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Magic time on the subway
There are multiple millions of people in New York City and multiple millions more who come from outside the city proper every day.
A great deal of this flow of humanity, this ant-like thrum of activity, takes place below the city.
I'm a fan of the subways ... I've even found myself riding them just to read (This might be only a couple of stops from Crazy Time Station, where I eat sandwiches out of the garbage, count empty seats with religious fervor, recite the next subway stop information with savant-like detail and clean my toenails with coffee stirrers on the Broadway local, but I think I'm a ways away yet. Then again, did those guys know they were on the way? Did they think, "I'm a ways away yet."? Or did they just wake up one day and decide it might be fun to grab a book and ride the A train from the Rockaways to Inwood ... and maybe grab half a sandwich and a cup of coffee along the way?)
Future mental prospects aside, I -- being of sound mind and body ... for the moment -- profess to be a big fan of the subways.
There are a million stories in the naked city and almost all of the characters crawl underground at some point. The range of faces is global. The range of voices, musical. The subways are magic.
They are freedom for $2 a trip (a lot less if you buy the unlimited-ride cards. I figured my ride costs last month at well under 80 cents per ride.). From practically anywhere in the city you can get to practically anywhere in the city 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.
They are entertainment. Between the subway buskers and the subway riders, there is never a car that doesn't have something to watch.
They are inspiration. Billy Strayhorn would have told you that. Duke Elington's directions to his house ... "Take the A Train" ... inspired a jazz classic. I can attest to it. A bad advert on the J Train worshiping "Mighty Cod" inspired a play I just wrote. Sketch artists and actors, musicians and storytellers all draw from the pool of ideas seething beneath New York's streets.
They are home to the walking dead. Ride the 6 train at 5:30 p.m. on a financial district work day and believe.
The are home to unbridled life. Check out the same train two hours earlier when the kids are on their way home from school and believe.
They are rock shows. A group of European wanderers ... obviously high on life ... breaks into a rousing rendition of "Bad Moon Rising". Five black kids start singing "Just Another Brick in the Wall." iPod rappers stare dead straight and unblinking while they atonally parrot the tunes pumped in their head. I've even been practicing my toenail cleaning song. It wanders the musical landscape in time with the clacking of wheel on rail and goes like this: "Take good care of your feet, my children, and they'll take good care of you. Let them breathe, let them breathe, let them breathe. Believe. Believe."
Millions of people are crammed together and few make more than fleeting contact, but the subways are magic. Yesterday, I caught the J train before 7 a.m. (see post below) and found myself in a regular coffee club. A group of commuters from different stops going to different stops have been riding the same car at the same time every morning for so long that they have become friends. The conversation ranged from work to grandkids to the health of someone who missed the train to the Mets vs. the Yankees. And it ends when they leave the car, to be picked up the next day.
Next time you are in the city, do yourself a favor and go underground. "Take the A Train". Keep your eyes and ears open. Have fun. You'll be glad you did.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Snow day in New York City
It snowed last night. Not a lot, maybe three inches, but it was enough to do what snow seems to do for me and that is kill time.
I can't tell 5 a.m. from 5 p.m. in the snow. It all just sort of feels the same and my internal clock responds to the confusion in unpleasant ways.
Time: 4:50 a.m.
I was awake. "Blink, blink ... what the hell time is it? Shit, now I'm awake," awake. The odd light above the curtain confused me. It was blue and rose, but black too. "Snow," I told myself, aloud because I'm apparently becoming one of those old guys who says things aloud to himself at 4:50 a.m. for no reason. This thought occurred to me as I sat up and threw myself out of bed.
"Shit," I said aloud. "Don't start talking to yourself."
"Damn!"
Nothing was moving. Nothing. It was so early even the usual commuter traffic down my street was nonexistent, so I stood in the window, naked, and watched the snow dance through the streetlights and listened to the strange sound Simon and Garfunkel called "silence."
That was fun for about three minutes. Time: 4:54 a.m. I hand-cranked the emergency radio -- it wasn't an emergency. There was plenty of power. I just like generating my own electricity, particularly when standing in a window ... naked. The weather report said it was going to snow until rush hour and then switch to sleet for a while before becoming rain.
Time: 4:59 a.m.
I decided if I was going to be awake, I might as well take advantage of the snow situation in some way. That advantage, I decided, was going to be getting to Central Park before the humans ruined the snow.
Time: 5 a.m.
I crawled back into bed, hoping the feeling would pass.
Time: 5:05 a.m.
Nope. I was awake. I showered, bundled up and walked into the snow.
Time: 5:57-6:40 a.m.
Subway ride and hike from Lexington Avenue and 63rd Street to Central Park's 66th Street entrance. From across 5th Avenue I saw two humans -- joggers actually -- going into the park. It was going to be a lot trickier than I'd hoped to thwart the humans and find pristine snow. There weren't many humans in the park, but I know from years of clinical observation that it doesn't take many. In fact, I followed footprints across the park, into the Grand Plaza and then around the lake and into The Ramble at 72nd Street on the west side of the park.
I was beginning to despair at finding pristine snow.
Time: 7:30 a.m.
I got to the top of a knoll in The Ramble, a knot of paths that er ... ramble around for a while for no reason other than to get you tired. The humans were really starting to flow into the park, I could make out their hunter orange and lime green jogger colors in stark relief against the black and white of the snow on trees. If someone were hunting moose in Central Park on this dreary winter's day, there would be no accidental shootings. Unless, the hunter shot me. I was wearing camo.
I didn't want someone to mistake me for a jogger.
Between the joggers, the next wave of commuters and the dog owners, the window of opportunity was going to close on my winter wonderland.
Then I saw it. A fork in the road. There was a path that was not less traveled. It was not traveled at all ... at least not since the snow started. It was a white carpet of powder. I stepped into it after testing to make sure it would hold me. As my foot pushed down to the asphalt below there was this lovely crunching sound like busting open a beanbag chair and walking on the spilled guts. I was going where no one in New York City had been in five or six hours.
Time: 7:34 a.m.
I was a child again; wide with wonder, frolicky. I kicked the snow and it sent out a perfect fan of icy dust. I slipped and slid and my boots made snake tracks through the virgin snow as I shifted my weight to keep from making an accidental snow angel in The Ramble.
Time: 7:35 a.m.
My 20-feet of virgin path rejoined the path more traveled. I took in my small victory as I stared at a sign on the lamppost in front of me that read, "Wild Forever." (I have a picture on my cell phone and I'd share it if I could figure out how.)
It was time to find coffee ... wild coffee.
Time: 8 a.m.
I'm doing coffee and typing across the street from a large banner on the side of the ABC building on 66th Street and Columbus Avenue advertising "Lost". Between my seat in the window and the sign I've got 20 feet of shit-brown sludge, a hacking wino, two overflowing garbage cans, a parking meter and a steady stream of bleating cars.
"Wild Forever"
I can't tell 5 a.m. from 5 p.m. in the snow. It all just sort of feels the same and my internal clock responds to the confusion in unpleasant ways.
Time: 4:50 a.m.
I was awake. "Blink, blink ... what the hell time is it? Shit, now I'm awake," awake. The odd light above the curtain confused me. It was blue and rose, but black too. "Snow," I told myself, aloud because I'm apparently becoming one of those old guys who says things aloud to himself at 4:50 a.m. for no reason. This thought occurred to me as I sat up and threw myself out of bed.
"Shit," I said aloud. "Don't start talking to yourself."
"Damn!"
Nothing was moving. Nothing. It was so early even the usual commuter traffic down my street was nonexistent, so I stood in the window, naked, and watched the snow dance through the streetlights and listened to the strange sound Simon and Garfunkel called "silence."
That was fun for about three minutes. Time: 4:54 a.m. I hand-cranked the emergency radio -- it wasn't an emergency. There was plenty of power. I just like generating my own electricity, particularly when standing in a window ... naked. The weather report said it was going to snow until rush hour and then switch to sleet for a while before becoming rain.
Time: 4:59 a.m.
I decided if I was going to be awake, I might as well take advantage of the snow situation in some way. That advantage, I decided, was going to be getting to Central Park before the humans ruined the snow.
Time: 5 a.m.
I crawled back into bed, hoping the feeling would pass.
Time: 5:05 a.m.
Nope. I was awake. I showered, bundled up and walked into the snow.
Time: 5:57-6:40 a.m.
Subway ride and hike from Lexington Avenue and 63rd Street to Central Park's 66th Street entrance. From across 5th Avenue I saw two humans -- joggers actually -- going into the park. It was going to be a lot trickier than I'd hoped to thwart the humans and find pristine snow. There weren't many humans in the park, but I know from years of clinical observation that it doesn't take many. In fact, I followed footprints across the park, into the Grand Plaza and then around the lake and into The Ramble at 72nd Street on the west side of the park.
I was beginning to despair at finding pristine snow.
Time: 7:30 a.m.
I got to the top of a knoll in The Ramble, a knot of paths that er ... ramble around for a while for no reason other than to get you tired. The humans were really starting to flow into the park, I could make out their hunter orange and lime green jogger colors in stark relief against the black and white of the snow on trees. If someone were hunting moose in Central Park on this dreary winter's day, there would be no accidental shootings. Unless, the hunter shot me. I was wearing camo.
I didn't want someone to mistake me for a jogger.
Between the joggers, the next wave of commuters and the dog owners, the window of opportunity was going to close on my winter wonderland.
Then I saw it. A fork in the road. There was a path that was not less traveled. It was not traveled at all ... at least not since the snow started. It was a white carpet of powder. I stepped into it after testing to make sure it would hold me. As my foot pushed down to the asphalt below there was this lovely crunching sound like busting open a beanbag chair and walking on the spilled guts. I was going where no one in New York City had been in five or six hours.
Time: 7:34 a.m.
I was a child again; wide with wonder, frolicky. I kicked the snow and it sent out a perfect fan of icy dust. I slipped and slid and my boots made snake tracks through the virgin snow as I shifted my weight to keep from making an accidental snow angel in The Ramble.
Time: 7:35 a.m.
My 20-feet of virgin path rejoined the path more traveled. I took in my small victory as I stared at a sign on the lamppost in front of me that read, "Wild Forever." (I have a picture on my cell phone and I'd share it if I could figure out how.)
It was time to find coffee ... wild coffee.
Time: 8 a.m.
I'm doing coffee and typing across the street from a large banner on the side of the ABC building on 66th Street and Columbus Avenue advertising "Lost". Between my seat in the window and the sign I've got 20 feet of shit-brown sludge, a hacking wino, two overflowing garbage cans, a parking meter and a steady stream of bleating cars.
"Wild Forever"
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