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.

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."