The woman who “flashed” her MetroCard at the 28th Street station this morning.

We were getting off the downtown-bound 6, and were making our way to the emergency exit door that leads to the way out at 26th Street.

You were flying into the station, desperate to get on board that train. You were blonde and about 40, with an expression that brought to mind grave seriousness, though we can’t say for sure if the unique circumstances in which we encountered you contributed to such a mask. Perhaps you sport a different face on weekends, peering over the Sunday Times in slippers made to look like rabbits.

But today, it was Game Face.

As is often the case, there’s really no way to effectively swim upstream when you’re trying to get past a teeming mass of humanity flooding the turnstiles in the opposite direction. Let’s face it, you’re on the next train, important meeting or not.

So what did you do? I mean, you had to be on that train. At 9:10, the next one might not arrive for, oh, another four minutes or so.

This is what you did. Seeing a slight break in traffic flooding past the iron emergency exit door, you made your break. Of course, there was the small matter of actually paying for your fare–not an option when you go through the emergency door, unless there’s a token clerk there to ring you up, and there hasn’t been a clerk in that spot since Ford told the city to drop dead.

Nonetheless, you, Woman With Grave Expression, At Least This Morning, flashed your MetroCard through the air, like Detective Sipowicz showing his “shield” at a crime scene (”Uh, sorry for your loss, ma’am. Whadda we got, boys?”), as if some invisible magnetic laser would extend from the turnstile to your card and charge you the required $2.25.

It was as if you were saying, I’m willing to pay, I even have my card out! I just don’t have time to pay the fare. No, not me. Places to go, people to see. Hard work to do before the rabbit slippers this weekend.

I wasn’t able to tell if you got on that train, Ma’am. I can only hope a member of law enforcement mimicked your motion and flashed you something with more juice than a MetroCard.

We really don’t know what can add to this with mere words.

Check out this particularly fowl video.

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.

Is this 6 train car chilly, or is it me?

Yes, the subways will be full of pantsless riders this weekend, as No Pants Subway Ride 2010 takes place 3 p.m. Saturday. 

This is actually not a joke. It’s part of Improv Everywhere, the band of merry pranksters who brought you that hysterical frozen-people stunt in Grand Central and, of course, No Pants Subway Ride 2009. Here’s the video from last year’s pants-off, and here’s what the good folks at Trainjotting wrote about it.

Here’s the link to everything you need to know about the stunt; yes, you too can partake in the ninth annual No Pants Subway Ride.  Keep in mind the weather looks like sunny and 26 degrees, and here are some basic rules:

As soon as the doors shut at the stop before yours, stand up and take your pants off and put them in your backpack. If you’d like to use a briefcase, purse, grocery bag, or whatever instead of a backpack that’s fine too. If anyone asks you why you’ve removed your pants, tell them that they were “getting uncomfortable” (or something along those lines.)

Exit the train at your assigned stop and stand on the platform, pantless. You will wait on the platform for the next train to arrive. Stay in the exact same place on the platform so you enter the next train in the same car as you exited the last train.

When you enter, act as you normally would. You do not know any of the other pantless riders. If questioned, tell folks that you “forgot to wear pants” and yes you are “a little cold.” Insist that it is a coincidence that others also forgot their pants. Be nice and friendly and normal.

Sexual harrassment on the subway is on the rise, reports the NY Times’ City Room. The worst stretch of subway for the gropage is the 4-5-6 between Union Square and Grand Central, and the typical molester is a 39-year-old male.

The most common times for the molesting, reports City Room, are– not surprisingly–rush hours: 8-10 a.m. and 4-6 p.m.

(Full disclosure: That’s my stretch of subway, my age, and the hours I ride. But I am completely innocent.) 

The NYPD has arrested 412 people for subterranean sex offenses, and 587 such incidents have been reported, though Transit Bureau Police Chief James P. Hall told City Council the crimes are vastly under-reported.

NY Times commenter “carnap” has a suggestion for would-be victims:

“ Ladies: Just take a tiny step back with one foot and jam your stiletto heel into his toes. Whether or not you hit the perp, you’ll draw attention and be assured of a safer ride to your destination.”

We could hear the engines roaring before we even stepped out of the 6 train exit at 26th.

A trio of motorcycle police, in dark shades and scowls, blocked traffic both on Park Ave South and 26th.

A procession of war veteran bikers were streaming by on big, honking motorcycles. They wore scowls to match the cops’, and biker jackets adorned with Nam Knights, Blue Knights, Army, etc.

Around 40 of us, pinned in by police, stopped to watch. Some took photos.

Three minutes later, a vintage old Hispano Suiza convertable with the license plate VT III brought up the rear.

Then we were free to go.

[photo: anonymous Trainjotting reader with, apparently, a cellphone camera]

You may have heard McCarver/Buck mention the other night–Phillies ace Cliff Lee, jammed in traffic hours before his World Series start Wednesday night, jumped out of his cab in upper Manhattan and hopped a pair of subways to get to Yankee Stadium.

According to the announcers, Lee went unrecognized by his fellow riders on the 6 and then the 4 train.

Reports the Daily News:

Lee was stuck in a taxi at 5:45 p.m. en route from his team’s Manhattan hotel to Yankee Stadium before his Game 1 start, when the driver told him they were hopelessly stuck in traffic and it might take two more hours to get to the ballpark. Lee instructed the driver to find the nearest subway stop. A veteran of the underground system from his visits to New York with the Indians, Lee successfully navigated from the 6 to the 4 train and arrived about 15 minutes later - in more than enough time to toss his complete game opposite CC Sabathia.

“I still had plenty of time,” said Lee, who went unrecognized. “I’ve always taken the subway, but for whatever reason I took a taxi the other day. If I would have known it would have been that long I just would have gotten right on the subway.”

Adds Gothamist:

Lee called his agent, Darek Braunecker, who advised him to leave the cab, find a policeman and ask for help getting to the stadium. The Phillies’ traveling secretary, Frank Coppenbarger, told Lee to do the same thing.

Lee instead told the driver to take him to the nearest subway. He got out at W. 119th St., Coppenbarger said.

Lee got to Yankee Stadium at 6:20, had to prove to the guards he was actually a player, then shut down the fearsome Yanks in a complete game.

Best book title on the downtown 6 at 9:10 this morning:

Bright Lights, Big Asses, by Jen Lancaster.

The reader was a woman of about 30, seated, teal polo shirt, brown ponytail, pleasant face, large engagement ring.

And yes, a prodigious posterior.

Why is it that the first trip to the city after an extended break is an awful ride that makes you wish you were still away? Metro-North was perfectly grand this morning, the 8:43 out of Hawthorne getting in to GCT several minutes early.

I schlepped down to the 6 train below Grand Central. Within a few minutes, the man on the loudspeaker said the local was approaching 42nd.

The lights illuminated the tunnel off in the distance a moment later, and we climbed on board.

I had the iPod on at a very low volume. It was on Shuffle and I believe the song at that moment was Cake’s “Never There”, which would’ve been better suited for those mornings when the 6 is but a rumor.

Apparently the iPod was not on low enough. As the doors were about to close, I noticed a few dozen people remained on the platform, though the train was not full. I was about to ask a fellow rider if the train was going express, but the four people around me all had earphones on too–middle aged white woman with an iPod, black man with big DJ cans, 20something doofus guy and 30something white lady with iPods.

The doors shut and we were off.

The digital scoreboard on the train said the next stop was 33rd Street, so I put my express train fears aside. As we approached 33rd, the robot voice said the next stop was, indeed, 33rd.

Alas, we only slowed at 33rd and kept going.

I held out hope that we might stop at 28th–the next stop and, more importantly, my stop. The scoreboard shifted to 28th Street as the next stop, and the robot voice announced it as well.

No dice, we chugged along. And so went the pattern all the way to 14th: Orange letters, loudspeaker, and on through the next local stop. It was my own fault for not paying attention to any announcements, but I didn’t get much help from the fake 6 train’s orange updates, or the Mechanical Man on the Mike.

I jumped off at Union Square and waited impatiently for the next uptown 6.

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.