🚇 Subway and the City, Part Three
Catch up on part one and part two first . . .
“Most of the time, he didn’t mind riding the subway. It was a fast trip, and the clattering tracks and flashing lights kept a person distracted. But at times like this—idled without explanation, in the overheated darkness—it was hard not to think about just how deep under the earth the express track ran, or the mile of blackness that lay between him and the next stop.”
—Reliquary by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child
via NYT’s 120 Years of New York’s Subterranean Literary Muse
I sat up at what sounded like an explosion. It was, in a way, of a random man’s rage. A stocky middle-aged man had just entered the train car. He had greasy, thinning black hair, one strand curled in front of his face alongside thin wire-rimmed glasses and a day or two’s worth of stubble.
It was Saturday afternoon, and the train was crowded but not packed. I was still blissed out from yoga class, listening to a writing podcast, excited to reunite with a friend who moved out of the city years ago at a coffee shop on the Upper West Side.
“FUUUUUCK!!!!” Greasy Man boomed at the top of his lungs after the doors snapped shut. He leaned forward, red-faced, and karate back-kicked them with all his might.
“I HATE controlling my emotions,” he yelled to everyone and no one. “IT’S FUCKING STUPID!!!!”
The entire car straightened up at attention, now shaken out of our iPhone slumbers. Will he come for one of us? Will this turn violent? What could we do? Intervene to stop the damage? How could we hold this man back? You don’t want to be the one getting kicked or the one suppressing him and later getting punished if it goes awry.
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 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.
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 over there,” he said.
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, as if it were trying to escape the car, or my body, by sheer force of will.
Part of me couldn’t look away. I knew I shouldn’t look away. I needed to stay alert to his every micro-action, while at the same time seeming to ignore him. I pretended to read something on my phone while keeping him in my peripheral vision. My husband probably would have blessed him, prayed for him, diffused his anger somehow, as he’s done with people having public outbursts many times before—helped by the fact that he’s a strong, tall, intimidating man himself. I wouldn’t take those chances, and certainly not today.
The surrounding riders and I made eye contact, silently clocking the threat, together. Who knew what this guy would do next?
So, don’t get me wrong; New York City subway rides aren’t always magical, clue-filled serendipity adventures. I probably don’t have to tell you that.
When I was in London last month, I couldn’t believe how clean their trains were! How civilized! Ours are grimy, with a yellowish tint to everything, even when they smell fresh(er) from early morning mopping.
The IG account @subwaycreatures has over three million followers; you wouldn’t believe their feed if you hadn’t witnessed as many strange situations yourself.
Please remain alert and stay aware of your surroundings at all times, the MTA reminds riders. Although the city has made improvements, there are still trips that jangle one’s nerves. Twenty normal rides, or even fifty, and then an aberration. I’ll spare you the most gruesome headlines, or you’d never ride again.
These days, New Yorkers know to stand with their backs against a wall or column, several feet back from the ledge, to avoid getting pushed onto the tracks. This concern runs like a radio station in the background while waiting on the platform: Is anyone around to push me? Am I far enough back to catch my balance even if they do?
Or after reading alarming Post headlines like “OFF THE RAILS,” or “SUBWAY SHOVES,” we zoom in: What stop? Who was pushed? By whom? Did they survive? Who were the Good Samaritans or EMS workers to pull them out while putting their own lives at risk? Would they do the same for me? Would I for them? How much strength would it take to hoist myself back up if someone pushed me down there, with the rats and the trash and the deadly third rail? I should really do more pull-ups at the gym.
One time, I got on the cross-town 7 at Hudson Yards, a longer underground stretch than usual to Times Square. Suddenly, the train jolted to a stop—too soon—due to some mechanical problem. I looked down at my phone. No bars, just “SOS” in tiny all-caps letters where the signal should’ve been. I scanned the train: completely empty, except for one man curled in the corner like a hyena, smoking a cigarette (illegal), suffocating the car with smoke. Just me and him, stopped for who knows how long. It was a small, inadequate comfort that I had Mace in my jacket pocket that day. I rested my pointer finger on the trigger, my only defense if he tried something, or if another guy came barging through the side doors, as the most unstable riders often do.
Sometimes the experience is more subtly grating: someone next to you playing candy crush at full volume, a man splayed horizontally on the bench catching Zzz’s during rush hour (sadly, the shelter system is rife with problems), a teenager who eye-rolls when you ask to sit in the open seat she’s hoarding with her hunchback posture, or another painting her nails between stops.
Or like the day Michael and I entered the 4/5 express to The Met at exactly the wrong time, when a man sat directly across from us and started tearing into a pile of shrimp in his lap. One by one, he discarded the detritus under the bench. Just before exiting, he balled up the black plastic takeout bag and tossed the rest behind, leaving only the stench as our souvenir for the remainder of our ride.
It’s the vigilance required for this level of randomness that often fries visitors’ nervous systems—probably the locals too, but we get used to it. Still, nothing quite prepares you for the days your body gets unexpectedly shot through with adrenaline, desperately pumping to keep you safe, senses on maximum alert as someone comes careening through the doors, smarting for a fight.1
❤️
Continue reading part four, where I conclude the Greasy Man chronicles
My nervous system is still recovering leaving eight years ago