsical “only in New York” moment.

She wasn’t having it.

“I’d love to go over there,” she shot back.

The man grudgingly moved and the woman eased over to the homeless guy’s heretofore unconquered biosphere.

Downtown 6 train, a little before noon.

33rd Street, three Mexican men in full-on cowboy attire–cowboy hats, boots, Wranglers–jump on with instruments. One plays the world’s cheapest little guitar. One plays a standup bass. One makes a funky noise by rubbing a ribbed column of wood with a freakin’ Afro pick.

The trio creates a wonderful blast of music, a warm ocean breeze on a day with temps in the teens. The car’s inhabitants are fairly rapt.

By 28th, the Afro-pick man has his sombrero off, extending it here and there for change. So they’d been playing all of, oh, a minute, and the guy was asking for money.

Sorry, guys. You have to work a little harder than that to get paid in this town.

Three-Way Comparison

After a closer examination of the 7 train and the 6, today’s study in subway demographics looks at the F-train, 8:43am, Roosevelt Station.

It was a cold walk from my son’s school after dropping him off. I was chilled but glad to be below ground where the wind couldn’t get to me.

After the 6 on the Upper East Side and the 7 train from Flushing it was good to be back on the old familiar orange bomber. The doors opened and I wedged my way in. I lost my position near the door as others pushed me further inward just as the doors closed.

“Sorry,” I repeated to two or three people I pushed into. I couldn’t reach the poles to front or back so I had to go with the overhead ceiling grip – never a good choice on the F – but sometimes you just gotta hold where you can.

Here’s what surrounded me.

There were 92 people in the car with me. I may have missed the exact number by ten one way or the other. There were 35 people in my third of the car. That I’m pretty sure of. I had my notebook and pen handy and scribbled fast at each of the stops.

Six people were reading papers: Two the Metro, two the New York Post, and two I couldn’t tell because my armpit blocked the view. There was one hardcover book, title unknown, and two small black-covered bibles – pretty sure they were in English.

With the cold there were some wool coats, mostly navy and a few black and white herringbone. Two had their creases pressed and I saw cat or dog hair on one woman’s coat next to me. Otherwise the car was filled with parkas, jackets, sweat jackets, some hoodies and puffy down vests. We were exploding in muted winter colors.

Four people that I could see were sleeping. One had his mouth wide open.

Most of the folks on the train were black, Latino, Indian or and Asian. There were two Caucasians – one of which was me.

Nobody had coffee. Maybe it was just too crowded. One woman ate a jelly and toast sandwich.

I saw one briefcase and lots of backpacks.

At Lexington a quarter of the passengers got off. A woman dropped her scarf and a man, watching from his post by the door, leaned forward to help her. You could tell he wasn’t sure what to do because he hesitated a moment before he decided to help, and when he leaned forward he watched to see if she would wave him off. She did.

“I’ve got it,” she said, and he straightened up. She smiled at him and he smiled back. I was impressed. Then he got off at the next stop.

Most of those passengers still riding by 23rd Street, got off there with me. We herded ourselves through the turnstiles and up to 6th Avenue. The wind met us heading up the Northeast stairs. Funny, but nobody goes up the Northwest stairs - nobody. We’re always packed on the Northeast stairs, heads down, bumper to bumper, cursing anybody coming down against the current.

I wonder why.

URINALYSIS: \YOU rinn al is is\ noun: Careful inspection of a surprisingly open seat on a crowded subway for bodily fluids or spillage.

USAGE: Against all logic, there was an open seat on the uptown 6 during rush hour, but upon closer inspection, someone had clearly marked their territory.

Woman of 45. Trim afro, dangling earrings, ankle-length print dress.

Proseletyzing to a full 6 train.

Let God build your house

Your labor will not be in vain

365 days a year

If you let God build your house

Your labor will not be in vain. [Editor’s note: Jesus was supposedly a carpenter.]

Fear fear fear.  

Fear I’m gonna lose my job.

Let God build your house.

Let God build your house.

Got off the 6 train and exited on Park between 26th and 27th.

I’m doing the regular high-speed slalom through pedestrians when I feel a whack in the middle of my back (technically, my knapsack).

I assume it’s a co-worker, because that’s what you do to a friendly co-worker when he flies by you on the sidewalk. You whack him on the back. Sometimes you say, “Wassup, dude?”

I whip around and see what looks like a dandy version of Uncle Junior: 75-year-old guy wrapped in a form-fitting gray and black herringbone overcoat, face tensed into an angry scowl. Like an old man trying to return soup at the deli, as George Costanza once said.  

“What the f*** is the problem?” I ask.

Now we’re walking side by side. Dandy Uncle Junior doesn’t answer.

“Seriously, what the f*** is the problem?”

I’m about to let it go. I mean, how hard do you go after a septuagenarian in a form-fitted overcoat?

Dandy Junior flings a hand skyward and blurts out, “You cut in front of me!”

He then bolts a quick right onto 26th.

I stay on Park, comforted by the knowledge that I could’ve taken him.  

[photo: hbo.com]

Lady on the downtown 6 this morning, editing a manuscript. Pretty, about 40, black, a blue beret atop blondish hair. Gray herringbone slacks, expensive bag.

She was marking up the manuscript pretty good.

Name of the manuscript: “Stripper Pole to Heaven.”

If that thing becomes a book, I’m buying.