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.
Friday, October 30
Thursday, October 29
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 28
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 27
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.
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.
Monday, October 26
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.
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.
Friday, October 23
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."
Friday, October 16
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.
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.
Thursday, October 15
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 14
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 13
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.
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.
Friday, October 9
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.
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.
Thursday, October 8
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 7
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 6
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.
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.
Monday, October 5
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.
Friday, October 2
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.
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.
Thursday, October 1
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)