🚇 Subway and the City, Part Four

Catch up on parts one, two, and three first . . .

“Things whirled too fast around me. My mind went alternately bright and blank in slow rolling waves. We, he, him — my mind and I — were no longer getting around in the same circles. Nor my body either. Across the aisle a young platinum blonde nibbled at a Red Delicious apple as station lights rippled past behind her. The train plunged. I dropped through the roar, giddy and vacuum-minded, sucked under and out into late afternoon Harlem.”

—Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
via NYT’s 120 Years of New York’s Subterranean Literary Muse

👀 Keep an eye out for this newly redesigned subway map, a throwback to an earlier 1970s version. To compare, here’s the previous edition. Which do you prefer?

Where we left off . . .

The Greasy Man clenched his fists, taking on the adrenalized look of a bull ready to fight. After another of his karate kicks clanged off the doors, he pointed to a random passenger, and with spit flying, said, “That would’ve been YOU!” His lips pursed further, beady eyes now scanning the car, fuming while squeezing his legs (when they weren’t kicking) around a tall, lumpy bag holding what looked like laundry.

My eyes widened. I was now way too close, with nowhere to go in-between stops. Getting up to change cars while in motion would attract attention, exactly what I didn’t want. I imagined becoming invisible, neutral; nothing to see here. My heart was thumping faster than I’ve ever felt it. The surrounding riders and I made eye contact, silently clocking the threat, together. Who knew what this guy would do next?

Then he sat down directly across from me, mumbling as he fixed his glare at another man sitting diagonally. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to go over there!!” Greasy Man shouted.

When the subway screeched to a halt, more than half of the car cleared out—an exodus of scared civilians. I’m surprised anyone stayed behind. Many of us scrambled into adjacent cars, something surprisingly difficult to do before the doors close again. Now I could watch him through the window, from the end of my new car into his. My legs were shaking.

As if watching a silent movie, I saw him kick the doors again. Please don’t change cars, please don’t change cars. Another wave of alarmed riders shuffled out at the following stop. Finally, he reaches his destination, 86th Street. A wave of dread washed over me as I realized it’s my stop, too.

I delayed my exit for as long as possible, still hoping to avoid notice. I walked slowly, thirty feet behind him, trailing like a shadow. My goal: to get out of the station without him spotting me. Where is he going?

Curiosity killed the cat, I remind myself. Stop asking questions.

“F**K,” he growled again, emerging onto the street. Relieved to be under broad daylight now, surrounded by pedestrians, I silently wished him well. I’m sorry you’re having a hard day, I thought to myself, and I’m sorry if you’ve had a hard life.

Safe again. For now.

What does this all have to do with Rolling in Doh?

The subway offers a daily lesson in contrast and randomness. If you’re in a foul mood, that will be returned. If you aren’t grateful for your gifts, you will be reminded how much worse things could get. If you smile, make eye contact, and broach conversation, fun memories often follow.

That’s the thing—I love not having a car. I don’t want to put groceries into the trunk. I don’t mind struggling with two heavy bags down the street, my weekly suitcase carry. I crave walkable cities when traveling; I’m in heaven if I can flâneur my way to a bookstore and an outdoor café. I fork over the hefty New York City tax every year partly for these imperfect subways. They pay unexpected dividends, daily, especially for a writer—endless filling of the well, as Julia Cameron would say:

“Filling the well involves the active pursuit of images to refresh our artistic reservoirs. Art is born in attention. Its midwife is detail.

. . . In filling the well, think magic. Think delight. Think fun. Do not think duty. Do not do what you should do — spiritual sit-ups like reading a dull but recommended critical text. Do what intrigues you, explore what interests you; think mystery, not mastery. A mystery draws us in, leads us on, lures us.”

I grew up in San Francisco, with abysmally convoluted public transportation, then went to college in Los Angeles, where it’s no better. You simply cannot get where you want to in any reasonable amount of time without a car.

While driving in LA, perpetually grinding through traffic (you must become one with gridlock), I felt so separate, atomized. I’d leave my room (a box), to sit in my car (a box on wheels), to arrive at a third box (cafe, restaurant, bar, office building, etc)—and then return home to my original box. There was no collision with a random cross-section of fellow humans, no roll of the dice about what I’d see, who I would encounter, what books I’d spot, cheeky ad campaigns to chuckle at, or memos on tote bags.

Some days in the subway are stifling, no doubt; hot, humid, crowded, sticky, suffocating, ennervating, exhausting. Others are joyful, connected, sparkling; unforgettable when you realize you’ve rolled the winning people-dice that day. Even the dullest rides are a strange privilege.

Maybe it seems like I’m trying to justify why I live here, why I put up with the chaos and nerve-jangling public safety risks. It’s more that I’m trying to savor every second, in case there comes a day (which for years now has felt imminent) that I can no longer afford to stay.¹

❤️

P.S. From the footer of the NYT’s subway-as-literary-muse feature linked above:

1. 👉 If you enjoyed this post, you might also appreciate:

✍️ "Making It" — On Artists, Beginners, and Do-Overs

👋 Bless You

📺 Breaking Crumbs