Friday, September 28, 2007

On the 1


For 10:15pm on a Thursday, it is crowded on the uptown 1, but we all have a seat. I force myself to read to overcome the occasionally embarrassing urge to people watch. But will only gets you so far. Somebody bumps your foot. A Hispanic woman boards the train speaking loudly in Spanish to a fussing toddler in tow. An older woman gets on at 34th street and I relinquish my seat by the door. Half the train leaves at Time Square to catch the 2 or 3 express and I sit back down. Though it would save me time to do the same, I stay on. In this insomniac city, I can relax in the illusion that I don’t need to move till I’m there. I try to read again, but then a young woman’s shadow casts on my page as she leans over to read the map behind me. I try not to glance at her cleavage. An a capela group enters from another car to sing for what change we can spare. They’re talented, but all I have is a 20. A teenage boy next to me listens to his music through headphones loudly enough for me to discern lyrics. I like the song. A homeless man tries to pluck our heartstrings with an honest appeal to our humanity. I’m moved, but not $20 worth. And it continues like that, one distraction after another, until by 96th street, where everyone going local before 168th boards. I’m amused to recognize two passengers who got off at 42nd.

Finally, I close my book and permit myself a good look around, deciding that even if enlightenment comes in the next paragraph, I’ll need to reread it. There are the usual furtive glances, seeing without seeing, contrasted by the unwavering stare of the man in sunglasses. There are the elder riders who watch with the confidence of their age. And then there are always the few sleeping souls probably going all the way to the Bronx. This week, I’ve been drawn to parents, or rather parenting. I watch curiously as mothers, fathers, entertain and contain their charges. But the whole time, they maintain an alertness equal to their children’s obliviousness, meeting the eyes of all observers in turn. When they get to me I smile and look away. Yesterday I saw a little boy, no older than 4, slap his mother full out across the face—straight arm, long back swing, open palm—only to be met by a firm stare. When I felt her eyes about to meet mine, I looked away, afraid to acknowledge what I’d seen. But tonight, except for the toddler of the Hispanic woman, now sleeping in his mother’s lap, there are no children on the 1. Directly across from me an attractive middle-aged, brown-skinned Dominican woman appears to sleep on the muscular shoulder of a tall, black man. A gold wedding band glistens on her fist, tucked under her chin. With his opposite hand, the man fingers lazily through a thin paper back, The Art of Loving by Erich Fromm. Sometimes I feel as though I recognize passengers, strangers who regularly ride the 1 like I do. But amidst 8 million people, I dismiss the thought as improbable. Aside from the ethnic tendencies of the subways going to different boroughs, are all the trains like this? It was a pretty typical ride for me anyway, at least until 125th street.

The subway car came to a slow stop at the elevated station at 125th. About a dozen cell phones emerge to take advantage of our stint above ground, Chocolats, Razrs, Sidekicks, Blackberry’s. My pocket vibrates with a message, but I ignore it. The buzz of one-sided conversations fills the car. But as the doors open, a crying woman stumbles into the train. No, not crying, bawling. She looks up long enough to find the nearest seat, right corner, where those sitting nearby scatter as if her pain is contagious. Silence follows in her wake as we stare. She is an attractive Latina, casually dressed—jeans and a pink tank top, white tapered coat, matching Nike's and modest make up. She bends over her knees and weeps. I look around at the other passengers. What can one do? The sleeping Dominican starts to approach her, but is pulled back by the tall black man. I look at him, surprised. My glance catches his attention, but her averts his eyes. Shouldn’t someone do something? As the train pulls out of 137th, her tears continue to hypnotize us, demanding our silence. Suddenly, as we approach 145th, she sits up, struggles to remove a ring from her finger and throws it the length of the subway car, only to chase it immediately. She retrieves it just as the doors open, and runs out.