Old-School Disability

There used to be a break room at Penn Station somewhere between track 15 and track 18, back before it was upgraded to a “modern” station. My grandfather worked as a conductor for the LIRR starting in the 1940’s right through to the 1970’s and retirement.

There’s an old family story that says he put my aunt through college by gambling in that break room with the other LIRR conductors. An ongoing pinochle game (or it might have been poker – the exact details are fuzzy) was his daughter’s ticket to a higher education. My grandfather, it seemed, worked a late shift on the train, went to work at a bank during the day, and gambled on his break. He did things the old fashioned way.

My aunt told me she didn’t believe it for a long time, but then one day my grandfather brought her to the break room and introduced her to the gang.

“So you’re the girl we’re putting through college,” one of the conductors said.

The others all nodded and shook their heads. There could have been a lot of cigar smoke and the stale smell of sweat, or it could just be my imagination.

My grandfather didn’t need a disability scam. He just needed a pinochle deck and some willing marks — I mean, players.

That, some luck, and a second full time job to supplement the first.

–Joe Lunievicz

TJ will be back this week. Thanks for hanging in there with the Straphanger and Jersey Jim while TJ himself was on vacation. Keep the comments coming in and see you on the rails.

I heard it yesterday and then again today. It could be I’ve missed it before while in a straphanger fog. But two days in a row means it’s probably real and not an illusion.

Yesterday I was on the F train coming home at about 6:36pm. The train was sparsely populated with lots of empty seats. I looked up from my book when the announcement came on because we were stopped between stations at the time and I thought the announcement would be about a delay on the line. I pay attention to delays.”Ladies and gentlemen,” the conductor’s voice began. “A crowded subway is no excuse for a crime of sexual misconduct.” There was more, but I lost some wondering why he was talking about a crowded subway when the car wasn’t even a quarter full. I looked around to see if I was missing some large grouping of people all pushed together somewhere out of my line-of-sight. The conductor might also have said, “sexual harassment crime” instead of “sexual misconduct,” but that could just be me, hearing things, because I’m taking my agency’s, mandatory all-staff-must-attend, yearly workshop on sexual harassment in the workplace on Friday.  I looked for a pen to write down what I’d heard, but by the time I found one the lines were already fading from my memory. There was something about, “… report the crime to your nearest MTA official.” It could have been farthest MTA official, or nearest police, or farthest transit officer, but I missed it so I don’t know.

Today at 5:38pm, on a half full V train sitting at 23rd street, an announcement came on the loudspeaker that sounded like it was a canned PSA. “There is no excuse for sexual misconduct on the subway. If you believe you have been the victim of a crime please contact… ” I missed the rest while I wrote the first part down. I have to learn how to write faster. This time there was nothing to do with a crowded subway and it was followed by an announcement on the train intercom, right above my head about delays in front of us and all trains going express on the F line.

A cityroom blog at the NY Times from October 2, 2009 has the full quote. It seems the campaign was originally a subway advertisement PSA. It said, “Sexual Harassment is a Crime in the subway, too — A crowded train is no excuse for an improper touch. Don’t stand for it or feel ashamed, or be afraid to speak up. Report it to an M.T.A. employee or police officer.” There’s some cause and effect. A June 2006 incident following a July 2007 poll of 1,800 straphangers stating that a large proportion of women had been harassed or assaulted, culminating in the written PSA in September 2009, a slew of handouts (neither of which I’ve ever seen) and either a verbal PSA or a conductor taking the initiative and doing a live version in March of 2010. A four year odyssey to try and address a problem that’s been around since the beginning of time. The problem, as usual with these kinds of campaigns, is it puts the onus on women to do something about it. Don’t feel ashamed or be afraid to speak up, the PSA says, as if the problem is that women aren’t speaking up rather than men behaving badly. Why not a message to all the people who see it happen and don’t say a word, saying, Speak up - don’t allow sexual harassment on the subway. Or, Don’t let men get away with this abuse. Or better yet, why not address the perpetrators with, Sexual misconduct on this train is a crime and won’t be tolerated. Don’t do it or you’ll end up in jail.

Maybe that will be next years campaign.

There’s a poster in front of me showing two guns, one red the other black with the caption, Which is real and which is a toy? above it.

These public service ads have been out since since December but every time I see them I stop and ask myself, Which is real and which is a toy?I look at them and think, this is too obvious - the black is real and the red is a toy. But then I read the sub-headline which says, It’s not the one you think. So the obvious answer then has to be the red gun because that’s not the one you think, which is the black one. But, if my original thought is that it’s the red gun, because why have the ad in the first place if the answer has to be the red gun, then… it’s not the one you think makes me think the obvious answer has to be the black one is the real gun. But, what if they’re both real? It doesn’t say that can’t be, but then why ask which is real… if you don’t want people to make a choice. No, it has to be one and not the other. So the real one has to be… the red one. Unless… it’s the black one in which case it can’t be the red one.Where is my train?

At this point, waiting for the F to arrive I’ve already spent way to much time thinking about guns, something I’d rather not do since I don’t believe anyone should have one, unless they’re a superhero who has only good in his or her heart. Though why a superhero would need a gun because they’re, well, a superhero, I don’t know… unless they’re The Punisher, or Batman. They use guns of various sorts, I think. Or… Hell Boy. Yes, he uses a big gun - a very big gun.

I checked on the ad in a piece from the Daily News and they report that indeed, the red gun is the real gun and the black gun is the toy. It seems City laws require toy guns to be painted red, yellow, or blue (bright colors indeed), only, surprise surprise, gun dealers have caught on and painted real guns the same colors. I’m not sure what all this means other than guns, toy or real, mean trouble. How do British Police officers do their jobs without guns?

Can you image a British ad with a picture of a nightstick - what the English call a truncheon - one red and one black with the caption, Which is real and which is a toy? It’s not the one you think.

It’s been a while since I’ve really looked at the other passengers on the subway. Maybe that’s what winter does to you - it numbs you. Or maybe I’ve just been tired of people and there are too many around you on the train. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.

Well, my vision lifted this morning, probably because it’s supposed to reach 58 today and my bones are aching for some sun.

I took the E-train, a new blue car. It seems like all the cars are now blue-benched. The changeover happened while I was hibernating. All my favorite orange benches are gone.

I almost didn’t get on the train. It was packed. I tried two different doors before I stopped just outside the last one and, looking in at a space that could fit maybe two more people, debated on whether to go in or wait for the next train. I stepped forward as the doors closed, pushing me further in than I wanted to go because my backpack was still on and I hadn’t had a chance to take it off. (That’s my excuse and I’m sticking with it.) A young woman to my left had her back to me. She was reading a book and taking up an additional foot of space with the hardcover. There aught to be a law against that. I reached over someones head and grabbed the center pole. My book was in my hand but I couldn’t get to it. There just wasn’t any room. I made eye contact with three people and looked away after each one, smiling half-heartedly. A large woman in a bright red wool coat came in behind me and we all accommodated her space as she took central pole position right underneath my arm.

I looked across the car towards the other door and saw a young woman in business attire with wispy hair ruffled as if it had been pushed about by the wind. She was reading the Dailey News and making little sounds as she read, pinching her cheeks in then puffing them out, then biting her teeth together - a veritable orchestra of tiny sounds and small dramatic movements. I couldn’t tell what she was reading so I shifted a bit around the large woman in the red coat in order to get a better look. It was either movie reviews or the obits.  Without large headlines to see or my glasses, I couldn’t tell. My glasses were in my bag and my bag was inaccessible. I watched her face as the orchestra of twitches, grimaces and frowns continued.

Stops came and went. The orchestra played on. Finally in an especially crowded moment I lost sight of her. The woman in the red coat looked up at me - I was a little too close to her so I moved back. My backpack poked into someone behind me. “Sorry,” I said over my shoulder. I looked back but tall heads and reaching arms obscured my view.

At the next stop, 42nd street, most of the car left in a giant exodus of folding papers, closing books, and iPhone and cell button pushing fingers. I saw the back of the woman’s head and her wispy brown hair, then a flash of the paper under her arm, and… she was gone.

I looked around me and found myself free of most of humanity -the car practically empty. The woman in the red coat was gone. I had the pole to myself. I opened my book on Iyengar Yoga and read. Although there were now seats empty, I stood the next two stops and got off on 23rd. It was still cold outside and windy. I’d worn a spring jacket, like an idiot. Maybe it’ll be 58 later in the day, but right then it was still pretty damned cold.

TJ is on vacay starting in, oh, 3 hours and 15 minutes, and probably unable and unwilling to post.

In my stead is the capable and charming Straphanger Joe, who will be maintaining Trainjotting next week, and adding his observations from the subways.

Joe is an old friend, an astute observer and a talented writer. He’s contributed his “Straphanger Joe” musings to this site--dozens of entertaining essays, in fact–for most of the 3-plus years Trainjotting has been in existence.

We’re psyched to see what he comes up with next week.

Upon our return, every iota of last week’s snow will be gone, and sunset will be late enough so that we will be able to see a hint of the bright yellow ball and all its radiance poking over the mid-Westchester hills to the west as we return home after work.

If neither of these wishes are met, we’ll have to embark on another vacation until they are.

Stoopid

We taught my son that stupid was a bad word. We didn’t want him calling things (“Stupid game” or “Stupid dog” or “Stupid anthill”) or people this word so we told him it was a baaaaaad word.

Then of course it happened that he tried to tell us that someone used the word only he couldn’t use the word because he knew it was a bad word so… he asked us if he could spell it and if spelling it was the same a saying the word out loud. We said yes, he could spell it and wasn’t quite the same as saying the word.

So he looked around, as if he was doing something wrong and someone would overhear him and whispered. “That boy said the Franklin was s-t-o-o-p-i-d.”

And so the parenting world goes.

Yesterday I saw the ad from Diesel at 42nd Street, Bryant Park station by the 5th Avenue entrance. It’s a series of wall advertisements with captions like this:

“Stupid might fail. Smart doesn’t even try.”

The picture that accompanied it was a man trying to fit himself into a mailbox. His head was in the top and his feet were up in the air. The tag line in the bottom right corner stated,  “Diesel for successful living.”

Here are the next four.

“Be stupid.” Maybe that one just spoke for itself.

“We’re with stupid.” The picture next to this had the infamous yellow smiley face next to it on a black background

“You can’t outsmart stupid.” This one had a woman’s face six inches away from an open mouthed white tiger.

“Smart had one idea and that idea was stupid.”

And finally…

“Stupid ain’t dumb.”

Now my son no longer spells stupid with two “o’s”. I miss those days. Especially when I see an advertisement campaign like this one.

It’s just s-t-o-o-p-i-d.

 –Joe Lunievicz 

Blade Runner

I’ve been driving a lot this week – three days into Manhattan instead of the subway. My son goes to school on Long Island and this week my wife was working in Manhattan so… I got to take my son to school, then drive in to work.

The world is very different on the LIE heading in to the Midtown Tunnel. I’ve driven in to Manhattan before and even during rush hour, but it’s been a while.

The entrance to the Tunnel is still ominous, dark and dirty. This morning it reminded me of the Los Angeles in Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner. Perhaps it was the overcast sky and lightly falling rain, or maybe the bumper to bumper traffic. Looking forward there was the dingy skyline of Manhattan. Looking to the left and right should be Queens, but all I saw were cement highways, off ramps, and solitary green faded signs announcing the last chance to leave before the tunnel.

There was a sea of oversize billboards to the left and right of the Expressway above the cement, floating in the sky, surreal.  There was an Abercrombie and Fitch ad with two ripped, bare-chested men on it and there were two billboards just before the tunnel that flanked the two men, one for Rick’s Cabaret and Steakhouse (code for strip club) and Scores New York – The All New Legendary Gentlemen’s Club. 

Leaving the interesting juxtaposition of the words all new and legendary aside, Scores’ billboard was the real headliner. It had a silhouette of a pole-dancer front and center and dark silhouettes of hands rising up from the bottom of the billboard, like the undead, fingers splayed, reaching for her.

Behind and to the left of the Scores billboard was a giant screen that ran advertisements – television commercials without the sound.

I was listening to NPR.

And the rain came down.

Tomorrow I’m back on the F.

I can’t wait to be underground again.

–Joe Lunievicz

[image: pennways.com]

–Joe Lunievicz

Recovery Times 

This morning I noticed three things.   Yesterday I found out that a program I run at my job was not refunded for the coming year. Recovery money went to someone else – the city and state to be exact. I had to tell people this morning. It impacts four of us – some more than others.

–Joe Lunievicz