Subway Chronicles: Vol. V

Bing-Bong: My Continuing Love Affair with the NYC Subway

Getting ready for a date. Atlantic Ave, R train. Brooklyn, NY

Happy Valentine’s Day, folks!

Bing-bong.
The doors slide shut, sealing us in this metal cocoon of humanity. At least, for those of us who can’t afford a car, don’t want to pay $9 to drive into Manhattan (thanks to the new congestion toll), or simply prefer to observe humans in motion.

I’ve already written four Subway Chronicles posts. What should I write about in this one? A symphony of lives plays out—offbeat, chaotic, yet strangely harmonious.

Hat fetish. D train to Manhattan. 9 am. Tuesday.

There’s the man with the boombox blasting Barry Manilow’s greatest hits like it’s his personal yoga studio. The woman in a colorful hijab, knitting furiously, her needles clicking in time with the rhythmic clatter of her teeth. And that guy—yes, that guy—eating an entire rotisserie chicken with his bare hands, leaving a trail of bones like breadcrumbs for the birds to follow.

Bing-bong.
We’re all here: the dreamers, the schemers, and the ones who just overslept.

I wish it were the 80s and I worked as a music director at CBGB’s.

A man in rubber shorts (it’s winter, mind you) hurls slices of Wonder Bread at me and the two postal workers sitting next to me. Across the aisle, a child stares wide-eyed at that elderly punk, laughing uncontrollably. We all shuffle to the other side of the car.

“Signal problems,” they say. Great. A collective sigh fills the air.

“You look striking! Can I take your photo? I can text it or email it to you right away.” / “Get lost, you goat-faced creep!” / “Enjoy the rest of your evening!”

The heat wraps around us like a suffocating coat made of tongues. Someone mutters, “Why bother? Why the pain? All those taxes... just go home and die in your sleep.”

“I’m perfectly okay with multiple personalities.” N train to Coney Island.

That’s when I notice it—the Emily Dickinson poem on hope displayed above the sliding doors:

“Hope is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.”

Bing-bong.

That’s perfect. I should’ve noticed it earlier. There would’ve been no need for me to write anything else—except this: The New York subway isn’t just transportation. It’s theater. It’s poetry. It’s life.

Clear thinking is my forte.

Thanks for reading and being a subscriber.
’Til next time.

ak