Not a Good Day For the Subway
I could immediately start in on my morning commute. I could retell my experiences with crowds, humidity, the inability to understand the train driver. But that would be too easy. So I'm going to begin with last night.
After leaving Jill's gig at Arlene's Grocery, this guy that I kind of know -- not very well -- stopped me to talk. "I came out looking for you," he said. I met him at the Tea Lounge one night months ago. I've seen him a few times since. He's in his forties, works as a barrista (or is that barristo?) at another Park Slope cafe called Ozzie's, and he acts. And sings apparently.
Anyway, I stopped and lit a clove while waiting for him to come over. I didn't mind waiting, because the train station was quite close so I wouldn't have had enough time to suck down a clove. Now I did. He finally came over with his hand outstretched. "What's up, dude?" I asked him, already a little wary of his energy, not knowing if I had enough of my own for it. He had a big smile on his face, which was a little odd, because he's usually a little more on the chill side. "Catherine!" he said, now holding my hand. "You look [he paused here, trying to find the right adjective] vibrant." What th- "Vibrant?!" I said, questioned, retorted, and exclaimed all at once. "That's a first," I told him. "Of all the words that have been used in history to describe me, 'vibrant' has never been one of them." "Well, you look great." "Well, thanks. It must be Simon and Garfunkel."His look prompted me to explain to him that I had recently discovered the calming sensation of their music, thanks to a kick in the ass from the film Garden State. (A Garden State aside -- the film's writer, director, and star Zach Braff, has a Garden State blog). I had been listening to S&G all day; doing so makes it hard to be anything but "vibrant." "And I did just finish reading Miller's The Rosy Crucifixion. That could be it, too."
After a brief discussion of the overwhelming effect of Henry Miller on me, a woman approached me from the left. "Can I have a drag of your clove?" "Sure," I said, handing it to her while thinking that a complete stranger has never asked that of me before. And then I had a though after she brought it to her lips. "You don't have any diseases, do you?" I asked smiling. "No," she said. "Do you?" "No." "Maybe it would be good if we did. It would boost our immunity."
I just looked at her. Ok, perhaps. But I'm not interested in contracting a disease from you in order to boost my immunity, is what I was thinking. I lost track of my clove at that moment, because my new friend's friend Susanna approached us. They chattered for a bit while I turned my attention back onto my clove. And then I felt a hand on my arm. This was Susanna's way of asking for an introduction.
After he introduced us, he left us standing there, and so we proceeded to have a conversation about acting. She was cool. Every so often, I glanced at the girl with my clove -- Laura or Lauren or Laurel was her name, I think. She was dragging away on it as if it came from her own pack. She caught my eye again and came back over. "Here you go," she said. "You can go ahead and keep it." "Oh, you think I have a disease now, is that it?" Ah. Teasing, now, are you? "No, no. No, no. You just look like you're enjoying it. I couldn't take it away from you now." "Thanks, man. What's your name?" I told her. "You should come check out my band. We go on in 10 minutes." "Yeah?"
I knew full well I wasn't going to go back in, but I engaged her a little more here, asking what her role in the band was. "I play the keyboards." "Cool," I said, and she took off never to be seen again. My two new friends and I stood outside for another 10 minutes or so and then they walked me to the train. He said he'd go out and buy some Henry Miller on account of me. And she insisted on giving me a quarter for a clove. We hugged upon departing and I descended the stairs with a rather warm feeling. It was nice, and I hoped it would last forever. I knew it wouldn't, so the thing to do then was to just enjoy its flow. I put on S&G while squatting by the tracks and was soon homeward bound.
Don't Go Warmth, Don't Go
At some point just after midnight, I went to bed. But I didn't go to sleep. Sometimes when I'm mired in a bout of insomnia, I can take measures to speed up the process of sleep. Like breathe deeply or read.
Unfortunately, I hadn't the patience to do either. It can't be good, not having patience to go to sleep. I wonder if there are medications for that. I tossed, turned, sighed, watched the clock, thought about Sony Vaio laptops, writing, my voice as a narrator, not writing, and food (I was hungry). I also got up a couple of times. I checked my email. I started the application to consolidate my school loans. And I updated my Netflix queue. Important things.
I finally went back to bed around 4:30 and remained awake till 5:30. The warmth was far gone by now. Oh well. I'll get it again. I had to be up at 8:30. And I arose at precisely 8:36. I was showered, gelled, dressed and out of the house by 8:56. And this is where it all went horribly wrong. The train wasn't coming. And it wasn't coming. But the passengers were.
One by one, they gathered in the station, newspapers open, looking this way and that for the train. We glanced at our watches, all of us, shaking our heads at its tardiness. Which still wasn't coming. By 9:10, my jaws were clenched. I close my eyes, flabbergasted still by the situation. I was confident I wouldn't be late to work, though. Still, it was cutting into my pre-work coffee/clove 15 minutes.
As I was practicing my calming exercises (I don't have any) and hoping S&G would soon work its magic, the train arrived, and, as I suspected it would be, packed. I gambled and decided to wait for the next one. The next train would surely be close behind and empty. But it wasn't. And I waited. And waited. Jaws again. Exercises, which I don't have. (I need to get some.)
Ten minutes later, at 9:20, the train came. And it was packed. More so than the previous one. I got on, looking for a spot, any spot -- preferably near a pole -- to plant my feet for the ride, which would suck. People in New York don't like to wait for the next train. If they see a patch of floor, they will push, claw, and bite their ways on. It doesn't matter that the wall of people before them is as robust as a wall of concrete. They will push. This is how I found out what had happened, though.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please do not force yourselves on the train. There was some flooding in Brooklyn this morning, which caused the train to be late. There is another F train directly behind us. Please step off the train and let the doors close so the next train can come." Flooding. Whatever. The people still weren't getting off. I don't get it. This started at Fort Hamilton.
At 4th Ave. our conductor came back on. "There's no trains running down below.Don't even get off the train." Some of us laughed for some reason. Our conductor couldn't have been totally happy with the situation, either. The flood announcements continued to Bergen. And here it just got worse. The train wasn't going anywhere now. And we stood there in it, looking at each other, watching people struggle to get on where there was no room.
And finally, we all heard the station attendent. "There is no F service to Manhattan. Due to a power outage in lower Manhattan, F service has been suspended. We apologize for the inconvenience." Those of us on the train, however, were lucky enough (please) to stay on to the next stop. Our conductor gave us directions. "Ladies and gentlemen, listen carefully. I don't want you to be any more upset than you already is." We laughed. He knew what he was doing.
"We're going to Hoyt-Schermerhorn. When you get off the train, cross the platform and take a Manhattan-bound A train." He went into further detail about other commute options. When you're in this position, forced so close to people, you're touching things you don't want to touch. Things are touching you in places you would rather reserve for other hands.
It's not right. I may as well have been holding this woman who was standing in front of me. It would have been a sweet picture. But, well, uh-uh. There's some morning breath action going on. There's some sweat. None of this is acceptable before I've turned my computer on. None of this is acceptable ever and I got much more of it than I wanted. When we arrived at Hoyt, we all got off the train -- all of us -- and crossed the platform, a walk that took at least 15 minutes.
Like a million cows trying to get into one cage, we headed toward the stairs and ended up on the other side. One A train. Two A trains. Now I'm close enough to catch the next A train. I get on. More waiting. Some yelling now. And even some pushing. This is interesting.
It's 10:10 and I'm still in Brooklyn. And then it gets worse. "Ladies and gentlemen, there is a sick passenger at the High St. station. Once that is taken care of, we will proceed." Fifteen minutes later, sick passenger taken care of, we proceed. A few of us by now have gotten to know one another. In and out of the pushing and yelling, there is the new NYU student who has just missed her first class. There is a woman who has just missed her portfolio review. For what, I'm not sure. I wasn't in the mood to inquire further. I soon learned I could have had it much worse. Both of them left their houses just after 7.
Twenty minutes later, I'm finally in Manhattan, about 90 minutes after I left my house. I called my supervisor. Then it all became clear. She couldn't even get on a train. Another colleague had to turn back. Flooding, I hear. It's bad, I hear. Well, just get me the hell to work. Three hours of sleep and I haven't sat down since I got out of bed. I made it to 6 at Brooklyn Bridge. And I sat down. That's all I wanted. I was a little sweaty. A little perturbed. But the intermittent laughter helped ease the tension.
I resumed with S&G. I felt peaceful. This 6 trip from the Brooklyn Bridge to 33rd St. is, at most, 15 minutes. Not this morning. It was 30. We stayed at each stop for whatever reason. Flooding, perhaps. Sick passengers, perhaps. The peace was dissipating rapidly. By the time I reached my stop, I was done. Wiped out. Exhausted. Wanting to do nothing but climb into bed.
I collapsed in my chair at exactly 11, two hours after I left Brooklyn. This is usually a 45-minute trip. And this is the story of how Hurricane Frances hit New York City. But at least I didn't lose my life, or any property. May the hurricanes leave Florida alone. And may New York return to the semblance of ordered disarray it is so used to.
Oh, But Wait
My supervisor told me I could leave early. I didn't for whatever reason. There always seems to be just one more article to edit. I finally started to turn off my computer, but felt the need to talk to her, because I had been without human interaction for most of the day, with both she and my other colleague having worked from home. So I called her. She was trying to get me to take Thursday off. But we agreed that I'd come in late. Cool.
So I kept my plans with a friend to meet at Reservoir. Beer and wings. And wouldn't you know, the best thing about today was that I had the best wings I ever had. My friend agreed. We proceeded to discuss our idea of writing a sitcom. And we actually came up with something. I was buzzed after only two Bass Ales, but that was all right with me after the day I had. Off to the F I went. It came rather quickly. I read some. I listened some. And then I noticed it was moving slowly. More so than usual.
Then, between Broadway and 2nd Avenue, it stopped. Then started for two feet. Then stopped. Hard. How can you come to a screeching halt after only traveling two miles per hour? It happened. Newspapers flying. I'm practically laying down in my seat form the momentum of the halt. We sit. We go through it again. Another screeching halt. Then, some information.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are stopped due to a problem with the emergency brakes. We are looking for the source and should be moving shortly." Wonderful. But they're emergency brakes. How often are those used? Just go. It wouldn't. We stopped. Started. And stopped. And then we finally pulled into the 2nd Avenue station after about 20 minutes. People got up to exit. "Ladies and gentlemen, please be patient. We are going to have to let you out manually." So we waited for another five minutes. And then our savior came. "I'm going to need one of you to hold the door so everyone can exit through the end of the train." I was closest to the door. And I wasn't going anywhere. Plus, I was already so tired, why not hold the door, too? I held the door as people walked by. "You're welcome," I said, to those who thanked me. I made eye contact with most of them and smiled. Once we were all off, we had to listen for further instructions, which is difficult in the subway. I started walking to the other side but stopped when I saw someone for whom I held the door. "What are we supposed to do?" I asked her. "I can't even hear," she said. "This is ridiculous." "Did you get stuck this morning?" She nodded. She had it much worse than I. She was in the train for an hour as it sat between stations. Soon, we found out we were to get on the F train across the platform and go back to West 4th Street and then catch the train back. We got on and sat by another woman who was also stuck this morning. Smiles crossed our faces as we listened to simultaneous announcements, unable to understand either. "At least there's laughter," I said. I noticed the first woman I spoke with was holding a book about Southern American literature. I was interested in why she was reading it. When we reached our train at West 4th, I go the chance to ask her. She works at a book publisher, which peaked my interest. So we continued talking. She's a writer who works in sales. We talked of writing in our heads, not having the energy and words to write when we actually have the time. We talked about the English degrees we had -- hers from Harvard just three months ago -- and being turned off by freaky academia. She's from Sweden and barely had an accent. I found that out only after she asked me where I was from originally. She was cool. It was a good conversation. I pronounced her name correctly after we traded them and wished each other well. This was a good random encounter with another writer. A good end to a really long unnecessary day.
