The Woman With the Unreal Center of Gravity on the 6 Train.

You’re a short-ish black woman with strawberry-brown hair, stout of build and exceedingly stout of heart. There was a tattoo on your bicep and you wore fake rhinestone sunglasses atop your head.  You smiled when someone bumped into you and you were kind of cute.

The 6 was about to take off from 28th Street. It was full, but not packed. You could’ve slid over to a pole and gripped the thing for stability.

But no. You knew you could absord the train’s stops, starts, bucks and kickbacks without holding on. While the rest of us would surely end up amidst the muck on the floor, or sprawled across some guy with a pocket square reading AM New York, you simply had to flex your exceptional calves, your bionic thighs–your core, in Pilates parlance–and keep your feet cemented to the ground.  

I must say, oh Woman of Steel, I’ve never seen someone not opt for the support of a pole in my 16-odd years of riding the subway. And I may never again. So I’m thankful to have encountered you–and to have seen you showcase your non-pareil urban survival skills–just the once.

Michael Jordan poured in 55 against the Knicks at the Garden in ‘95. Texas QB Vince Young rambled for 200 yards in the ‘06 Rose Bowl. But you, you pillar of subway strength and stamina, do this each and every day.

Sincerely,

Trainjotting

It’d been a frustrating series of mornings. Each day, I’d chugged down to the subway platform at Grand Central, only to find the 6 pulling away. So I decided to sit in the front of the 8:16; getting into Grand Central a minute quicker would help me make that elusive subway, the thinking went.

So I did. And sure enough, as I climbed down the stairs to the platform, the 6 was sitting there, doors open, waiting for me like a mother waits for her child after his first day of school.

I hustled across the platform as, alas, the doors began to shut. I got my foot in the door, then waited for the conductor to spring the doors open so I could slide in. He did, then pulled a maneuver I’d not yet seen in 15 years of subway riding: He slammed shut the doors with such supersonic force that they cut my hand and, like a nutcracker on my skull, bent my glasses. Within a split second, a platform monitor, swinging a flashlight like a truncheon, was on the case.

“SIR, PLEASE STEP OUT OF THE DOORWAY AND LET THE TRAIN GO!” she bellowed.

Defeated, I stepped back, as the 6 train mockingly pulled out of the station.

“What the f*** was that?” I asked her, but I knew she was right: If idiots like me didn’t jam their foot in the door, the whole system would run a lot smoother.

Still, didja have to bend my glasses?

I’d just seen William Jefferson Clinton speak, and was pretty charged up to go and “redefine the country” and “shape the message of the 21st century” and “frame the discussion” so my children and grandchildren would be richer for my efforts.

Seriously, ol’ Willie J has a way with words. Thusly inspired, I bolted from the Hilton, headed over to the 6 train, and…waited and waited and waited. Fifteen minutes later, as my enthusiasm for changing the world slowly ebbed, the second announcement in the last five minutes promised that “the downtown 6 train is approoaching 51st Street.”

Finally, the train limped in like a ‘79 Skylark with two busted cylinders. Soon as we boarded, the conductor announced, “The 6 train will be going local to Grand Central, then goes express to 14th.”

One stop later, we were waiting for another damn 6 train.

Nearly an hour passed since Bill wrapped up his talk and I returned to my office. I wasn’t so much focused on redefining the world at that point, just having a little lunch.

Caught a fun bit of subway theater on the 6 train yesterday. A family of olive-skinned tourists–parents, two teen sons and a teen girl–were sitting at the end of the car when a pair of street singers busted in.

Two older black guys sang a very impassioned version of “Mary Don’t You Weep,” with a completely different tempo than Springsteen’s version on the Seeger Sessions album.

The teen boys, based on their clothing, seemed to be fans of black American culture.

As the singers finished, they bantered with fellow passengers, who seemed to find them more entertaining than annoying, and passed along a few coins.

Then they approached the tourists. The father looked wary, as fathers often do. The singers let go some rapid-fire street talk, which the tourists clearly did not understand. Nonetheless, the teen boys smiled. The singers asked where they were from. “Italy,” came back the answer.

The train pulled into Times Square and the father stood up. (One wondered if the plan was to get out at 42nd, or if he was assessing the situation and calling an audible).

The singers shook hands with the teen boys, who smiled broadly and laughed as they stepped off the train. It seemed like it would be the highlight of their trip, better than the Empire State Building and Madam Tussaud’s.

[CORRECTION: It was the N train, not the 6. So…Zen on the N?]

I had 14 minutes to get from the 6 train platform at 28th to my train at Grand Central, meaning I had time to spare.

Or not. The platform gradually filled up, more and more people shuffled to the edge to look for lights in the tunnel, and my anxiety level started to climb.

Then I had 5 minutes to get to my train, and hopefully get home in time to push cars around the family room with Little G before he went to bed.

People were downright antsy at this point. If it’s this long between cars, the trains are typically full, and you might not get on the next one.

A man who looked to be of Caribbean descent pulled an airplane bottle of clear liquor from his pocket, drained it in one gulp, and let the empty bottle slide to the ground like Michael depositing the smoking pistol on the restaurant floor in Godfather. It rolled until it stopped at a woman’s high-heel shoe. I shot him a dirty look. He shot it back.

An announcement came on the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a downtown train at Astor Place.”

Think about it for a moment. What good does a downtown train at Astor do you if you’re on 28th?

My train was leaving Grand Central in two minutes. I was toast. The next train was in a half-hour.

I exited the turnstile and went to the ticket window, where I asked for a refund (Hey, I had time to kill, and a point to make.)

“Sir, if the trains are working, there’s nothing I can do for you,” came her response.

I was going to point out that, if the trains were, in fact, working, I wouldn’t be asking for a refund. But she called me “Sir,” so I let it go.

I climbed to street level and started the slow walk to Grand Central in the cold, wet night. I called home and Little G made duck noises.

I thought I might take in a little Tartan Week action in Grand Central–pipers? whiskey?–but when I got there, the festival was closed for the night, and I felt like the kid in “Araby.”

With 15 minutes until departure, I figured I’d do some people-watching, an activity me and the Missus miss since moving out of the city. But I couldn’t find a seat that wasn’t next to a homeless person, so I bought my beer and boarded my train.

I scored an empty 1-3/4-seater, so the night wasn’t a total loss.

Sticking with a recurring theme in these cyber-pages, the MTA giveth and it taketh away on this Monday morning commute. Got my very own two-seater on the 8:43, which positively flew (OK, did around 80) along to Grand Central, even getting in some four minutes early.

Then the not so good. Approaching the stairs that descend to the 6 train, hoping for that Immaculate Connection was the morass of morasses at the top of the stairs. The buildup of humanity on the platform was so bad that people couldn’t even go down the stairs, much less get on an arriving train, if one were to actually arrive.

It being a not so busy Monday and all, and me wearing sneakers (thankfully, no suit though), I decided to hoof it. Saw huge buildups of gray snow on the corners, which made me miss living in Manhattan. Saw a bald man lying injured on the sidewalk, as a Good Samaritan held his head and dialed a cellphone with the NYPD hovering nearby. That made me miss living in Manhattan too.

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.