Sunnyside to Church
She stood at the west end of the 46 Bliss platform waiting for the 7 train to arrive. She turned her gaze toward the Manhattan skyline. From her vantage point she had a clear view of the Empire State Building. It was mid September but the weather felt like mid August. They’d had a mild summer in comparison to previous years, but this week had seen a resurgence, summer was hanging on with all its might and humidity, fighting with every New Yorker and her visitors as a reminder of what we were doing to the planet. It felt like Mother Nature was angry. And you couldn’t blame her.
It had rained overnight and there was a slight reprieve before everyone entered the coliseum for another round today. She looked above the concrete jungle of buildings old and new. Taking in some of the billionaire's row apartment structures that reminded her of the disparity that plagued the city. She didn’t find them a feat of beauty, and while they may have been impressive in height and size, she wondered how the myth that bigger is better was still in full swing.
The clouds hung low and brushed the tips of the skyscrapers with their soft gray edges. White puffs broke the dark marshmallows that gently lingered above. Through the gaps in the buildings running from north to south on the island of Manhattan, the brightest of blue sky called out to those who took the time to see past the skyline. She looked directly above her to the bright orange lightbulb that was illuminated in the lamppost that, while not from the station's 1917 opening, still had to be at least some 30 years old. While the sun had indeed risen by this hour of the morning, the bright light was a stark contrast to the clouds above that were threatening to envelop everyone below.
The train came to stop with its carriage doors opening directly in front of her, at her perfectly positioned station. She took a standing spot in the corner of the car. A prime position meaning as she could rest against the corner wall, and not feel claustrophobic when surrounded by bodies on all sides. The train lurched forward with its occupants minding their own business, sailing above Queens Blvd. Underneath, the residents of Sunnyside were preparing for their day ahead.
40th Street, 33 Street, Queensboro Plaza, then Court Square, where she had strategically gotten on the first car so that she was at the appropriate exit when she disembarked. They say you have to have lived in NYC for ten years to be able to call yourself a New Yorker. But she thought there should be a clause that gets you there quicker if you understand the subway system and the tricks that could make or break your commute. People who don’t live in New York City don’t understand that a mere 10 second difference can change the course of your entire day when you’re relying on the MTA to be your trusted chaperone, escorting you to your destination.
She stepped from the air conditioned car onto the warm platform and glided past impatient commuters waiting to replace her on the train. Today was a good day, polite people stood aside as she stepped off. Just like the conductor repeatedly asked passengers, every. single. time.
She skipped down the stairs and took a left, dodging people as they too were on their way to a destination unknown. Onto the escalator where she had to ask someone to please step to the right to allow people to pass. It never ceased to amaze her how often people stood oblivious to those around them, or blatantly defied the unspoken community rules. She walked down the stairs of the moving machine and picked up her stride as she walked another 30 feet to one last final staircase to reach the next platform below. She wondered just how far underground she was now. Something she had somehow never considered before today, even though she’d been doing this commute for almost a year now.
As she stepped onto the platform, she was offered not one but two choices as both sides of the platform had a G train waiting to accept its cargo. She could have taken the train to her left, with fewer people and far more seats, but she knew well enough the full train on her right was about to pull away from the station any second now, and opted to forgo a seat to stand on the train eager to depart. Turns out the train wasn’t as impatient to depart as she was, and she stood and waited for the announcement, “stand clear of the closing doors please”. During those two minutes, more and more commuters rushed down the stairs and pushed their way into the car for fear of giving away those 10 seconds lest their days be destroyed by whatever lay ahead thanks to those lost moments in time.
The train slowly pulled away and people steadied their gates against the inertia. 21st Street, then Greenpoint Ave. It was always interesting watching who got on and off at each stop. She was always most amused at the Greenpoint stop. Hipster folks dressed in what was sure to have been their parents' clothes once upon a time, sporting hairstyles from an era that they were taking their first steps in. While she appreciated their effort to stand out from the crowd, she now understood how her parents must have felt watching old become new again, and wondered why one would ever re-introduce some items into the world when we know we learnt our lessons the first time around. Greenpoint was an up-and-coming neighborhood in Brooklyn that had quickly been gentrified thanks to its riverside location and short ferry ride to Manhattan. Maybe it should actually be considered as having come-up already, given the skyrocketing rents.
A pause at Classon Ave, the car she was in was filling up like a can of sardines. The doors closed. Then a familiar announcement was heard, “There is another train directly behind us”. And they train remained stationary. And they waited. Then another announcement, in which you could hear the lack of amusement in the conductor's tone. “Once again, there is another G directly behind us”. The doors opened, and closed. Pause. Opened and closed. Pause. Then for a third time, opened and closed. Pause. She stood against the door, leaning on it as she was instructed not to. Seconds and more seconds passed. Seconds don't seem like a long time, until you have strangers invading your personal space, their arm hairs reaching out as if to intertwine with yours. The passengers awkwardly avoided making eye contact with each other. A few deep breaths could be heard, and she wondered if anyone would be THAT person who breaks under the pressure of stolen seconds, and mumbles loud enough under their breath, or outright says something out loud about the damn MTA. Not today.
Everyone with their phones out. At least they had service and weren’t struck in a tunnel. What would they do if they were forced to look at each other?
Another announcement. They’re saying something is going on in the middle of the train, and they need to investigate.
A collective defeated sigh resonated. A sigh in a universal language meaning “What has someone done to mess up our commute”. We were not in the middle car, so we idled with arrogance that we were not the troublemakers. It wasn’t our car causing the issue, somehow bringing our car community together during this impasse. Nothing brings people together quicker than being stuck on a train, ears straining when they hear the ding of an announcement that is about to be projected and the only acceptable time to look at your fellow commuters without speaking a word, but as if to say “What did they say?”. However, the conductor was loud and clear, which made for a nice change to some of the muffled announcements that forge fast and short friendships, bonding over the lack of information and position of authority you garner when you are the only person who understands and has to translate MTA into English.
She wondered what had happened? Had an angry commuter, who’d lost 10 seconds earlier in their journey that had propelled them into this moment, snapped at the person insisting there is enough room to fit with their bag still on their back?
Ah - nothing so interesting to share with her work colleagues as to why she was late. Just a boring door malfunction. They’d be on their way soon.
After five minutes, they were Kensington, Brooklyn bound. Five minutes doesn’t seem like a lot in the grand scheme of life, but when 10 seconds can change the trajectory of your day, imagine what 300 seconds could mean.
On they went for four more stops before they announced at Bergen Street station that the train was full and two G trains were directly behind them. Translated into NYC tongue, what they are trying to say is, “stop freaking out, get over the 10 seconds we are adding to your day as we have no control over it at this point, but we got you with not one but two more trains coming up behind”. 10 seconds is too much for some, and they push their way on amid a sea of faces that glare and squint their eyes at them. They’re lucky, no one said a word. There would be times where passengers combined like legos and refused to move, with one or two speaking on behalf of them all. Berating those who dare to not only force their way into what was now an intimate situation considering how close they all stood, but adding more seconds to their commute as the doors would certainly be held for several seconds as the bodies settled into their new spaces.
And then it happened. They were stopped mid tunnel. “Attention everyone, attention everyone. There is an F train ahead of us in the station. As soon as the F train has moved, we will be able to pull into the platform.” It was a 90 second wait. Not bad. But it feels like a lifetime when you didn’t download your podcast and it stops as you don’t have service when you’re stuck in a tunnel.
Then at 4 Ave-9 St, the Gods of Time, also known as the MTA Operators, made the executive decision to go express. Yes! They’d skip three stops and everyone would get up to as much as 70 seconds back!
The train had cleared out, as it always did this far down the line. It quickly turned as cold as an icebox without the other bodies to fill the space. This was why even in summertime, with 90 degree heat, she always ensured she took a light wrap with her when traveling to work on the subway. She looked ridiculous above ground, but envied by those who were also caught on such a train line who were not exaggerating when they said they felt they may actually freeze to death.
At last, her train pulled into the last stop of the G line, Church Ave. She exited the car, and quickly ran up the 18 stairs. Through the station to another 33 stairs to reappear into the world and discover a light rainfall had recently danced across the neighborhood. It was a blessing or curse, depending on what you were hoping for, how much the weather can differ during short descents underground on the subway.
She skirted around a woman setting up her popsicle stand, and walked past the halal food truck. A sharp right, and within two blocks and one street crossing on the red, with her left hand she scanned her ID badge on the small box next to the door handle she had placed her right hand on, and pushed. Stepping into the air-conditioned office, the door slowly closed behind her and shut out the sounds of NYC as she strode into her office to get ready for her 9AM meeting.
The end.
