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.”

Last week we offered a bit of the newish Pete Hamill novel North River, a Depression era tale of a troubled doctor dealing with his demons and with the abandoned three-year-old boy Carlito left on his doorstep.

It’s a good book, a compelling story with memorable characters. At times it seemed like it needed a stronger editor to sharpen up some lazy writing; we suspect it’s hard to tell a literary legend like Pete Hamill to punch up his copy a bit.

Also, people in the novel keep referring to the Depression going on around them. I thought the ‘Great Depression’ phrase itself was born years, or even decades, later, once historians had a little perspective on the Depression. I thought at the time they just called it “this crappy economy” or something. Perhaps I’m wrong.

The North River title comes from the original name of the Hudson River.

This bit, toward the end of the novel, sees our protagonist, Dr. James Delaney, taking his wee grandson Carlito to the beach on a subway that leaves from Union Square.

—

They caught the Sea Beach Express at Union Square. The train was packed with men and women and kids, many wearing straw hats, or carrying blankets and lunch baskets, all full of a glad anticipation. He held Carlito’s hand tightly as the laughing crowds parted to allow still more people to board the train. The air was dense. The overhead fans had been shut off long ago, to save money. Many people were sweating heavily. Delaney was sure he could smell tenements.

The train plunged under the river, racing to Brooklyn, racing to the sea. It was as if they all had the same slogan: To hell with the Depression, the sea is free. At the end of the car, the door was open to catch a breeze from the cool tunnel, and four young men started to sing, “Toot, Toot, Tootsie.” Almost all the others joined them. When they came to the line If you don’t get a letter, then you’ll know I’m in jail, they were shouting the words. How many of them had been in jail? More than a few. How many had friends in jail, or relatives, or children? Even more. Toot, Toot, Tootsie, don’t cry, Toot, Toot, Tootsie, good-bye…

Then they were up out of the tunnels, and the Brooklyn sky was above them, with the Brooklyn light glancing off the unseen harbor, just like in a Vermeer. Nobody got off, and nobody new could get on. The singing continued. “That Old Gang of Mine.” Then “My Buddy.” Carlito was planted strongly on the floor, holding a pole, and his visible world was all elbows and hips and knees. the bottoms of baskets, hands dangling or clenched together, and, when he looked up, all chins and nostrils.

Then there was a brightening and then they started coming into the terminal, and the whole car roared. Last stop. Everybody off. Carlito’s eyes were wide with excitement. The train stopped. The doors opened. And some of the passengers began to run toward the ocean and the sand.

This is rich. A few steps from the 4/5/6/N/R etc. subways, in a broad stretch of pavement normally used for busking, dance crews, and sitting on the steps with friends and a cigarette, an urban Fight Club has taken root.

Bareknuckle pugilists of all skill levels (and in some cases, no skill levels) square off in one of the busiest spots in all of Gotham. They’re reportedly training with a shadowy dojo known as Union Square Spartans.

AndIAmNotLying.com has some great video and commentary from last Friday’s battles.

I was off the subway and taking the stairs two at once, faster than you can spell-check Palahniuk. Hundreds of people stood in a big ring right there by the Shoe Mania, cheering and chanting. All kinds of people: old people, moms with strollers, skateboarding teens, foreign tourists throwing Euros around.

They could have been watching some awesome breakdancing group or an unusually good street magician. But instead, two shirtless guys were flopping around on the ground, grunting and grating one another’s faces across the cobblestones.

[image: AndIAmNotLying.com]

The Columbia Spectator, the student paper showcasing the finest young minds in journalism, has a unique payment policy for writers: The Ivy League rag pays by cliche.

At least that’s one might deduce after reading Zahra Khimji’s “A Peek Into the Life of a Commuter” story. It follows the sad, lonely life of a student named Amanda James who commutes on the 1 train from Columbia’s campus up in Morningside Heights all the way down to Union Square–a distance of about 100 blocks.

Let us count the tired cheapshots Khimji takes at subway commuting:

* “A young face squeezes onto a packed 1 train among a crowd of gray-haired commuters in suits.” (C’mon, when was the last time you saw a crowd of ‘gray-haired commuters in suits’ on the subway? What is, this, DC?)

* “As the train arrives at 42nd Street, crowds of people make their way in opposite directions.” (Yup, lot of people in Times Square at rush hour.)

* “…the underground maze that Times Square hides beneath it.” (Uh, OK.)

* “She steps onto the N train, dodging brusque subway riders…”

*  “James squeezes her way through large crowds of people and carefully but swiftly swings through the exit.”

Khimji also mentions how it takes James an hour to arrive home at Union Square. Does it really take that long? I remember taking the 4/5 from 125th to Union Square after softball on Randalls–granted, not during rush hour–and that thing took like 15 minutes–granted, we’d had a few Bud cans during the game. Still, I seriously doubt that ride could last an hour; heck, I used to take the 1/9 from the West Village to 242nd Street, and that only took 45 minutes.

For her part, student Amanda James isn’t a big fan of the subway either.

“There are angry people on the subway all the time,” she tells Khimji. “It’s very annoying. I don’t like the vibe I get from so many people.”