Subway Chronicles, Volume II
If you want to hear great dialogue, you gotta ride the New York subway. That’s why all the models, lawyers, and engineering students who dream of acting in superhero movies do.
I’ve been carrying a “subway notebook” with me for the past 25 years. And a fountain pen. Can’t be writing down live talk with a ballpoint or a pencil. Digital devices? Fuhgeddaboudit. The gods of “noticing” (
“Next stop: Babylon!”
—I don’t wanna go to Babylon, ma.
—You won’t, sweetie. Someone’s just fucking around. Got into a conductor’s booth and thinks he’s a big shot.
I usually don’t write down whole conversations—just a snippet or two, a phrase here, a word there, some grumbling and mumbling, and, occasionally, the growling of a steely gaze or a musical snoring. Unless an entire exchange begs to be written down.
“Why don’t New Yorkers look at each other on the subway?” an exchange student from Moldova once asked me.
“Privacy,” I said. “New Yorkers respect personal boundaries.”
“That can’t be true,” he said. Perhaps he was right. He wanted to be a sociologist.
A well-dressed man to a half-sleeping laborer:
“Gimme another look like that, scumbag, and I’ll find your mother and shave her back!?”
A young woman on the D train, shouting into her phone, eyes closed…
“No, it ain’t you, it’s me, bitch! I made up my mind, turned my life upside down.
I didn’t wanna love you. It happened, awright?! But it was you who had the power. The power over me, bitch! Had me in your coat pocket. And now you ain’t got no coat! Can’t hurt me now. I’m free!”
The F train is packed. Police activity up ahead, we’re told.
A disheveled, overweight man with a cauliflower ear and stretch marks on his upper lip takes a seat next to a female octogenarian lost in a Facebook feed on her phone.
“My stomach is grumbling. Ignore it.”
Pause. She doesn’t respond.
“I’m depressed, so I overeat. But I’m not dangerous, I’m not scary. I love pets.”
She looks up from her phone and scans the train car for an empty seat.
“The train is packed. You’re stuck with me, young lady. And my stomach that grumbles. Until you get off. Hopefully without me. ‘Cause I’m spoken for.”
He guffaws and stuffs a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
Our first hot day this spring. A young woman wearing a see-through blouse, a well-tailored skirt, and All Star Converse Keds stands with her back to me. First, I peek over her shoulder to see what she’s reading—The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg. Then I notice a tattoo of a bulldog below her left shoulder blade. Probably the pooch she put to sleep after having him around for years. As I’m pulling my iPhone out of my pocket to take a photo of the bulldog through her see-through, I notice her knees buckling. Grabbing her from behind would be a gross violation of the NYC subway code. So, I wait until she hits the floor and promptly come to her rescue.
“Ma’am, are you okay?”
I gently smack her face a few times, then wrap my arms around her midsection and, with the help of two other people, pull her up into a seat that someone vacates for her.
She looks directly at me.
“Call my boyfriend and tell him I’m fine.”
“Give me his number,” I say, a little disappointed she’s so alert, as if nothing happened.
“I’m not gonna give you his number. I can call him myself.”
She sits up straight, pulling out her phone. I step back, giving her space, feeling a mix of relief and lingering concern. As the train pulls into the next station, she withdraws a twenty-dollar bill and offers it to me.
“Thanks for your help,” she says, her voice softer now.
“Come on,” I say. “No need for that.”
She feels awkward but keeps holding out her hand with the money.
“When I faint, you help me off the floor. Deal?”
She smiles and exits the train just before the doors snap shut.
I’m pretty sure it wasn’t her stop.
The busy platform swallows her into its flow, but for a moment, there was a connection, a fleeting, human moment amidst the rush.
That’s all for now.
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Stay tuned for more Subway Chronicles.
’Til next time
ak
Love this. I’ve become a little dialogue magpie myself recently. No better place than New York!
How did you spend the $20?
The Seattle Light Rail is the closest we come to the NY Subway. That's to say, I ride a Single A minor league team compared to the World Champion NY Subway you ride. And most people here are plugged into their own devices, so dialogue is scarce. I've taken to photographing reflections in the train windows, but have stopped direct candid shooting altogether. Reason being, there's too much mental health uncertainty on the train, and a camera triggers some people. It happened once, when I was simply holding the camera. It wasn't a cool situation to deal with. Waiting for the train is another story, fairer game due to the wide open spaces. But within the tight confines of the train, my shooting days are 99% over, but listening to dialogue? It's rare, like I said, but there's treasure to be found for sure, like the gems you found. Keep listening!