I used to own a car, but now I don't. And I'm cool with that. I was prone to frequent fits of road rage that had me flipping off fellow motorists, as well as police officers and any roadkill I saw, so I don't miss driving. I do miss the car itself, as it was a shiny blue Mustang. God, I miss that car. …
Since I sold that beautiful, beautiful car, it's been up to the Metropolitan Transportation Authority to get me where I'm going, and my choice of ride is the subway.
I like the subway. I honestly do. For $2.25, I can ride as many trains as I want and can easily get to four out of five boroughs.
Right now, the MTA is under a lot of criticism for their proposed budget cuts. Some subway lines (including the W, which I use) are on the chopping block. Alternatives include laying off workers, raising fares and sacrificing small children to their bloodthirsty god. I personally prefer the latter two choices: I would rather pay a bit more to keep the current level of service, and less children mean more seats for me.
So, while I do enjoy these subterranean trains, there are a few things that confound me:
1: Weekend schedules. On a trip to Brooklyn last month, I had boarded a train, (I forget which one, the M, Z or π ) only to have it hit a couple or stops and then start going backwards. If I had been more observant, I would have noticed the train had been designated as "shuttle" for the weekend, but this was in February, and most of my concentration was spent on not having my limbs fall off due to frostbite.
2: Garbled communication. On trains that do not have an automated voice or display that tells you which stop is which, you're pretty much at the mercy of the conductor who announces stops over a loudspeaker that was built circa 1925. For whatever reason, the mouths of conductors are injected with large amounts of Novocaine. These combined factors ensures that no rider will ever know where he or she is on any given train. Many riders will depart the train, thinking that they're on 42nd Street, only to find they have, in fact, arrived in Miami.
3: Other riders. I don't like to be touched, usually. I'm a big fan of my space, my bubble, whatever. If you're a close talker, I'll be in contact with you just long enough to shove you violently backwards. That being said, it's common to be crammed in with a lot of people and you find your backside is constantly brushing up against some guy's briefcase ... oh, God, please tell me that's just a brief case.
4. Late trains. When a train is late, especially at rush hour, it usually means that when it does finally arrive it will be packed with people. The crush only gets worse as the 5,000 riders waiting for the train on a platform all try to cram in at once. Why the trains are late is never made explicitly clear. We don't know what kept them, but late trains will often arrive at the station bedecked in Mardi Gras beads, filled with confetti and smelling of cheap whiskey.
5. Blocked doors. A lot of trauma could be avoided if people didn't crowd around the entrances to the cars. I'm not sure why they do this, other than to get a great view out of the windows of the subway doors. As for me, you see one darkened tunnel, you've seen them all. Younger riders can be forgiven for blocking the subway doors, despite the pleas from the automated voice asking them not to. Young people are stupid and thoughtless, and I've come to terms with their nature. But I can't abide some dude in a suit blocking the doors when people are trying to exit the car. In these situations, I find the best recourse is to politely but firmly deliver a sharp elbow to the solar plexus. As you step over where they lay on the ground, writhing in agony, make sure you them, "That's what you get, you filthy bastard," so they know it's all in good fun.
I like the subway. I honestly do. For $2.25, I can ride as many trains as I want and can easily get to four out of five boroughs.
Right now, the MTA is under a lot of criticism for their proposed budget cuts. Some subway lines (including the W, which I use) are on the chopping block. Alternatives include laying off workers, raising fares and sacrificing small children to their bloodthirsty god. I personally prefer the latter two choices: I would rather pay a bit more to keep the current level of service, and less children mean more seats for me.
So, while I do enjoy these subterranean trains, there are a few things that confound me:
1: Weekend schedules. On a trip to Brooklyn last month, I had boarded a train, (I forget which one, the M, Z or π ) only to have it hit a couple or stops and then start going backwards. If I had been more observant, I would have noticed the train had been designated as "shuttle" for the weekend, but this was in February, and most of my concentration was spent on not having my limbs fall off due to frostbite.
2: Garbled communication. On trains that do not have an automated voice or display that tells you which stop is which, you're pretty much at the mercy of the conductor who announces stops over a loudspeaker that was built circa 1925. For whatever reason, the mouths of conductors are injected with large amounts of Novocaine. These combined factors ensures that no rider will ever know where he or she is on any given train. Many riders will depart the train, thinking that they're on 42nd Street, only to find they have, in fact, arrived in Miami.
3: Other riders. I don't like to be touched, usually. I'm a big fan of my space, my bubble, whatever. If you're a close talker, I'll be in contact with you just long enough to shove you violently backwards. That being said, it's common to be crammed in with a lot of people and you find your backside is constantly brushing up against some guy's briefcase ... oh, God, please tell me that's just a brief case.
4. Late trains. When a train is late, especially at rush hour, it usually means that when it does finally arrive it will be packed with people. The crush only gets worse as the 5,000 riders waiting for the train on a platform all try to cram in at once. Why the trains are late is never made explicitly clear. We don't know what kept them, but late trains will often arrive at the station bedecked in Mardi Gras beads, filled with confetti and smelling of cheap whiskey.
5. Blocked doors. A lot of trauma could be avoided if people didn't crowd around the entrances to the cars. I'm not sure why they do this, other than to get a great view out of the windows of the subway doors. As for me, you see one darkened tunnel, you've seen them all. Younger riders can be forgiven for blocking the subway doors, despite the pleas from the automated voice asking them not to. Young people are stupid and thoughtless, and I've come to terms with their nature. But I can't abide some dude in a suit blocking the doors when people are trying to exit the car. In these situations, I find the best recourse is to politely but firmly deliver a sharp elbow to the solar plexus. As you step over where they lay on the ground, writhing in agony, make sure you them, "That's what you get, you filthy bastard," so they know it's all in good fun.
You might find me blocking the door just because I want out ASAP.
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