Parting of the Subway Sea

Question: have you ever been on the subway when some sort of unidentifiable substance prevents you from sitting on a highly coveted chair? And, more importantly, is it really bad that I secretly hope someone DOES sit in it?

Seats on the subway are a luxury, especially in New York City where the trains are always overcrowded. While I commonly complain about the Metro North on this blog, it is nothing next to the shitshow that is the subway. Any hopes of silence, decorum or manners are thrown to the wind when on this mode of transport. People eat full meals on the subway, listen to music without headphones hoping to serenade you with their hideous selection, and will fight tooth and nail—against pregnant ladies or old fogies—to scap up a seat. Just the other day I myself was guilty of stealing a seat from a preggo…well, sitting down faster than she could waddle…while feigning a “feeling like shit” face to compete.

So when one walks onto the subway and the aisle is parted like the red sea, with nobody standing in a certain vicinity and empty seats a plenty, you know something is amiss.

Like the other day, for instance, when an unidentifiable smear of brown material frosted the top of the plastic seat. The smell emitted from the substance gave a good indication as to what it consisted of. When I first got on the subway, I saw the empty seat and immediately walked towards it. Till I noticed that half of the car was empty. Kinda of like when one has to recover from an unreturned high-five, I nonchalantly did a 180 and walked away, positioning myself close enough to see if anyone else fell for it, but far enough to avoid the noxious odor.

The several people after me who almost fell into the trap provided much amusement, as I watched with anticipation, almost as if waiting for a soccer (football to my European readers) player to score a goal. One by one I watched their eyes light up as they move determinedly to the spot, only to back away in horror as they got closer.

Then came the victim. She was a young, pretty, Asian girl who was obviously too tired to care. She marched over to the spot, looked at it, shrugged and plopped down right on top of it. “Argghhh…” I heard myself moan out loud before alighting at my stop. Was it REALLY worth it?

Anyway, this got me thinking…would this not make for a great reality show? A candid camera of sorts? Or am I just seriously sick in the head?

Who Does That?

I was reading an article in the New York Times this morning about some New York City bus drivers who are taking extended leaves of absence because they're being abused by disgruntled public transport users. Now I’m not talking about yelling, arm waving, eye rolling, frothing at the mouth, heavy sighing, foot stomping or any of the other displays of anger that I myself am guilty of committing. As I wrote last week, we are one angry city. But this new phenomenon is worse. It’s spitting.

I know this isn’t very eloquent of me, but all I can say is EWWWWAAA. Seriously? Who does that? Spitting has to be one of the most vile things a person can do. Already, far too many people hawk it up in public, spitting on the sidewalk and forcing pedestrians to dodge not only ubiquitous dog droppings, but their germafied spittle as well, or on the train tracks where they cough up their cigarette-induced morning phlegm. Some do it discreetly and quietly into a tissue (t.g.), while others feel the need to really crank it up with an accompanying rumbling gurgle that makes me wanna puke. FYI: use the bathroom and do it out of earshot, people, not on the train next to me.

But this is worse than the semi-innocent and seemingly necessary part of life that is clearing one’s throat and expectorating. To actually launch your unwanted bodily fluids at someone else is just lame. And it spreads illness…nobody wants your swine flu or tuberculosis, mmmkay?

In the article, Nancy Shevell, the chairwoman of the authority’s bus committee, suggests that going home and taking a nap might help solve the drivers’ post-traumatic stress of being spit on, and that leaves of absence may be excessive. Sorry, sleeping it off doesn't cure being spitballed. It's not just a matter of brushing it off and going on your merry way. It’s humiliating, gross, dirty and unnecessary. For someone who goes to work every day and has to haul around all of New York’s demanding, irritating, and now rabid, commuters, I too think I’d say why the flying F should I go to work today and put up with this shi-at? I can just imagine angry authors coming in to my journal and spitting on me because I put an en dash in place of a hyphen.

The article also had some interesting insight. Apparently all this time I was writing angry posts about commuting, I didn’t realize that I was suffering from a syndrome called “Aisle Rage,” which Alan E. Pisarski writes about in his report “Commuting in America.” I feel so much better that it's an actual condition and that I'm not alone.

While I can certainly understand the annoyance evoked by declining mass transit and increased costs, drivers are not to blame, and can’t be anywhere near as horrible as us passengers, so we’d do better to show a little more appreciation. Let’s grow up a little, and keep our saliva to ourselves.