The Subway Stalemate

Subway rider 1: Excuse me, that's some nice nail polish you got on your toes there.

Subway rider 2: Gee thanks.

Subway rider 1: It really compliments your skin tone nicely. May I ask what color it is?

Subway rider 2: Yes, you may ask.

Subway rider 1: Umm, ok, what color is it?

Subway rider 2: Pig's blood.

Subway rider 1: .......................................... [clears throat] I thought so! Really, I thought to myself "that's pig's blood," but then I thought it might be goat blood but then I really thought the hue was more piggish. You can also tell because of the extra bit of texture. When will I learn not to second guess myself and go with my gut?

Subway rider 2: Probably never.

Subway rider 2, anticipating more trivial conversation, looks up at Subway rider 1 who for once has nothing left to say. Awkard silence fills the 6-inch gap between them as the train rumbles on for another five stations. The seven minutes that transpire feel more like an eternity. At the City Hall stop, Subway rider 1 picks up a briefcase and prepares to exit. Subway rider 2 looks on with hesitation.

Subway rider 2: Uh...bye Mayor Bloomberg.

Subway rider 1: Bye now!

Subway rider 1 forces an uncomfortable smile, the kind that most people reserve for when they silently pass gas at a dinner party.

End scene.

Social interaction on the steel trains beneath our fair city remains a confusing and unsettling prospect. Social interaction in any environment can be stressful (ever try flirting with your sky diving instructor while they're strapped to your back and you're both plummeting to the earth at 180 miles per hour? "I think we're falling for each other" is a terrible line). But compounded with the particular characteristics of the subway, and you've got a veritable shitfuck on your hands. (Shitfuck? What's that? A dildo made of feces??)

You would think that an enclosed space overcrowded with human beings literally pressing up their bodies against each another would be conducive to social interaction. Sounds like a typical Saturday night in the LES, right? But it's not, it's different. Instead, we remain completely isolated and detached, like a bunch of commuting North Koreas in the United Nations of mass transit. So when a passenger finally decides to break the communication blockade, it's shocking, jarring, and downright mindboggling (not to be confused with mindscrabbling, mindtabooing, or my childhood favorite, mindkerplunking). It's like talking in the men's room.

[Admittedly though, there really are some characters on the train that you just wanna talk to and ask them, "Why are you wearing Uggs in the middle of July? What is the purpose of your life? Really, what is it 'cuz I am out of ideas."]

Because of this non-social environment, a particular form of conversation often takes place when the silence policy is broken. One person breaches the social divide and makes initial contact, while the other person's anti-social alarm goes off "Stranger-danger, Will Robinson!" This causes the latter to be reserved but cordial, limiting responses to monosyllabic words like "fuck" and "you." The initiator then realizes that they've done wrong and attmempts to retreat from the conversation. But all is futile because they're still on the train together, standing inches apart with nowhere to go. It'd be too awkward to move to the other end of the car, and the next stop is still an eternity away. They both look at each other in silence; neither wants to speak but they can't help but notice the other person now, nervously waiting for them to say something. They're impossible to ignore! Like a pink elephant sitting on your chest swearing he's hetero! The social contract of non-social derecognition has been broken and can nay be repaired. This is officially an upside down awkward turtle with an inappropriate boner kind of moment. And such is the way of the Subway Stalemate.

And the resolution of a Subway Stalemate is always the icing on the awkward cake. When the train finally finally arrives at your stop, do you acknowledge the other person and say "g'bye" or do you immediately hurl yourself through the window of that burning building of a situation and run away for dear life? The former regards the other passenger as a human being, while the latter regards them as one of the four horsemen of the apocalpyse. Decisions, decisions...

Subway Rider Rule #635: In order to prevent forest fires, wait I mean Subway Stalemates, consider boarding trains only while wearing a full suit made entirely of hardened dog poo. This is a surefire way to deter all potential mates from stale-ing with you. Alternatively, you can wear a beard made of live bees and make buzzing noises with your mouth. Or you can stab a person in the throat as soon as they utter a word to you...mentally stabbing them that is, with the dagger called emotion. If everyone followed this crucial rule, then we'd all be able to maintain our complacent, isolated, estranged (opposite of eharmony) selves.

The Ol' Switcheroo

New York is a city made for wandering. Though slow strolling along city sidewalks invites sneers and shoves from natives, aimless journeying into unfamiliar neighborhoods is nothing short of life-affirming. Such a sojourner breathes in the forgotten delights of a city that has yet to stop living. And that person is rewarded with rejuvenation.

But then, our protagonist, our Odysseus, must go home. He descends below the city's surface into dark tunnels where the bizarre awaits. He stands on the platform in anticipation of his iron chariot while thoughts of splendor, remnants of his travels mixed with impurities about his Athenian wife and trove of concubines, occupy his mind. He is oblivious to his surroundings. The train roars into the station and welcomes its new passengers with open doors. Odysseus, lost in his own musings, fails to notice he boards this particular train car alone even though there were scores of commoners on that platform with him.

And suddenly, aboard that subterranean vessel, he is seized back into reality as he realizes he is under attack. But he noticed a moment too late. The steel doors have shut behind him, while onlookers in the adjacent car watch in knowing anticipation, and some with typical New Yorker glee, of the imminent onslaught. For them, it’s like watching a Trojan approach a woman from behind at the bar, knowing full well she’s a Medusa on the front.

Our hero, trapped on this speeding torture chamber, quickly takes stock of his surroundings. He is joined in this peril by a small family of ignoramus from the country side, perhaps Kentuckia. The fools stand before Odysseus, hands covering their faces paralyzed in horror by their fate. There is no hope for them, especially in those khaki shorts. He must save himself.

Looking beyond the family, he acknowledges the source of their pain sitting in the corner. A disheveled old man, cloaked in tattered black, he emanates the awful mist that permeates the car and besieges our protagonist, or rather, our protagonist's nose. It is the most wretched and vile stench to ever befall these lands. It grips the passengers and squeezes their lungs shut. For Odysseus, it is even worse than the foulness he inhaled when Dyonidas thrust him into a mound of minotaur dung at the battle of Theoda. It is worse then the rotting flesh piles at the bottom of Xerxes' caverns. The stench is even worse than that of the Cyclops' Sunday morning haletosis. It is the vile smell of pure evil itself.

"What wicked wizardry is this?" Odysseus wonders. "This unassuming man mutters to himself. Perhaps it is a spell he's chanting. Or maybe directives to his invisible army of stench gremlins, stenchlins if you will...Oh gods, it smells like butt cheese in here. I think I just threw up a little in my mouth."

But Odysseus has stared adversity in the eyes before and does not succumb so easily. He covers his nostrils and breathes only sparsely through his mouth. If he can minimize his intake of the rotten-egg-in-a-diaper stench, he can survive by waiting only a few moments to the next stop. Our hero positions himself at the opposite end of the car from the beacon of B.O. and presses up against the cold steel doors. His face turns red as each second he endures feels like an eternity in Hades.

Suddenly the death car halts abruptly, and the Kentuckians fall over and shatter into a million finger licking pieces. The doors slide open and out races Odysseus onto the station platform, gulping in the fresh air, his eyes welling with tears, and yelling at the top of his lungs, “Gods! It smells like Sex Panther in there! It’s quite a formidable scent!”

And with no time to waste, he sprints around, weaving through other passengers and hops into the adjacent car just before the doors close. He made it. The Ol’ Switcheroo never fails. He peers through the train window and sees in the next car a new set of country folk, trapped in that chamber of death, suffocating from ass inhalation. “These poor people. They don’t know that that car is run by the ATA—the Ass Transit Association. May Zeus have mercy on their souls.”

The bearded old man in the corner laughs to himself in triumphant pleasure. For only $2.00 he’s found himself a spacious new home complete with Promethean fire in the winter and the winds of Zephyr in the summer. And moreover, he gets to torture the very same wealthy city dwellers who often neglect his existence and deny their complicity in his destitution. Retribution indeed. Little do they know, this man is Zeus himself. Oh that Zeus, always the prankster.

Decree CCXV for riders of subterranean chariots: Never board a seemingly empty train when the cars beside it are packed, lest you too find your nostrils besieged by odors more foul than a Gorgon fart saved in an air tight jar for 5 thousand years. Should you find yourself in this predicament, your only chance is to perform the Ol’ Switcheroo. Otherwise, you will smell like poo the rest of the day. It’s kind of like after having Korean barbecue, except that you don’t get a delicious meal first, and you don’t smell like bbq, you smell like poo.

The Seat Slide-Over

Silver bells. Hear them ring. It’s Christmas time in the city... You just spent all afternoon trudging in the freezing rain, buying the best knockoff apparel for your family (because they’re worth it, and you spend 2/3 of your paycheck to live in an apartment built for Hobbits). Soaking wet and blisters on your feet, you lug the bags underground to the subway platform. Your Northfake is still dripping and leaves a urine trail in your wake. The A rumbles into the station. A million people deboard the train and trample you without concern. But at least you made it onto the train, finally dry and warm, with the promise of home only 23 stops away.

You’re effing tired (not to be confused with fucking Tired, as in Mr. Tired, the gap-toothed gentleman behind the counter at Gristedes; fucking him is a bad idea), and you need a seat. Low and behold, there’s only one left and it looks like you’re riding bitch. There’s a portly man lodged on one end of the seat bench, and a woman next to the pole-divider at the middle of the bench. You do a cost-benefit analysis, and decide you have to, so you nestle your little butt between them and give your cheeks a rest.

But now you got Grimace to your left, and he looks like he’s eating the Hamburglar. On your right is Old Woman Withers, who looks like layers of herself kept melting on top of each other until she was satisfied that she resembled Jabba the Hutt. She also smells like pure gasoline. And she keeps staring at you with her one eye. You’re huddled in between, trying to keep your knees together, your arms together, your shoulders together, so as to avoid physical contact with the Jello-giants next to you. But it’s pointless, the A train’s in hydraulics mode and is jerking forward the way Shattner talks. Each time it jerks, you get crushed worse than a sumo wrestler’s diaper.

At stop 13, Grimace gets up to leave. Despite being intoxicated by gasoline fumes and charred Big Macs, you recognize an opportunity when you see one. Without hesitation, you do the one thing you possibly can to redeem your humanity—you slide over to the left. And with that one simple seat change, you can breathe the crisp air again, you rediscover what it’s like to have space between your balls again, and you remember that freedom is a privilege in this world. Nevermind that the seat is warmer than a Dutch oven and covered in sesame seeds; it doesn’t matter. You’re free. That is the magic of the seat slide-over…keeping New Yorkers sane since 1883.

Going from riding bitch to sliding over to the best seat in the car (i.e. the end of the bench against the rail, so you’re assured that no one can sit next to you on at least one side of your body) is the American Dream realized. Best of all, you get to enjoy someone else’s discomfort as they’re forced to sit between Old Woman Withers and your fat bloated ass. (‘Milk was a bad idea!’)

But God forbid the bench was just recently scrubbed down and doesn’t have enough accumulated dust to make your slide-over smooth. Instead the friction between your butt and the seat makes it sound like your ass is erupting. Then again, what better way to prevent other passengers from plopping down next to you, then to clear the air with your derriere.

Take heed, however, that taking pleasure in other people’s pain will come back to haunt you. One of two things will happen as a consequence. Either A) it’ll be too late for you when you realize that you are now sitting in front of a subway map when someone does the lean-in-and-look on ya, and now you got some guy’s stubbled face 2 centimeters from your own. Or B)Lonely Planet doesn’t inform the tourist sitting to your right to do a seat slide-over once Old Woman Withers gets up, and now the anti-bath European is polluting your air space.

This brings us to Subway Rider Rule # 690: Never get high off your own supply…Woops! Wrong set of rules!...Always do a seat slide-over when the opportunity arises. It keeps the world in balance, and the universe aligned. The seat slide-over saves lives. It's what Chuck Norris would do...after killing the guy next to him with his fists.

And Subway Rider Fun Tip #106: Pretend to be the rider that forgets to seat slide-over. Then, when someone standing proceeds to sit down in the vacant spot, slide over there as fast as you possibly can, so that they end up sitting in your lap. Who ever said New Yorkers aren’t friendly? When the person looks at you in confusion and shock, smile and say “wakka wakka wakka!” for bonus points.

Sleepride the whip! Sleepride the whip!

I'm no dentist, but I've seen my fair share of oral cavities. "Where?" you might ask, "Where can I get in on this hot face-hole action?" Where else but the New York City subway, where all unwanted bodily contact happens. All the time. All at once. Oh yeah. Really, there's nothing quite like being caught on the underground railroad, in the middle of a hot, humid July, and your sweaty arm unintentionally but yet inevitably brushes up against somebody else’s sweaty arm, only to discover that the meeting of your salty discharge and their salty discharge results in the adhesion of your gross arms like a pair of soggy velcro straps. Fucking gross. But I digress.

It's gaping mouths that we're talking about today. "Gaping mouths?" you ask. You probably don't pay them much mind during your daily commute, but they're out there, just daring you to do something about it. And I for one never back down from a physical challenge (my friends call me 'Double Dare' …and occasionally ‘Mark Summers’). Whether it’s the morning rush hour on the 7 Express or the gotta-get-home-for-Deal or No Deal dash on the N, you are bound to run into this unwelcome display of teeth and tongue. There’s always that passenger whose head is nodding to the rhythm of the train’s lullaby, and as their eyes fall asleep, their mouth yawns open…and stays that way. The perpetual oh-face of slumber.

I wonder what makes them sleep with their mouth open like that. They must be dreaming about sucking the tete of Yokozuna. Or maybe they’re trapped in a chocolate factory with Grandpa Joe, trying to fly by burping out Fizzy Lifting Drink. Or maybe their tongue is so heavy that they can’t help but let their jaw drop. And you know what they say about big tongues…big tongue socks. (ok, I admit that makes no sense, but c’mon, your laffing thinking about a wool sock over your tongue)

Have you ever been on the train at 2:43AM on a Thursday night? It’s like Attack of the Somniac Sojourners on that thing. You step into the train car and all you see are these contorted figures, hunched over, drooping into their seats, back of their heads tilted backwards till they’re touching their backs, with their faces aimed towards the ceiling and lips parted so wide you’d think they were feeding off the fluorescent light. And the chorus of snores coupled with the rock of the ride will only pull you into their REM-sleep ranks. Before you know it, it’s too late, you’ve missed your stop and wake up in a train yard in the Bronx. That’s right you bourgie too-afrad-to-pass-96th-street NYC transplant, The Bronx!

And when it happens to you, you realize how embarrassing it is to sleepride. You wake up to a dozen gawking eyes that shift away quickly to avoid revealing that they examined the contents of your food orifice thoroughly. Not to mention your mouth is drier than the Patrick Ewing’s legs and tastes just as bad.

From this painful lesson, I’ve taken it upon myself to do two generous things out of the compassion of my compassionate heart: 1) write this longwinded blog entry to warn New Yorkers of the dangers of sleepriding, and 2) place two curiously strong Altoids and a Listerine breath strip on the tongue-pillows of the mouth-beds I see on every train in the city. Occasionally I’ll substitute the Altoids with a Skittle, so you can taste the rainbow…the rainbow in my heart. And no need to thank me. For me, it’s like having a portable game of Operation wherever I go.

So dear reader, take heed of Subway Rider Rule #482: Sleepriding on the train is the easiest way to get a mouthful of surprises, either from me or from Boxcar Eddy, you know, the one without the thing we like to call “pants.” His mantra is: If you see something, spray something.

The Lean-In and Look

you're sitting on the downtown A train on the way to work, and another person stands in front of you only to lean forward into your face, this stranger's head only an inch away from yours while they scan the subway map posted behind your head...do you ever get the urge to kiss this person? sometimes i blow in their ear. if i'm feeling particularly cheery, i'll whisper "going my way?" and give em a wet willy. and by wet willy i don't mean a saliva covered pinky finger to the ear canal. i'm talking about my gnome friend Willy with the bladder problem. i'll try to slip him into the stranger's pocket.

i think normal people in this position usually find themselves contorting their neck-heads to the side and try to look directly ahead of them, pretending to completely ignore this person invading their personal space. but in reality, normal people can't avoid using their wide-eyed peripherals to scope this stranger's flaring nostrils at the side of their face. from that angle, even judd nelson's got nothing on those gaping nose-holes. it's like staring into the depths of nothingness. and you're left wondering, "damn, why didn't this person check hopstop before they left the house? wtf?"

so i submit to you subway rider rule #380: never sit in front of a subway map or you too may become victim of the "lean-in and look."

exceptions to subway rider rule #380:
-stranger in question is flipping hot as blogs!
-stranger in question turns out to be your mom. wet Willy would just be inappropriate at that point.
-stranger in question smells like chocolate chip cookies.
-stranger in question is actually a giant chocolate chip cookie. yum.