Tourists

Ah, tourists.  Why anyone would travel to a winter clad New York, when the same money can get take them to the warm shores of San Juan or Miami Beach, is a mystery to me.  Next to me on the bench, waiting for the A train, are two foreign women scouring through subway maps of Manhattan and site seeing coupon books.  I'm trying to discern what language they are speaking when Miriam C. walks over.

Ken H. passes us on the platform and waves just as the train arrives.   Miriam and I ride together to 59th street.  I stick around to wait for the B or the D, and she walks makes the exit.  She turns around for a moment, to say goodbye, and WACK!  She slams right into a solid blue pillar.  I yell "that's going in the blog" with a distinctly evil grin.

Famous Sightings

Anyone who reads my blog regularly knows that I am regularly late, and today is no exception.  I have two additional stops before work - the garbage (and recycling) and the laundry.  Awkwardly, I try to carry everything down at once and call for the elevator.  Realizing just as I press ‘B’ that I have left gloveless, I run out and watch as the elevator descends without me.  Its Godly punishment, and a few more precious minutes pass while I retrieve my gloves and get the elevator back.

On 186th Street I see Mor R.  She is moving this week, and walking over to the new pad to clean up and wait for a furniture delivery.  A mother and child, no older than 2, are walking past the scaffolding on the side of 110 Bennett, where all the cinder blocks and a Porta-Potty are kept.   The child points to the blocks and asks what they are.  The woman responds that "they are doing construction."  Am I an overzealous non-parent for thinking this is a wildly stupid response?  It doesn't answer the boy's question at all.  How many two year olds know the meaning of the word construction?  And who, exactly, are "they?"

On the train, I sit next to a person I am convinced is Webster.  I try not to stare but the urge does not relent, so when a tube of Chapstick pops out of his bag and lands near me I am quick to pick it up and hand it back.  I am thanked by what is a very distinctly female voice, not very Webster after all.

A homeless man walks by and asks us for change, then sits on a nearby bench to wait for the next stop.  Next to him, a lunatic woman with a dirty yellow hat starts to mutter, gradually working up to a shout.  She-Webster looks at me, then points to the woman and makes a "crazy" gesture by twirling her finger near her head.  We both smile.

As I stand up to get off at 59th, She-Webster drops a glove without noticing.  I point it out and she thanks me again, and wishes me a good day.

Ken H. is on the platform at 59th, looking engrossed in music as he shuffles ever so slightly and taps his foot.  I like Ken and always enjoy talking to him, but I don't know if I should walk over to him.  After all, it's still early by many - if not my employer's - standards.

Getting off at 47th, I see Ken again and he says hi.  He is on his way to work, which is in the Newscorp building.  I tell him I used to work for Newscorp and after a bit more chat we part ways.  He heads to the office, I head for a bagel.

Subway Prayers

Walking outside this morning, late for work, I realize I have forgotten to wear my 180's (knock offs) or a hat.  It's not that cold, but my ears are still wet from the shower and I wish I had something to cover them with. I pass Ilanit H. on the sidewalk in front of my building and head towards the train station.  A small woman on the corner is walking a beast of a dog.

On the platform stairs, I hold onto a banister for a moment and feel something sticky beneath my palms. It's gum, chewed and disgusting.  The wad is old enough not to stick to me, but without any Purell handy I have something else to add to my wish list.

Yair M. is also on the platform.  On the train, I sit across from a girl with big brown hair.  Her denim skirt was first to give her away as an Orthodox Jew, and now she is also reading from a Hebrew prayer book.  I see so many Orthodox girls and women praying on the subway, I often wonder what they would do in the suburbs.  Is davening one of the check boxes on traffic tickets, or would it just fall under reckless driving?  The girl gets off at 125th street, just as “Come Sail Away” starts playing on my Blackberry.

T'Was The Night Before

It's officially very cold outside.  I walk to the train station and see Mrs. H. near the entrance, grabbing a copy of AM New York.  Ariel F. is also at the entrance, just inside, speaking on her cell phone.

Past the tunnel Estie T. is buying a metrocard.  As I walk through the turnstile, Rebecca G. walks out and says hello.  She works at the nearby Yeshiva University.

On the platform, right at the bottom of the stairs, I see Sara S. She smiles.  It's her birthday today, and Sara looks like she is dressed to celebrate.  A black shirt, gray skirt, and sexy red scarf are immediately noticeable.  Her boots are black, with a furry trim at the top.

Someone is playing classical music further up on the platform, but Sara has been listening to "All Star" on her iPod.  We ride the train together, discussing everything from the trips to weddings to the meaning of life.

We switch to the D train at 59th and then get off at Rockefeller.  I walk to Milk and Honey to get a bagel, and on the corner of 5th I run into one of my neighbors.  I don't say hello, since I don't really know her, then make my way to Starbucks and finally to the office, the last day before the long weekend.

Holiday Late

I head down to the basement this morning, looking for Willie, the superintendent.  His dogs start to bark wildly when I enter the area in front of his apartment and he opens the door before I get a chance to knock.  Having expected Con Edison, he is surprised to see me, and is thankful and full of well-wishes when I hand him a card and holiday tip.

Exiting the building, I mail some letters and head for the train.  At 186th street, I can hear the shouts and shrills of schoolchildren in the recess yard, having already started the day at the nearby school.

The subway platform is eerily empty, save for a high school class that is lined up against the wall. I realize how incredibly late I am but am at least confident about being able to get a seat, which I do.  The conductor on the train has a Chinese accent.  He also, quite annoyingly, overly elongates his ‘S’ sounds, saying "ssssssstand clear of the closing doors" at every stop.

Leaving On Time

My cleaning lady is like Alice from the Brady Bunch. She is a part of the family, and after catching up with her for twenty minutes, I set off for work.

At the station, Newspaper Guy waves to me, then glances at a large group of Orthodox Jewish teens gathered at the metrocard vending machines.

Zippy K. is on the platform. I doubt she remembers me, but last year she came to my place with her cousin and we watched a movie.

The train arrives and I stand at the doors, peering through the glass, scope out the available seats, and decide on the best choice before the doors have opened. Everyone slowly files in, I get my seat, and try to mentally prepare for the day. It dawns on me I might actually arrive on time to work.

Winter Is Upon Us

It's fitting, for the first day of Winter, that snow is on the ground. Two feet of sparkly white flowers that came down over the weekend have turned a muddy slush lining the sidewalk and have congregated on the street corners, beyond the boundaries of where building supers are required to shovel.

The slush is impossible to avoid, even with the most careful selection of a route. By the time I reach Overlook, on the way to the train, my feet are already moist. Turning left and looking behind me, towards 187th, I see Tzippy H. in large boots that cover most of the bottom half of her jeans. She is wearing a dark coat and a warm green hat.

On the platform I recognize a girl from synagogue and her mouth suddenly opens agape with surprise. She greets another girl, whom I also recognize, with a big hug. I spot Aliza B. sitting on a bench and say hi. Yonatan K. is also on the platform, as is Adina S.

Adina and I board and ride together. She spends half the ride on her morning prayers and then I give her a full account of the Mt. Sinai panoply fundraiser. We chat some more and I get off at 59th, late to work but ready to start the week.

The Cold Draws Near

The elevator is taking too long so I head down the stairs instead. A blast of cold air punches into me as soon as I step outside. I wonder if I should have worn a hat.   They've started removing the scaffolding at 115 Bennett, so that the roof and mesh panels are gone but the frame is still intact. It looks funny.

My ears are partially frozen by the time I reach the station. Up ahead, I see my next door neighbor Avraham S. Down on the platform, I see a girl I know who's name I can't for the life of me remember. She waves and I wave back. Benny S. is also on the platform and I wave to him too.

On the train I sit next to a young girl wearing psychedelic jeans and a tie-dye sweatshirt. Her nails are painted, albeit chipped, in a bright sky blue, and she is wearing a square pink hat with a furry brim and ears. She is listened to music on a Blackberry with is covered in a pink phone condom lined with gemstones. I slip on my own headphones and fade slowly back to a drifty sleep.

Ouch

There is a small but significant part of my toenail missing. Not nearly as bad as the story - told on the Big Show this morning - about a 6’7” minister who’s legs were cut off so that he might fit into a coffin, but still unpleasant nonetheless.

Heading downstairs and out to the train station, I run into Baruch H. in the lobby. A volunteer EMT, he says good morning and asks how I am (I refrain from mentioning the toenail). Judy R. is pushing a stroller just outside the building.

At the station, I head down to the platform and see Ezra H. at the foot of the steps. He is carrying a backpack and a Banana Republic bag, and is reading on his phone. He seems engrossed, so I don’t say hello and head towards my spot. I take the A to 59th, then switch to the orange line and exit at Rockefeller. On the stairs I hear someone say my name and turn around. It’s Adina L. We chat for a short moment and then I head out onto 47th and make my way towards the bagel shop.

Never On Time

I am not surprised to find that today is one of those days, again. Why can't I get it together and get to work on time? Not that I don't put my hours in, but when my coworkers leave at 5 and I've got another two hours to go, it always leaves me feeling a little lumpy inside.

On the subway platform I run into Malka S. I stop to say hello and we exchange pleasantries, then I head to my spot. The train arrives and I board next to an extraordinarily tall woman. Not just tall by Jewish standards (Jewish woman are not known for their height) but by almost all accounts. She reminds me of the Netherlands, where the average female height is 3" taller than in the U.S.

A loud, high pitched laughter coming from the other side of the car fills the air. I look over and see it is coming from a large group of female youngsters. As I shift about, the man next to me begins to mutter in Italian, and continues muttering every time I move or even breath too deeply. He is tall and balding, and dressed preppy in brown woolen slacks and a brown corduroy coat, slung over a blue button down oxford. Penny loafers finish the look, but I am hardly impressed.

I Hate Monday

There are few things more hated than Monday mornings. As I head out to the laundromat, I notice that there has been yet another increase in the amount of dog poo left on the sidewalks.

I pass Mt. Sinai and see people chatting outside, among them Marc R. Services must have just ended. On the way back, after dropping off the laundry, I see Adina L. and her husband Yaki R. on the corner, near Key Food. Heading towards the train station and passing my own building, I run into some of my neighbors who are schmoozing among themselves. I see Ezra F. across the street.

On Overlook, I see David H. go into the station ahead of me. A few seconds later I walk in to find the station smelling a strange mix of urine and lemon scented cleaning solution.

I am late to work and wondering if, as is usual at this hour, I'll run into Adina S. I turn around and, eerily, she is right behind me. "You're late" she admonishes. Yehuda B. passes us on the platform and waves hello. Adina and I take the train together, talking about the recent array of Chanukah parties in the neighborhood, and I tell her all about a very drunken Rock Band after-party at my place on Saturday night. She does not sound sorry to have missed it.

All Bets Are Off

The Black Eyed Peas "I Got a Feeling" is stuck in my head this morning, after hearing it twice last night - once at the company holiday party and a second time at the after party. Surprisingly, I didn't drink too much but, not surprisingly, I am late to work nonetheless. I will lose my bet with Colleen, the receptionist, that I can get to work on time despite a very late night out.

At the entrance to the train station, a women with a baby carriage is passing just ahead of me and I rush to hold the doors open for her, and she thanks me profusely for it. It's nice to be appreciated, even for something so insignificant and which any decent citizen would easily have done just as well.

I walk past Jill V. on the platform and board the train when it arrives, taking a seat next to a woman in a full length fur coat and matching fur hat. As if that isn't appalling enough, she is reading a Daily News article on Tiger Woods' sexual preferences. It's one article I prefer not to read over anyone's shoulder.

All Dressed Up

Tonight is the company holiday party and I'm wearing a suit.  I've also put on my fancy winter coat, the only one I own which extends below the jacket of a suit. It's also my warmest coat, and at today's temperatures I would have worn it regardless.

I head down to the basement to throw out the garbage and run into Willie, the building superintendant, in the elevator. We wish each other a good day and I head out the back door, running into Willie again as I walk around the block to the front of the building.

At the train station I see Nomi M. standing near the entrance, talking on her cell. I smile and wave to her, and she waves back with the pinky of the hand holding the phone.

The train arrives right away and I board.  Just as the doors are closing, I am jabbed by a horrible stench. The source is immediately obvious - a homeless man sleeping nearby. I head to the opposite end of the car, where the smell is somewhat tolerable, and hear a mother tell her child "don't worry, we'll move to another car at the next stop."

Sitting across from me is a woman in a plaid blue coat, brown corduroy pants, silver shoes, and giant sunglasses. A white knitted beret covers her hair, which is large, full of dreads, and painted blue to match to the coat. She is covering her mouth and nose with a handful of dreadlocks to avoid the stench wafting from the other side of car.

Dido's "Mary's in India" starts to play over my headphones, and it reminds me of someone I cared for long ago.

At 59th, I see Benny S. on the platform, as well as Suri G. She usually takes the 1 train but today it was having issues and she is on the 8th avenue line instead. I had just seen Suri the other night at a Cuban-Jewish event hosted by the JDC, which we both attended. The B train arrives and I get on, leaving Suri behind to wait for the A.

Kix and Drinks

The only thing I hate carrying more than a bag is an umbrella. Sure, it keeps its bearer dry, but it’s so awkward to carry around in crowded subway car. Even someone lucky enough to get a seat has nowhere comfortable to store it during the ride. On the few occasions, like today, where the rain is so fierce that I must take one, I usually end of leaving them at work for want of not carrying them back.

In fact, I have only one umbrella left at home – a medium size semi automatic with a hooked handle. Right outside my building, fidgeting to get it open, I see Judy R. walk by, pushing one child in a stroller and her eldest lagging a few feet behind. He is proudly holding up a colorful brolly of his very own.

The rain is really pouring down, making me grateful for the three scaffolds along the way: 115 Bennett, 110 Bennett, and finally the one right outside the train station. I stop underneath the last one to undo my umbrella and Emily T. is there, talking on her cell phone. “I love you,” she says, and heads inside.

On the platform I see Emily again, as well as David M. who passes me and wishes me a good morning. Next to me on the bench is an Orthodox Jewish woman with a light blue bandana covering her hair. She is eating what looks like Kix and milk, out of a plastic cup. The train doesn’t come for a long time, and the platform starts to crowd. An announcement about the next train being out of service turns out to be incorrect, however, and I board alongside a cute girl who’s name I don’t know but that’s been written about in my blog before.

At 175th, an elderly woman with dyed hair and thick glasses get on the train. She stands next to me and, being the quintessential “grumpy old woman”, starts muttering and cursing when the train doesn’t immediately move. The conductor announces for someone at the font to stop holding the doors open, and the woman increases her rants. Although comic and somewhat enjoyable, I put my headphones on to ignore. That is when she smiles at me, the sweetest old-woman smile possible. In an instant she has become the angelic grandmother, and I am sad to see her get off just one stop later.

A scruffy middle aged man takes her spot next to me. He is well dressed, business casual, but his eyes are terribly bloodshot and his breath wreaks so powerfully of alcohol that one might imagine he’s come straight from the bar without ever stopping at home last night. He is reading Metro NY while strangely licking his lips, and once or twice he coughs violently enough that I think he might throw up on me. I turn up the volume on my music and push my body into the wall behind me – as far away from the drunkard as it can go.

Shake It Up

I head downstairs and, at the corner of 186th and Bennett, I see Julie W. She is standing near the girls school and I try to get her attention but she doesn't see me. I continue towards the station and when I turn onto Overlook, I see Jon E. walking in the same direction.

At the station, I head through the turnstiles and down to the platform, then sit on a bench to wait for the train. A woman with short blond hair and blue eyes is sitting next to me. I can hear the music blasting through her iPod headphones as she sways her torso to the rhythm, occasionally shutting her eyes. She is wearing gray pants, brown loafers, and a long black overcoat, with sleeves that give way to sharp leather gloves.

Also nearby and also listening to music is another, younger, woman, short and with a head that is slightly large for her body. She is wearing giant headphones that can distract almost anyone from noticing how cute her black shoes are. They are the perfect match to her black scarf and black tights.

I notice a rat scurry on the track just before the train arrives.

New Suit

I hate carrying bags and normally try to avoid it at all costs. My new suit, however, has just been tested for shatnez, and in the process some sections of the seam were torn and now need to be repaired. Since I don’t trust any of the local talent, I’m carrying my bag - suit inside - to a midtown tailor.

Downstairs in the lobby, I run into Ilan R. with his child, and on 186th I see another parent. This time it’s Esther D. and her baby, being pushed inside a stroller. I turn onto Overlook and there is Sara S. walking towards the subway.

Sara and I walk to the station and onto the platform together. Waiting for the train, Ezra B. walks by and says hello. I also see Aviva P. and Emily L. but don’t point them out as Sara is clear her desire to avoid unnecssary morning coversations. On the train, we talk about Mt. Sinai politics, weekend plans, and various other random topics. After switching to the orange line, we end up at Rockefeller and I head towards the cleaners in the underground concourse.

The Lone Star State

Some people have no sense of where they are, and in particular when it comes to riders of New York City’s subway system. More specifically, I am often cutoff at the turnstiles and that is exactly what happens today as I swipe my metorcard and walk through. The man one turnstile to my right – middle aged, tall, and with a tennis racket emerging from his backpack – walks through on his side and then immediately moves in front of me, for no obvious reason and oblivious to the fact that I am there. I narrowly avoid colliding the handle of his racket.

On the platform I see Adina S. sitting on a bench and walk towards her. Emily T. is also near nearby. By the time I reach Adina, a train has pulled into the station and we board together. There are numerous available seats, but most are singles, and only one pair of adjacent seats is open. Emily unknowingly sits on one of them, leaving Adina and I to sit separately, and so instead we choose to stand. At the next stop, someone gets off the train, creating a new pair of adjacent seats, which we take.

Adina has been to Austin for the Thanksgiving weekend and we talk about her trip and compare notes about kosher food throughout Texas in general. I have been there many times for work and tell her the story about one particular trip with a Russian colleague who had flown in to join me on several meetings. Although I insisted it was unnecessary, he was kindly adamant on accompanying me along a forty minute drive to the nearest kosher restaurant. The second night was a repeat, I asserting once again that he need not join me, and he resolute that no one should eat alone. At dinnertime on the third and final night, he turns to me and says, in a thick Russian accent, “twice we go Kosher, tonight we go Hooters.”

November Rain

December took me by surprise today. Isn't November a month that should have 31 days, despite the song we learn as children? At least the air, when I get downstairs, feels more like winter.

I walk to the A station and through the turnstiles. Jenny R. is in front of me, walking down the stairs, but she doesn't see me. On the platform, I see the curly hair girl I met two weekends ago, her name now completely escapes me. She waves. Also on the platform is Caryn L. She is sitting on a bench, reading. She doesn't see me and I continue walking to my spot, board the train, and get to work on time for a change.

Midtown, via Jersey

Among the things no one likes to do on a Monday morning, aside from getting up, getting dressed, and going to work, is returning a rental car on the other side of the Hudson and walking back to New York. I reach the rental agency in less than 10 minutes. Rachel, the attendant, remembers me from Friday and apologizes for charging me an extra $13.75 on account of exceeded mileage.

At the Jersey entrance to the bridge, there is a colorful flower memorial to a firefighter who died in the World Trade Center on 9/11. Crossing the GWB, the wind is pleasant but I remove my yamika anyway and put it in my pocket. After the Times Square fiasco, when a gust whisked it away towards 8th Avenue, I'd prefer not to take chances.

The view is fantastic. During the walk I see 3 security guards, 4 cyclists (3 male, 1 female, all wearing helmets), and only 1 other pedestrian. I also spot 1 shattered side mirror, 1 auto repair flyer (shidduch?), 8 traffic cones (3 crushed), 10,000 motorists, and 1 gaping hole in the ground.

I board the train from the 175th street station and see no one I recognize until I switch to the B at 59th street. Sharona T. doesn't see me.

Adventures With Sara

Holiday fever has set in and I'm late, even by my usual standards. It's grim outside, a cloud cover hovering above and, thanks to all the construction workers, the smell of cigarette smoke permeating the air.

I run into Sara S. at the station. Whoa! she says. She is really late, which must mean that I'm really really late. She's carrying a purse, her laptop (in a makeshift bag), and a wheely suitcase. I offer to help her across the turnstiles with the suitcase, knowing they tend to get stuck under the bar. She scowls about doing it herself but thirty seconds later, in typical Sara fashion, asks me to carry the bag down the steps.

On the train, Sara and I discuss blogging and she tells me all about her new Countdown to Vancouver blog. We also talk about the proper use of gChat status. It's nice to have run into her, since we had to cancel our weekly lunch meeting, which would have been today.

At 59th, our train, an express, pulls into the local track. As we get off, to switch to the Orange line, an announcer instructs all passengers waiting for an A to board our train. A previous A is halted on the express track, a sick passenger still on board. Save for a few police officers and Emergency Medical Services, it's empty.

The A on the local track doesn't leave right away, and it turns out to have malfunctioning doors. The conductors are unable to open the them. Finally, one door in each car is unclosed, allowing passengers to back onto the platform. One of the them doesn't see the open door and starts to panic, and Sara helps her by pointing to exit.

Once everyone is off, they close the doors again and prepare to wheel the train out of the station. Its then that a homeless individual, apparently asleep during the fiasco, presses his face against the inside pane of the window. We can't help but laugh at him, stuck inside, though Sara solemnly suggests he might shoot us if we continue.

On the express track EMS finally carts the sick passenger off on an upright stretcher. Ten more minutes pass and a B train finally arrives; we jump on and rush the rest of the way to work.

Safety and Puke

On 186th Street, I see two tiny little girls, way too young to be walking alone, on their way to school. I turn the corner and it's the same scenario, this time two little boys. I suppose the neighborhood is safer than I thought.

I type on my new Blackberry as I walk,trying to get accustomed to the changes in its layout and its look and feel. It's much faster and much better then the last one I had, but not yet configured quite the way I like it.

The platform, when I get there, is quiet, perhaps because I'm so late and most New Yorkers are already at work. Someone I met this past weekend, at a Friday night dinner, is on the platform. I think her name is Jessie (her last name completely eludes me) and she says hello so I smile and wave as I walk by.

I sit on the bench near my spot, taking the last available seat. On my right a woman is wearing a square and circle patterned skirt, circa 1985, with a glittery jacket that could have come from that same decade. She is applying eyeliner using a a cracked mirror. On the other side, to my left, a classy Hispanic woman wearing a brown 3/4 length coat and attractive boots, is looking at my over her small button nose.

On the train, I am barely able to find a seat. Nearby, a woman, red coat draping over her jeans, runs her hands through her shoulder length brown hair and sighs. She drops her head into her lap. At first I think she is crying but then it seems as though she just doesn't feel well, physically. I feel bad but really, I am just hoping she doesn't puke on me. That would be a terrible way for either of us to start the day.

Fools

The air outside is crisp this morning, it is finally starting to cool off. I'm tired, and the continuing construction at 110 Bennett is irritating.

At the station, a large group exits the elevator from Fort Wash. The platform rumbles with the sound of a moving train and they all run for it en masse, realizing only seconds later that it was headed uptown.

Rabbi B. is sitting on a bench near the bottom of the steps and says good morning. A sizable crowd has gathered on the platform and when a C train rolls onto the tracks everyone lines up, confused (only the A normally stops here), but hoping to get on. The train continues past the station.

A woman, a sort of blond version of the TV character Detective Beckett, bites into a muffin then places it back into a brown paper bag. She's reading a photocopied article titled "The Gregorian: a Tool For Assessment and Intervention in Child Welfare." Her dark, pressed pants are worn over thick boots, the outline of which shows clearly from beneath her knees till her ankles.

Yehuda B. passes by, poised in sharp gray longcoat, and issues a standard military salute. I respond with a head nod.

On the train, a young Asian is holding the musical book "Rhythmic Training” in one hand and air-conducting with the other, his head swaying with each stroke and his floppy hair following just behind. He is wearing sandals. Many on the train are eyeing him, some even giggling.

I switch at 59th, then exit the subway at Rockefeller, stopping off at Starbucks and then Milk and Honey. On line at M&H, I’m surprised to recognize the man ahead of me as the same man that was ahead of me on the Starbucks line. He orders a bagel with egg and cheese. I order my bagel with cream cheese, and it arrives first. Smug, I pay and head for work.

Flirtation

I'm late. Not because I needed the extra sleep, but because I've become utterly addicted to the new Mario game for the Wii. Outside, the sky is sunny but the ground is wet. Last night's rain has left leaves all over the place, many of them stuck to the parked windshields of unsuspecting drivers.

In the station, I say hi to Newspaper Guy and realize that in close to a decade I can't recall ever seeing him without sunglasses. He waves and I continue towards the platform. Tzivia H. is here with her husband, buying a metrocard. Once downstairs, I see Debbie R. We both give a quick hello and I head towards my spot.

The train arrives quickly and I get on board. Adina S. and Sarah M. are here and I join them. They want to go on a trip around the world, six weeks long with a different destination each week. Sarah invites me along but I'd want to go to Antarctica, it's number one on my list, and that might be too cold for her. Adina spends most of the time saying her morning prayers, but when she finishes we all talk about flirtation - the rights, the wrongs, the hows, and the whos. They both accuse me of being a monumental flirt. I take the comment in stride, especially when the ladies request lessons. It's a sure way to keep me smiling the rest of the ride.

Caffination

I'm a coffee snob even though I don't drink much of it. I hate Starbucks - preferring brew that is handmade, like a good soup, over the push button kind - but drink it because the location is convenient. I can tell you the difference between a latte, a cappuccino, and twenty other drinks, or where the largest crop of beans is produced every year. So, it must be an indication of extreme desperation, due to extreme tiredness, coupled with extreme tardiness, when I take instant coffee (I don't own a machine) with me on the way to work today.

Downstairs, I see the wife of an old college mate unloading children from a minivan. They live in the suburbs now but his parents live down the block on Bennett.

Turning onto Overlook, I see Benny S. in the distance. That is when a lanky African American male approaches me, holding some papers in one hand and some cash in the other. He asks if I speak English, and says that he is asking because he's just been “released” from Rockland County and they told him that in New York city most people don't know the language. They've only given him $6 and maybe... "Sorry, I can't help you." He follows me for a few more steps then on to the next victim.

Homeless Guy, A.K.A. Larry, is back after a long hiatus. He and his girlfriend are sitting outside the station entrance smoking cigarettes. "Can you help out?" she asks a passerby.

I walk into the station, down to the platform, and take the last available seat on a bench near my spot. Tzivia H. walks by, her husband a few feet behind, and says good morning. Benny S. Has caught up to me and is now standing nearby as well. We both board the same subway car and get seats not too far away from each other.

At 59th I switch to the B train and run into Rachel T. It’s a rare treat to see her since she doesn’t live in my neighborhood. We chat for a brief moment until my stop. When I get off the train, there is a dog wandering around the Rockefeller station. It’s a seeing-eye dog, and the blind woman who lost it eventually finds it and grabs hold of its leash. Walking out of the station, the coffee has yet to kick in and I let my mind wander into thoughts of yesterday, too tired do much of anything else as I walk the rest of the way to the office.

Starlight, Starbright

A new set of leaves have fallen to the ground and, outside, it still feels like Fall. Technically, it is Fall, but I recall the days before global warming, when November was full of snow. I'm typing into my Blackberry on Bennett when a woman, pushing a baby carriage, apparates less than two feet in front of me and startles the hell out of me. Embarrassment unavoidable, at least I am able to swerve out of the way in time.

Henry R. is standing on the corner of 186th Street. He seems preoccupied and walks right past me. On Overlook I see Ezra F. who also walks right by me. A few feet behind I notice Sara R. We wave.

Kara S. is on the platform, saying the morning prayers. Being the beginning of the Hebrew month, today's service is a bit longer than usual. I continue walking towards my spot and Adam F. passes me. That make it three days in a row that I run into him. Weird.

At 59th, I see Luba K. and she waves with a giant smile. "Good morning, Ely!" she says as she climbs the stairs. It's nice to see a familiar face so bright this early in the morning.

Seen and Unseen

Being late, I haven't checked the weather, and once outside its clear I'm dressed for a cooler climate. Adding further insult are the shoes I'm wearing, which I dug up last night during an end-of-decade closet cleanup. The pair fits, technically, but with orthotics inside they still need a bit of stretching and I'm feeling the pain.

On the way to drop off my laundry and right outside the local synagogue, I bump into Avi T. and he waves. I can't wave back, on account of all the clothes I'm carrying, but I smile and he gets it. Returning from the laundromat I see Simone G. at the corner of 187th and Broadway. We say hello.

Rabbi M. is exiting the synagogue along with a few others but he doesn't see. Neither does Adam F. who is up ahead at the corner of 186th and Bennett. On Overlook, I see Estie H. as she enters the station.

On the train, I sit in the back corner to read my magazine. Next two me, two Spanish speaking middle aged women are chatting loudly. Another woman, a few seats away, is sitting with her back upright, in perfect posture, reading AM New York. Her hair, a short bob cut, is styled with a large headband across the top; a coarse overcoat reaches almost to the knees of her faded jeans. Below, she has red sneakers with a black pattern and her left ring finger sports a shiny wedding band. At 59th, she is gone. I get off too, a sigh of grief when I look at my watch and decide there is no time to stop for caffeine.

Wind and Talk

Bill Evans, the Channel 7 meteorologist, said this morning that winds will be gusting to 50 miles an hour. For a bald guy that wears a yamika, this can spell trouble, but downstairs the air seems calm enough.

On the way to the train I pass a dollar bill on the floor but my uncaffeinated reflexes don't realize what it is until I am long past it. Even if I'd noticed in time, I'm not sure I would have picked it up. As a child, I had a joke bill that when folded on the ground looks exactly like U.S. $50, but once picked it up said something to the effect of "jokes on you."

I see Aliza B. walking towards the station as I'm walking inside. I've known since yesterday I'd see her. That's because I saw Aliza yesterday morning, and by some weird destine fate I never see her less than twice in a row.

On the platform, I pass Yael B. as she sips coffee from a blue thermos. She doesn't seem to notice me as I walk by. I also run into Sarah F. and her husband Adam F. They both say hello and walk past me.

Ilana Cowen walks past me too and I say hi. She stops to talk and we get on the train together. Her Mac is in disrepair, and when she asks if I can fix it I tell her that is not my area of expertise. She also tells me about an 1199 rally she attended in Albany yesterday. It’s clear that, this early in the morning, I am too tired to function, let alone carry on a proper conversation, so it’s not surprising when she tells me I ought to be taking a nap.

Leaning against the subway doors, I rest my head on the glass. Ilana somehow enters into conversation with a total stranger, a girl in a long charcoal overcoat and a big blue backpack strapped all about her. It’s hard to hear exactly what they're saying, but I think they are talking about "Night Pleasures," the book the girl is reading. The train has gotten crowded, elbows seem to be protruding everywhere, so I let my eyelids rest until 59th street. Just one more day to get through before the weekend.

Gold

I am standing right outside the elevator, waiting for it, and glancing at this week’s New Yorker when my neighbor’s daughter exits their apartment. She is startled by my presence and we both start to laugh.

Joined by some other neighbors on other floors, we head downstairs. She sets off for school and I trek to the subway station. Aliza B. is on the platform and wishes me a good morning. The train arrives and I board, finding that it is crowded yet serene, the typical chitter-chatter strangely absent.

There are two women sitting next to me, both of Latin origin and both sporting bright red lipstick. One of them is reading Metro NY, the other a book by Jenny McCarthy. At 168th the woman reading Metro swaps her newspaper for a cell phone manual. She is wearing a beige turtleneck with gold lace, a gold watch, and gold shoes. Her hair is short, draped over sideways the way bald men sometimes have it. When the train stops at 145th Street, she asks me if we are at 145th Street. We are at 145th Street, I say. She smiles and gets off one stop later at 125th.

The Heat Is On

I head downstairs at 7:24 and find it overwhelmingly hot for mid November. I insisted on wearing my new sweater and realize now I should have compensated with a lighter jacket.

Steven S. is on Bennett. We exchange hello and how are you and keep going. Around the corner, I bump into Lisa K. and we say hi as well.

I get into the station and onto the platform. Rachel L. is there again, sitting on a bench, and I take a seat next to her. She has a cold, and I have a bit of a lingering cough, so we talk to each other while looking straight ahead - at the "181" signs across the tracks - to avoid breathing at each other.

While talking to Rachel I see Rena G. on the catwalk above the platform. Before I started writing my blog, I almost always used the catwalk, to avoid bumping into people and being forced into conversation too early in the morning.

I can hear the train in the distance and say goodbye to Rachel as I head to my spot. I run into Doron S. and we walk together towards the front, passing Emily L. on the way.

Doron and I sit together and he takes off his jacket, revealing a spiffy blue shirt with beige trim squares. It's a tough color to match but he's done a good job. We chat a bit and, seeing my phone, he asks about Blackberry apps. After a little while we decide to each do our own thing. He puts on his headphones and I go back to writing emails. We work across the street from each other, so we both switch at 59th, but I head further up on the platform. I am planning to get a bagel.

Here's to the Upstate Cholent

It's early, for a change. I was planning to do some work over the weekend but volleyball and a water leak downstairs got in the way. Instead, I'm trying to get a few hours in before the normal workday begins. I leave the building and see Rachelli R. across the street.

Inside the station, I spot Tova K. buying a metrocard and sneak up behind her. BOO! She gasps for air and I keep on walking turning my head so she can see the grin on my face. I pass the turnstiles and wait for her to come through, motioning for her to hurry as I hear the train approaching.

We board the train and stand near the doors. Rachel L. is sitting two seats away and waves hello; Avi Z. is a bit further on the other side and doesn't see us.

Tova and I discuss the usual. Some gossip and a bit about this and that, but mostly we talk about dating, online dating, and dating in relationships. She also warns me that her mother thinks I'm nice and might friend me on FB, though hopefully that has nothing to do with dating.

I get off at 59th and onto the B, which is already across the platform. Neil H. is there. I doubt he recognizes me at all, but I remember him as the Director of Financial Aid from my college days (I believe he no longer works there). He also owns a kosher bed and breakfast in Hunter Mountain and although I never stayed as overnight guest, I did have the opportunity to eat some homemade cholent there a few years ago. It was pretty good, and thinking about it has made me both hungry and nostalgic for the upstate vacations my friends and I take every summer. As we get older, many of us busy starting new families of our own, I wonder how long the annual trip will last, if it hasn't ended already.

Cooper Trooper

I walk out of my apartment building and see a Mini Cooper parked out front. Years ago, the movie The Italian Job instilled in me a minor obsession with the Cooper, and although the obsession is long over, it is still a very admirable vehicle.

On 186th Street, I bump into Harriet T. and we say good morning. I continue towards the station and turning onto Overlook terrace I spot Yaakov B. walking behind me.

Inside the station, I make my way to the platform. At the bottom of the stairs a woman in a long red overcoat is wearing a surgical mask. Further on, I see Luba K.

Luba and I talk about work. She is in marketing, although her degree is pre-law, and is responsible at her firm for one major client. We board the train but can’t find two seats next to each other and sit apart. I wonder if Abbey will be jealous now that Luba has made it to the morning blog.

Foliage

I used to think Fall was sad, what with the leaves dying and all, until someone told me it represented a fresh start, a new beginning. Years later, I related that bit of wisdom to a friend and she thought I was off my rocker. Everyone knows Spring is time for new beginnings. It’s March when everything starts to grow again. Maybe she is right, but I'm sticking to the initial theory. A new beginning only starts when the old is shed, and room is made for the new leaves so that they can grow in.

I'm not sure if I'm thinking about this today because I'm late to work yet again, a leaf I’d really like to turn, or simply because there are thousands of leaves on the ground on the way to the train.

Inside the station tunnel, Newspaper Guy is away and his substitute, selling only a fraction of the goods, has handwritten a sign on the ground. "Leave your money and take your paper."

Passing through the turnstile I can already hear a subway performer singing "Besame Mucho" at the far end of the platform. Shlomo D. is at the bottom of the stairs, eating a sandwich. He doesn't say hello and neither do I.

At my spot I get a seat on the bench, near a girl with curly red hair and a cute button nose. She is sitting next to a burly man in a black fleece, but it turns out they are not together. We all board the train together and I sit down planning to read this week's New Yorker, but mostly I just think about the leaves.

Building

New York City is the only place where one can cross an intersection diagonally, inadvertently halt traffic in numerous directions, and all the while manage to crack a smile from an observing police officer. I take my time while crossing and watch an elderly woman with deeply set eye sockets as she is walked by her Chihuahua.

Up ahead, I see Willie, my building superintendant. He enters the subway tunnel a few feet ahead of me and disappears into the elevators rising to Fort Wash. Newspaper Guy wishes me a good morning as I walk past his area.

On the platform, I run into three married women, all tenants of my building, but only one of them smiles and says hello.

I get onto the train and sit next to a Latin woman with a large green Marshall’s bag, which she moves so that I will have more room to sit. She exudes a large, proud smile; she has done a good deed today.

When I get off at 59th, I see Benny S. near the newsstand but I am too engrossed in the latest episode of Heroes to say hello. The show is playing on the Blackberry, I downloaded it earlier this morning while I should have been getting ready for work. Annoyingly, there are still 15 minutes left to watch when we reach my stop, but at least I will have something to do on the ride home.

Old Friends

On the way down, the elevator is crowded again. I was almost early. Almost. Early! But then the Blackberry Sync on my computer decided to update itself, things went haywire and before I knew it the 7:52 train was long gone.

At the corner of 186th, across from the elementary school, a remotely familiar woman is unloading numerous children from a gray minivan. A takes a while and a double double-take to realize she is the daughter of a rabbi I knew in college. At the time, she was subject to the boyish crush of many young men, myself among them, who attended the rabbi's weekly lecture, held in his Manhattan apartment.

Today, I am wearing a pair of pants I haven't worn in a very long time. I have no clue what their color is called. If you took some brown, maroon, gray, and a tingle of something found only on the other side of the rainbow, you'd get my pants. I coupled them with a new white shirt I bought just last night, but the shirt was wrinkled after the commute home so I had to throw a red sweater over it.

The ride to work is long and slow, as it often is when I'm already late. The train reaches 59th and on the platform I run into Michael W. It's really great to see an old friend that I rarely get to spend time with, and as is always the case with Michael, our conversation is philosophical, jovial, and meaningful. At Rockefeller, I have to cut the conversation short to get off, and it's one of the very rare moments that I wish my ride was just a tad longer.

Clocks

It's an extraordinary long wait for the elevator, when there's a smelly garbage bag in your hands and an uncomfortable neighbor, who doesn't English, eyeing you surreptitiously. When the doors finally open, a slew of other neighbors are inside, Ken H. among them.

Ken is also on his way to work but, unlike me, he isn't late. He tells me its culturally acceptable at law firms to come in past 9:30. Banks are just the opposite. I drop off the garbage and rush to the station, stopping only to adjust the time on my wrist watch when I realize I have forgotten to set it back from daylight savings.

Sleeping Beauties

I'm early. Its unusual and particularly ironic since I was out last night. The weather is nice but I've been too lazy to retrieve a lighter jacket from the closet, and so I'm warm all the way to the station, and even warmer once inside.

The tunnel has been painted overnight and the smell still reeks amidst the "wet paint" signs. I hear the train coming and make a run for it; why waste my rare earliness waiting for the next one?

More than I'd expect this early in the morning, the train is crowded and there is only seat left when I board. It’s a middle seat, in between a tall, young man in a blue striped suit, and an overweight girl in overly tight jeans. I squeeze in. The girl has an angry-at-the-world look about her, the kind that comes with an internal lack of self esteem that is never fully acknowledged outwardly. She closes her eyes and leans against the glass pane. The guy is sleeping too and occasionally leans on me. I cough, but not too hard, trying to make sure I don't disturb their sleep.

Oh Holy Smoke

The elevator smells like cigarette smoke. In all the years I've lived here that's never once happened and as far as I know, there isn't a single person in my building that smokes. I'm suspicious, but also very late, so my thoughts turn quickly towards getting to work as fast as possible.

The weather has warmed up a bit, and the rain has stopped. Mrs. H. is standing on the corner and waves as I walk briskly towards the station, treading on a freshly paved 186th street.

On the subway platform, I pass a girl I could swear was standing next to me at the Fine Frenzy concert last night. I reach my spot and Elvis Guy is there. Anyone who takes the A from 181st regularly has seen Elvis at one point or another. He is an elder gentleman with an unnatural, perpetually Presley hairdo and clothes to match.

Z. is also on the platform and we ride the train together, discussing work at first and then thirty-something single life in Washington Heights, two topics that together cover a large portion of my existence.

Accordion

I've taken to eating a challah roll while walking to the subway. They are fattening and high in cholesterol, but they are also very filling and at least I'm eating the whole wheat kind. It’s a sort of emergency measure: I'm too late for work to eat, or even buy, a proper breakfast, and I've got a package of rolls that will go to waste if they aren't consumed in the very near future.

The roll is gone by the time I enter the station. Naftali P. is at the metrocard machine. On the platform, I recognize a tall chap I met a few weeks ago at Susanne's place. I don't remember his name, just that it’s funny sounding.

On the train I sit across from a gray haired Orthodox Jew in business casual. He is intently studying a volume from the Talmud while holding the hand of the woman next to him, who's head is resting on his shoulder. He is wearing a wedding ring, she is not.

At 59th, I see Yaffa Z. and saw hello. She seems busy reading, and I'm too tired to talk to anyone anyways, so I walk a bit further down the platform.

An elderly man is playing Jerusalem of Gold on an accordion and I wonder if he knows the song because he is Jewish, or if he has learned to play it because so many Jews traveling on the MTA will recognize it. A little blonde girl is sent by her mother to drop a few coins in the man's cup. I, for one, am not particularly fond of the accordion sound and although I like the song, I eagerly board the B train as soon as it comes.

Anime

Legally speaking, pedestrians always have the right of way. This well known, ill adhered-to rule should at least be respected on rainy days. That is why I am angry at a Family San Juan livery driver who cuts me off at the crosswalk, pulling up just too far for me to jump ahead before he turns at the stop sign.

I walk into the station, Aviva P. not too far behind. By the time we reach the turnstiles she has caught up and says hello. On the platform, Tzippy H. is waiting patiently for the train but misses me as I walk by. Caryn L. is also there, and she waves from the distance.

On the train, I sit next to a middle aged woman wearing striped gray pants, cowboy boots, and a long blue coat with a tan trim and big buttons. Most striking about her is that she is watching a Japanese cartoon on her iPod. The show, or movie, has lots of sword fighting, kissing, and the giant eyes typical of Anime. It's odd to see someone her age interested in cartoons, with the technical knowhow to mobilize them, and with the geekdom to watch them in public. I think there's open position in my department I want to tell her about.

Getting in Shape

I have little choice this morning but to take my clothes to the laundromat. My boss will likely appreciate it despite my lateness. On the way there, I see Elli L. as he leaves the synagogue across the street.

I drop off the laundry and start trekking to the subway. At 186th there is a convergence of train-goers. Behind me a pair of high heels digs loudly and rhythmically into the tar below. In front, my path is blocked by two large women, one very tall, the other very wide.

Inside the station tunnel, a woman pushing a baby stroller says hi to Newspaper Guy. An old man cuts me off to the turnstiles. I go down to the platform and I run into one of neighbors. She wishes me a good morning.

On the train, I sit next to a woman with a giant suitcase, with a label that reads "Dodds Athletic Tours." The woman, young and thin, has a definitively athletic physique. She is wearing a long white sweater, which reaches below her knees, over a gray t-shirt and khaki cargo pants. She has blue and gray sneakers and her blond hair is pushed back into a pony tail, revealing tiny unpierced ears. She gets off at 125th, the absence of her suitcase giving my legs a bit more room for the rest of the ride.

Return of the Tunnel

It feels daunting, after a four-day hiatus (thank you, Bronchitis) to be back on the way to work. In the elevator, I have a conversation with my neighbor's four year old, and then head out onto a cold street. I'm thinking about the weather as I walk into the station and wow, the tunnel is back to its full glory and splendor! For the past two years the southern half of tunnel was walled off and used to store construction materials and equipment, all of which has now been cleared. I'd forgotten how un-cramped that tunnel used to be.

Newspaper Guy says hello as I pass him. Down on the platform, there is a Hispanic couple making out just at the bottom of the stairs. His hands resting on her butt cheeks, she is kissing his neck. I move quickly towards my usual spot and take a seat on the bench.

I'm typing on my Blackberry and an arm is suddenly resting on my shoulder. "Stop blogging on the subway." It's Z. We chat for a bit until another friend of Z's walks by. He is also my friend's friend's husband, which is how I know him, and he is wearing jeans, with an unbuttoned and un-tucked shirt, and Z jokes about him being on the way to an interview. They both head up further towards the front. Tziva H. walks by and says hello. I wave and as the train approaches I get up and am lucky enough to find a seat in a crowded car.

At 59th, I'm waiting for the B or the D when I see Yaffa Z. She complains about having the longest commute ever, and I remind her that I am travelling all the way from WaHi, she is coming from 96th. "Actually," she smirks, "its 91st."

Laryngitis

I’m officially sick this morning. I feel OK, even the bit of cold from yesterday seems to have subsided, but there is no voice to be heard of. I can feel the swelling in my larynx and when I try to speak, nothing comes out at all. It’s an experience I haven’t felt since grade school but since I feel fine I cough it up to talking too much at dinner last night. I make tea and take it with me on the way out, in a Dixie Grab N’ Go cup. It’s a tip I picked up a few years ago from Caryn, who makes her own coffee for the subway ride.

On Overlook, near the corner of 186th, I see Aviva P. heading towards the station. I get into the station and down to the platform, and pass her as I walk to my usual spot. I walk by David S. too. He smiles and waves. David M. is also here, and he nods when I walk by him a moment later.

There is a saxophone player on the platform today. He is wearing white button down shirt with a New York sweatshirt over it, and dark blue jeans. A gray felt hat matches the sweatshirt. The sax case, open on the floor in front of him, is draped with an American flag and has a few dollars in it.

On the train, there is no chance of a seat. A young woman is standing next to me, reading FT Wealth with a copy of today’s Financial Times folded behind it. She has straight brown hair, brushed to her right, with giant ears poking out each side. Her lip is terribly bitten, and she continues to chomp on them as she reads. I bite my own lip for a second, and am surprised to find it rather soothing, the way I imagine smoking cigarettes must feel to addicts. I bite the other side, then, amidst momentary relaxation, remind myself I already have enough bad habits already.

Dust in the Wind

In a brave, bold move, I decide to take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. The staircase’s windows overlook 187th street and on my way down I see Yaki R. walking out of synagogue with someone else. I have a slight cold, and my eyes hurt, so I am not wearing contact lenses as usual. This is especially irritating today, as there is a slight drizzle of rain outside and there are few things more frustrating than the speckles they create on eyeglasses.

The V. Rusciano Construction Company, Inc. has torn up most of 186th street, there is big gaping hole along most of the street between Bennett and Overlook. There is a lot of dust in the air and I rush through it to get to the station. Inside, I am about to go through the turnstile when I hear someone calling my name. It’s Sarah F. walking in the other direction, out of the station. I say hello and ask how she is doing, then continue down to the platform. I pass Lisa K. and wave, and she smiles back. The train, when I board, is almost empty and I easily find a seat, relax, and watch some TV on my phone.

Exotic Options

I head downstairs and run into Margie C. on the way to the station. She is waiting for Ruchama to pick her up and drive her to work. She usually walks there but today she overslept. So did I, and I text a colleague to let him know I’m going to be in late today.

I see Nomi G. She is heading towards the station, and goes in ahead of me, without seeing me. I get inside and through the turnstiles, and a blonde woman on the platform smiles at me. She is dressed in finely pressed black pants with a pair of very shiny heels beneath them. Her shirt is royal blue.

On board the train, the blonde girl sits next to me and smiles again. She takes out a small book, with “Exotic Options” written across the top. The text is about pricing Asian options using Black-Scholes, and there is a lot of math on the page, most of which she is trying to work out as she reads through it. For a moment I think of offering to help, then I remember than I don’t actually know this person, I just blog about her.

Meatballs and Sewage

It’s always difficult going back to work after a three day weekend. It’s cloudy when I get downstairs, and I think of “Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs,” which I saw last night. If meatballs really rained down from the sky, would they be kosher?

A biker passes me on Bennett Avenue, huffing as she races up the hill. I realize that my bike to work once-a-week initiative has fallen to once-every-two-months and resolve to get back on track, literally. I drop a few letters at the mailbox on 186th and Overlook, and notice a kid with a Mohawk haircut nearby. He is about 14 years old, with a blue shirt, white pants, and a black jacket, and enters the station behind me.

On the platform I see Moshe L. He is reading and does not look up to say hello. I board the train, watch TV most of the way, and when I get off at 59th there is a putrid smell of sewage that makes me gag. I rush to get onto the D train as soon as it arrives on the platform and vow to leave New York City once and for all. Soon.

Brazilian

A few too many tequila shots last night have turned to exhaustion this morning. Walking to the train, I run into James W. who always calls me by a funny nickname he's invented. It reminds me of a conversation I had with a colleague at the bar last night, who insists on making fun of people’s names (or anything else, for that matter) whenever applicable.

At the station, on the outside of the door, someone has hung posters advertising Capoeira, a form of Brazilian martial arts dance. I walk through the tunnel in pass the turnstiles. The station is notably brighter, new lights must have been installed overnight. Tzippy H. is on the platform but she doesn’t wave or say hello. Ilana C. does, as I pass her on my way to my usual spot. She says good morning and I respond in kind.

The train arrives with some empty seats but I am not quick enough to get one. We are almost at the next stop when I think I spot one last empty chair and walk over. It is unoccupied, but there is a pair of legs on the ground in front of it. The man in the seat next door is so tall that his legs cannot fit in front of him, and he is sitting at an angle with his legs in front of the empty seat. He offers to move, but in an effort to spare the man some suffering I decline. Not all passengers are as pitiful though, and two stops later another man, almost as tall as the first, takes the seat, rudely asking the first to move over. The new guy is reading an article about David Letterman’s “staff girls” in the Daily News, and standing above him it’s easy for me to read over his shoulder. He must have noticed, because for the rest of the ride he keeps looking up at me with disapproval and a bloodthirsty countenance. Unmoved, I continue reading.

Concentric Circles

I head downstairs and find my building’s superintendant in front of 115, chatting with some other supers. I get to the station and I can hear the train coming, so I make a run for the turnstiles and get down the stairs just in time.

The woman sitting next to me is wearing black pants and a denim coat which obscures her shirt. She is middle aged, with curly blond hair, a copy of AM New York on her lap. She is eating a Danish and sipping coffee, which smells good. Her earrings are composed of several loops, each one progressively smaller and encompassed by its predecessor. They remind me of a conversation I once had with Rachel, who still lives in my neighborhood. She pointed out that friendships are like concentric circles, we have our best and closest friends, the innermost circle. Then some good friends, the second circle, and so on until we get to the outermost circle of random acquaintances.

Tired

I get into the elevator together with my next door neighbor and as we ride we discuss willow trees. Out on the street an old man pushing a cart wishes me a happy holiday, and just before entering the subway station I spot Rabbi B. He says hello and I wave back.

Just inside the tunnel, there is a girl sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, reading. At first I think she is homeless, but she is not dressed very homelessly. She is wearing jeans, and a long sleeve white shirt with a black vest over it. A yellow scarf is fashionably draped around her neck.

Talia L. is on the platform and rides the train with me. She gets a seat but I am not quick enough, so I stand near her. Meyer B. is also in the car, towards the other side. Talia and I talk about work and how tired we always feel. We commiserate most of the ride, but before getting off at 59th we also talk about what we did last summer.

Bring Out the Leather

Today I am wearing my leather jacket. I bought it near Lake George a few years ago. At the time, I had a goatee and often wore a black wool hat in the winter, which my friends thought made me look scary. Coupled with shiny black leather, I made for a splendid gangster, so at the store they limited me to brown suede. There was one such jacket which I really liked, but it was the last one and my friend Koby had spotted it before me. He bought it and I settled for this one instead, but it turned out to be the best second-choice I’ve ever made. The jacket has been privy to more compliments than any other outwear I own. It also turned out that Koby’s jacket didn’t fit him too well, and so, after selling it to me for $20 later on, I ended up with both of them anyways.

Outside my building I see Adam F. returning from synagogue. I just met him this past weekend, and he waves hello. I ate together with him and his wife a few times during the first two days of Sukkot, and I feel we all had a chance to bond. They have an adorable son and a questionable babysitter.

I cross to the west side of Bennett and see Rabbi H. from the fourth floor of my building. I also Rabbi B. back on the other side of the street. John E. is up ahead at the corner of Overlook and 186th.

When I get to the platform, I see John again and pass him. Kara G. is also there. At 59th, I run into Doron S. He doesn’t see me, so I tap him and say hello as I quickly walk by. Josh S. is on the D. train when I board, but all the way on the other side of the car so we don’t speak. My hands are warm inside my leather pockets and I am the first one out of the train at Rockefeller, galloping up the stairs to the exit.

A Fruit and a Boot

I’ve got to get to work on time today and the elevator is taking an extraordinary long time to arrive at my floor. It finally appears with two young gents, dressed in traditional Yeshivish garb, standing inside. They are carrying the lulav and etrog, which Orthodox Jews integrate into the morning prayer services during the week of Sukkot.

After a relatively warm weekend, the chill seems to have returned and I zip my jacket when I walk outside. Someone has left a teddy bear at the front of the building; if it were a bit colder and had white fur it would pass for a snowman.

I get to the train station and board the A, and sit next to a middle-aged man with graying white hair. Underneath his suit is a cleanly pressed white shirt and a tie which, though likely unintentional, match his red and gray Zoom Air sneakers. Across the way is a tall blond woman, attractive and in knee high brown leather boots. The train is not very crowded, and she easily takes the cake. That is, until she reveals a make-up case and starts to work on her eyelashes. It’s one of those things no one is really meant to see as it happens, and the publicity of the display brings her rapidly from beauty to shame.

Snip, Snip

It’s strange how I’ve called in late this morning, so that I can attend the bris of my friends’ newborn son, and yet I’ll probably arrive at work earlier than usual. When I leave the bris, which is at the synagogue just across the street from my building, I run into Eric B. who is walking outside. He nods when he sees me and I wave hello in response. Further on, at 186th, I see another familiar face. I don’t know his name, but I met him a few years ago at my friend Talia’s dinner table, and he is a certified lunatic. I don’t bother to say hi and keep walking towards the train station.

Normally, I don’t mind signs posted along the street on lampposts or the big blue mailboxes. They are there to relay information which is, presumably, of interest to someone, if not to me. What I can’t stand, however, are the long forgotten, long irrelevant adverts. Case in point: a flyer about garage sale that took place last week, a poster describing an open house two weeks ago, and a giant placard asking me to vote for a such-and-such candidates, months after the election. Doesn’t the Department of Sanitation employ individuals to clean up this mess of expiration? I enter the station, quickly realizing this could be my last opportunity to moonlight as a masked vigilante, keeping Manhattan streets safe from aging signs while the rest of the city sleeps.

Sticky Situations

I walk outside and realize how incredibly chilly the morning air has become these past few days. Right in front of my building, Emily T. is pushing a baby stroller and chatting on the phone. She smiles at me and continues her conversation, something about “the videos” and she “can’t believe it!”

Halfway through the tunnel inside the train station, a commotion begins behind me. Someone calls out for the formation of a single file, and I turn around to see a fairly large high school class lining up. When I was in high school, we never took public transportation on trips, and it still astonishes me to see New York city classrooms transplanted to MTA property.

On the platform, I see my friend Tamar’s brother, who’s name I don’t know. I also run into Miriam C. and we ride the train together, talking about holiday plans, the best kosher eateries in Midtown Manhattan, and some of the stickiest situations we’ve ever found ourselves in. Anyone who says the quintessential morning commute is definitively spent alone simply hasn’t heard Miriam’s stories.

One Big Happy Family

Walking towards the train station, I see Mrs. H. talking to Gilit H. at the corner, near the Breuer’s elementary school. Walking behind me is the guy who works in my office building who’s name I don’t know. Aliza B. is also somewhere behind me.

I enter the station, and the smell of urine is a bit stronger than usual. The guy from my office passes me in the tunnel, and then I pass him back on the stairs, heading down to the platform.

The platform is replete with familiar faces. David M. is standing close to the edge, looking out for the next train, and Caryn L. is sitting on one of the benches. Benny S. is talking to a girl; I can’t quite make out who she is. When the train arrives they board the same car as I do, as does Lisa K. I disappear to the corner and watch TV on my phone.

Mystery Door #1

It is the day after Yom Kippur and I am still recovering, not from the fasting, but from all the food I ate once it was over. I get to the station and head towards the bottom of the stairs. There is someone here that I recognize, and he says hi. I remember meeting him at Adam’s place a long time ago (before Adam moved to Chicago) but I am clueless to his name. Jenny R. is also at the base of the stairs.


Walking towards my spot I hear someone call my name and it is Sara S. I’m forever happy to see Sara and talk to her in the morning, except that her job starts an hour after mine does, so it always means I’m late. When we board the train we find seats near a thin redhead, just two seats away, and we spend a large portion of the ride debating the redhead’s gender.


A few stops later the conductor leaves his post and walks over to us. He kindly asks us to get up, and when we do he opens a hidden panel behind the area where we were sitting. Inside, there are numerous switches and after flipping one or two of them, he closes it and thanks us as we sit back down. We get to our final stop and Sara offers to lead me through one of the tunnels under Rockefeller. It gets me out half an avenue closer to work, but it’s still not good enough for me to make the morning’s first meeting on time.

Shoe Circle

On my way through the turnstiles I see Michael P. walking out. At least I think it’s him. Having not seen him in about a decade it’s difficult to tell, and I also can’t quite imagine what he ‘d be doing in my neighborhood, but I’m pretty certain it was him.

On the platform, I see Kara G. saying her morning prayers and wave. She says hi. I also see the guy from my office building, who lives near me and who’s name I can’t ever remember. Further on down the platform, I see Zehava K. She is afraid to talk to me, and there are no seats left on the bench, so I just wander about. A cute blond in a denim skirt tells her boyfriend he looks “really sharp” (he does), and, pointing to his sneakers, he asks if she likes his new “ten-ees.” When the train pulls in, they kiss goodbye and he walks towards the front.

Zehava is also wearing a denim skirt, although not nearly as short or as tight as the blond. I ask about her sandals, which have a cute flower near the big toe. She bought them in Israel two summers ago and wore them every day. We board the train and agree to zone out – Zehava listens to her iPod and reads the paper, I turn on my Blackberry and fade.

The Nose Knows

My hallway smells like vegetarian beef stew. Down at the lobby, it smells like Pine Sol, and outside the building the brisk air smells like Spring. I realize I need floss and it will be about an hour till I reach the office and have any.

There is a lot of construction underway at 110 Bennett. I look onto the roof, and it seems they are installing a cell tower. Whatever happened to NIMBY? I get to the subway station and see Aviva W. She stops to buy a Metrocard.

On the train, it smells of peachy roses, which I trace to the woman on my right. She is wearing a black lacey tank top with a pink skirt and black shoes. Her big round earrings dingle every time she sways her head, looking back and forth from clues to puzzle in the NY Times’ “Sunday in the Sand Crosswords .” She is sniffling. Also sniffling is the man across from me. He is a grinding sniffler, occasionally making a terrible vacuum noise as he tries to suck the phlegm north into his brain.

At 59th I see Benny S. but he does not see me, and neither does Yaffa Z. when I spot her. It’s strange that I’ve see her twice this week and not at all in the previous few years. Funny how that happens sometimes.

Roaches

Sometimes even menial tasks like taking out the garbage can be a strain. It's no wonder then, that my commute has already begun on the wrong foot. I'm in a clearly bad mood: late, tired, hungry (no time for breakfast) and the tag on my shirt is nagging at my neck. All this and I haven't even reached Overlook.

At 739 W 186th, on the first floor, there is a blond girl sitting at her window on the first floor. She does not see me, and neither does the young Latina typing on a Blackberry Bold from inside her parked car.

Newspaper Guy is back at the station today and I’m happy to see him and get a good morning from him. The train is approaching and people start running for it, but I am too tired to rush and miss it.

On the platform there is a terrible stench coming from a homeless person. It is truly awful and I have little choice but to walk past my usual spot to reach the necessary critical distance. That’s when I spot Adina S.

I love bumping into Adina on the train, although it inevitably means I’m even later than I suspected. She is wearing a bright green shirt, black skirt with leggings underneath and cool black sneakers with a white stripes. Her backpack, from NY Sports Club, is ripped but she is ignoring the tear.

We ride the train together and I want to take a picture of Adina for my blog but she doesn’t let. Instead, she tells me a subway related story. Once, when she was reading on the train, a roach fell on her book from the ceiling, and she couldn’t shake it off until she finally had to throw the whole book on the ground, amidst the gaze on onlookers.

From there the conversation turns quickly to subway rats and station mice, until I get off at 59th. The B arrives shortly afterward and I realize it no longer matters how late it is. I am going to need to stop for coffee.

An Asian, a Jew, and a Latina

Walking to the subway I miss a large pile of dog poo by only a slight margin. It's a lesson for me, to watch where I'm going when I'm typing on the Blackberry, even if no one else is on the street.

I've made the mistake of taking a jacket today - blame it on the overcast skies. I enter the station and it's too hot, I have to take it off and carry it.

The Newspaper Guy is not here today. There is a substitute, and it shouldn't matter since I've never bought from him anyway, but Newspaper Guy has become a staple in my life. He is always there, selling every major periodical and a selection of candy bars and Duracell batteries.

On the platform, I find a seat on the bench. There is a black bag next to me and a woman, mid-twenties and wearing a maroon dress with gray boots, is standing next to it, hands fishing inside. She is humming a tune and shaking her bottom at the subway tracks behind her.

The train arrives and I board. There are no seats, but I get a spot standing next to the door. Near me there is an Asian, a Jew, and a Latina chatting together. The three woman are discussing Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, and one of them is complaining about someone else, whom she saw buying a bottle of wine for the holidays. "I just don't understand her," she says. I don't understand how the wine continues to dominate their conversation for so long, but by the time they are done I am wishing for nothing but a bottle of my own.

Old Friends

It's the first day of the week and, in fact, the first workday of the new (Jewish) year and I'm off to a bad start already. I should have been to work at least 10 minutes ago and I'm just now heading out to the subway.

Anat F. and Judy R. are out in front of my building, talking. Judy is very animated about something, and her son seems restless in his stroller.

At the corner of 186th and Overlook I run into Esther B. She is wearing a plaid shirt with a purple sweater over it, a denim skirt, and sneakers labeled "Star" on the lip. She is talking on the phone and after a minute or two apologizes that she is still on. I type away on my Blackberry as I wait and when she realizes I am blogging about her, she yells and runs away.

Further on Overlook, I run into Alice, an elderly woman that many can recognize from the local synagogue. She asks where I'm headed and since today is a Jewish fast day, she is surprised to learn that I am on my way to work. She bids me a good day and warns me to be careful lest I get faint on the job.

At 59th street I run into Yaffa Z. who is now Yaffa M. We used to be good friends and occasionally played racquetball together, but I haven't seen her in a couple of years. We do a quick catch up as we get onto the B train, and she gets off one stop later. I stay one till Rockefeller, already feeling the caffeine withdrawal.

Almost Over

Walking to the train, I see Ruthie W. on Overlook. She doesn’t see me and walks into the station just ahead of me. When I get to the platform, I see Moshe D. L. and we both nod a “good morning” to each other. Further ahead on the platform I see Ruthie again.

Sitting on one of the benches is a woman, in brown top and light colored jeans, using an eyelash curler. Public nail-clipping might be the only viler thing I’ve seen done on MTA property. When the train arrives and she boards, I wonder if she will continue to use the curling device. A little bit of turbulence could render her blind in the eye, yet she seems ready to take the risk.

At 59^th, I see Jerry B. but walk by him too quickly to say hello. When I was in college we both stinted as waiters in the University dining hall. He then went on to marry a hometown friend of mine so I still see him from time to time.

I squish onto the D, wondering what the new Jewish year will bring.

Sporting Goods

I leave my apartment and realize that after a relatively good streak, I'm late to work again. It's OK, I think they kind of expect it and I'm usually the last person to leave anyways.

There is a bit of a tumult getting out of my building, with a three way collision at the door. Each of us is attempting to hold the door open another and inevitably there us a bit of confusion. "Teamwork," one neighbor shouts as we all finally get through.

I call my sister on the way to the station and she tells me how they've just hired someone new in the English department at the school where she works, and the new teacher happens to be a friend of mine. We laugh at the story and comment about how small a world it is.

Aliza A. joins me on Overlook Terrace and walks silently next to me while I say goodbye to my sister. We chat for a bit, till I get to the train and she gets into a Yeshiva University van that will take her across the Heights to her office.

Sitting across from me on the train is Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Not the real one, of course, but a perfect lookalike, minus a few inches and about 20 years younger. I don't think I look like anyone famous, although a random guy at Connelly’s once asked if I was related to Andre Agassi. Maybe that comes with the territory of a shaved head. Agassi may be better looking than me, and he may be in better shape than me, but I have a feeling that I can cream him when it comes to Wii Tennis.