Today on the L Train

I did not witness either of these, but the L Train has been in the news lately.

After learning of the death of Osama bin Laden, one patriotic Brooklynite tried to get his hipster neighbors excited during their commute. Predictably, it didn't go over so well.

Also in the ether, others had more success in transforming the space of the L Train by turning it into a pop-up eatery.


Now if either of these had been blended with a mariachi band, I'd say we'd seen everything. Except that on the L Train just about anything is possible, so even that wouldn't be unexpected.

Today on the L Train

After the loud skater teens got off to terrorize Union Square, the hipster girl in horn rimmed glasses and day-glo hair sitting across from me turned to the guy in the OSU hat and asked him if the Buckeyes/Wolverines game was today. A lengthy discussion of OSU's football schedule ensued, followed by the disclosures that she is from Mayfield, Ohio and he from Dublin, Ohio. His friend sitting silently nearby was from St. Claire Shores, Michigan. I chimed in too, but they had never heard of Put-in-Bay and I effectively killed the conversation.

I momentarily missed the loud skater teens. The train felt very slow.

And then it finally arrived at 8th Avenue and we parted.

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Today on the L Train

This morning on my way to the train I sneezed.  I didn't have a handkerchief or napkin on me and so was wary of the universe of germs caught in the palm of my hand.  The train is, as a rule, a germ ridden adventure. The first thing I do when I get to work after touching the turnstiles, the bar for balance, the doors and elevator buttons at the office is to to head to the bathroom to wash my hands.

Today on the train was a woman furtively preaching her good word.  She was well dressed, tall, and loud.  She looked like she was heading to her day as a paralegal or social worker.  Her pitch and message was more polished, less crazed, less damning than the typical subway evangelist.  She was a professional.  I imagine she must have had some formal experience as a preacher.  Maybe she'd been ousted from her storefront church and had taken to the subway because she just couldn't hold it in.  

Normally when someone decides to insert themselves into the quiet between my ears in the mornings I try to block them out.  Normally when the intruder is preaching his/her version of biblical edicts the train takes on an embarrassed silence.  Today was no exception.  

When she was finished (at Penn Station/34th Street) she walked around the car and gave everyone a handshake.  She thanked us for coming to her temple.  Cautious of the sneeze I held in my hand, I held tightly to the pole when she approached me.  I smiled and she moved on.

Today on the L Train

This morning the train was too crowded to open my book. I stretched out an arm to grab the bar running along the ceiling and balanced the book under one arm while holding my coffee. My eyes wandered around the train, taking in the other passengers.

Matt once told me "there's always one in each car". He was referring to men. Always at least one cute guy worth nonchalantly watching. I looked around the car for the one who would be my "subway boyfriend" for the rest of the ride.

The car was full today with the usual lot of office workers and students. More climbed on the train at each stop. We shuffled closer together, each of us claiming more personal space from our neighbors. What had just 6 blocks earlier been the absolute most anyone would consider surrendering, became smaller and tighter. Finally my shoes were right up against my neighbors, the distance between our fingers on the bar too minuscule to measure. Eventually we were packed so that I could no longer steal sips of coffee without disturbing anyone.

But turning my head was still feasible. I was able to keep an eye on the handsome face at the other end of the crowd. His unshorn jaw, the buttoned collar of his wrinkled shirt, the suggestion of a tattoo visible on his wrist that snaked up to the ceiling where he braced himself.

I studied him cautiously. What would Matt think of him? If we were riding this rush hour together would he have spotted the same guy? What would he be doing right now, this year, in this city? What would he think of my job path, love life, choice of footwear?

Before my own transfer the subway boyfriend left to make his connection. The car emptied just a little, then filled to more than capacity again. I moved inconceivably closer to the woman next to me.

Yesterday I had gone off on a rampage of verbal cursing. Matt's voice in my head with every "Mutha Fucka!" This lead to a search through the 2006 archive of our homepage looking again for evidence of the helicopter crash. A scant few lines of text. The impact, the hurt, the shock, the grief. The growth. The refusal to grow. The insistence that things would never be right again. The knowledge that it was uncomfortably different.

We arrived at Union Square and the woman seated in front of me smiled as she rose from her seat. "Your coffee smells very good. I've enjoyed it." The car emptied and I had freedom of arm movement again. "It is good," I said and smiled.

Today on the L Train

I bought a pair of suede shoes online last week and had them delivered to the office. They arrived this afternoon. I put them on and showed them off. Martha said they looked nice. Taylor asked if they were comfortable. Simone said it was a mistake for me to buy suede shoes because I like to jump in puddles and run out in the rain and generally don't take care of my things. She basically called me childlike. Or a slob.

Feeling challenged, I wore the shoes the rest of the day. We had several inches of snow over the weekend and the temperature is now up in the forties. So the sidewalks are wet. But I felt confident that I could prove Simone wrong and demonstrate that I'm a responsible, orderly adult. I wore the shoes when I left the office, walking with my shoulders squared, taking pleasure in the near identical shades of brown in my shoes and jacket.

The sidewalks were damp, but had been shoveled of snow and therefore presented no challenge. I walked to the NQRW trains without incident. I found a seat in the front car, which would make my transfer at Union Square easier. Additionally graced by catching an express train, I was downtown in a moment.

At Union Square I exited the Q train and walked to the stairs to the L train platform. There was a crowd gathered on the stairs, not moving. I pivoted and craned to see what was causing the bottle-neck. On a landing of the staircase was an immense puddle of water. I couldn't tell what caused it. I use this staircase on almost every trip home and had never seen so much water there before. There wasn't a drain or a burst pipe in sight. A broom was laying in the puddle, an abandoned attempt by someone to disperse the wetness.

Two of those plastic "slippery when wet" signs had been folded and placed in the puddle to allow passengers to use as stepping stones across. I watched as one-by-one men and women hopped across the puddle, from a dry step to a moist landing. Some chose to leap wholly across while others quickly used the yellow signs.

I wavered in my thoughts. The quickest, most direct route to the L train was across this puddle. And the water wasn't so deep, was it? Would I get anything but the sole wet? I watched a man about my size jump the puddle. His left foot landed squarely in a couple inches water. A petite woman after him used the plastic signs, each one squishing under her weight and forcing a ripple of water to the sides.

I looked at my suede shoes, non-scuffed and consistent in brown. I decided to make a U-turn and head back up the stairs. I went the long way up to the concourse level and used a separate set of stairs to reach the L train. From my place on the platform I couldn't even see the stairs with the puddle. Or the wet feet of those who braved it.

And I thought, 'tomorrow, I'm wearing my rubber boots.'

Today on the L Train

The woman sitting next to me smelled like Pond’s Cold Cream.

Today on the L Train

Due to construction, the MTA has Manhattan-bound L trains stopping at Bedford Ave where passengers must cross the platform and wait for another train to run shuttle to Union Square. Today I was one of hundreds of aggravated passengers waiting not so patiently. From the middle of the platform I could hear someone methodically striking cords on a violin. The sound drew me in and I maneuvered through the crowd to get a view. There was a young man with wild hair, his eyes closed, hitting the strings with his bow. Then he stopped and began humming a warm and sad “Ooooooooh ooooooooh ooooooooh” and then launched into a powerful verse from a song I don’t know. The words were sad and desperate, about someone struggling against a current and praying for help in letting go. I stood rapt; most on the platform did the same. When his verse was done he bagan striking the cords again, followed by another round of humming, and another sad verse. His voice grew in strength and filled the tunnel. Too soon, he finished, opened his eyes and smiled bashfully as everyone applauded.

The train arrived and we went on with our days

Today on the L Train

I saw more than a few men in really ill-fitting suits. Like sleeves too long, falling off the shoulders, baggy pants. Just not right. Guys, take advantage of the Mens Wearhouse’s free tailoring offer. Please. You’re welcome.

Today on the L Train

After watching the election results in a bar in Murray Hill, and a mad jaunt uptown to be part of the celebration in Times Square, I headed home on the L train. It was after midnight and my voice was raspy from cheering and eyes red from the occassional emotional overwhelming. Although it was late, the platform at Union Square was crowded and the arriving train full.

Four years ago, I was up in the middle of the night watching the results online from my apartment in France. I felt like I was the only one awake that night, desperately hitting refresh on the NYTimes website every few minutes to see changes in the Bush-Kerry contest.

Last night I was one of many. Happy, hoarse, and tired, it was a rambunctions train ride. A woman with a drum stood at the end of the car hitting a beat that kept the crowd chanting along. At each stop along the way, when the doors opened and passengers departed for their beds, a loud whoop went up the stairs and turnstiles. I was tempted to stay on till the last stop to see if the good spirits remained until the cars were empty. But my bed was calling and I wanted to check on Indiana.

At the start of the night, in the bar, a couple visting from Germany sat at a table behind me, asking for details on the entire process. They seemed to get the idea of the Electoral College, but the notion that some states had longer voting hours and different methods for counting wasn’t sinking in for them. Also perplexing was the fact that with only 1% of precincts counted the newscasters were certain that Kentucky was going for McCain.

I can’t say how many people on the train had a grasp of our process, but the mood was high, proud, satisfied, jubilant, energized, relief.

Today on the L Train

Heading home after work Monday, I was standing in a crowded train, staring vaguely out the window. Shortly into the ride a raspy voice began singing the Carpenter’s “We’ve Only Just Begun”. It was a sorrowful version of the song. Sort of a Little Jimmy Scott/Amy Winehouse hybrid re-mix. It was beautiful.

And then came the smell.

Moving through the car was a homeless man - emaciated, blind, dirty, in need of a fix. His voice much larger than himself. He was collecting donations, and doing considerably well, for his song.

Halfway through the car he switched music and belted Rod Stewart’s “If You Think I’m Sexy”.

I think it’s fair to say no one did.

Today on the L Train

Great day for people watching. Rush hour this morning I had three people keeping me occupied.

Across from me, standing in the doorway, was a tall guy with 5 days of beard growth, tight jeans, salt and pepper hair gelled forward and up, with mirrored sunglasses. He was something to behold. Like a rock-god daring everyone to try not to notice him. He didn’t move much, just basked in his own glory.

Seated next to me was a large woman in a faux-fur coat. It was maybe supposed to be snow leopard, but it looked more like dalmatian. As if Cruella DeVille sat down next to me after skinning and eating the 101. The coat was floor length with a hood. When she sat down she grew in size. Her bosom lifted and her thighs spread. I wanted to reach out a finger and stroke the coat. I sat with my arms crossed, trying to get the courage to poke it just once. To feel it. To confirm it was fake and not a litter of unfortunate puppies. But I refrained.

The most interesting passenger was a frog-faced man standing in front of me. He was listening to music through his headphones but the volume was turned high enough that anyone could hear it. The music was familiar. It started with a disco beat and then a blast of synthesized trumpets. In between noticing the rock-god and fighting the urge to pet the dalmatians, I pulled up the song in my memory. It was the theme song to CHiPs! This guy was psyching up his day with the music that serenaded Erik Estrada down the highways of Los Angeles.

Which set my mind wandering. What should my Friday theme song be? If I was taking the Staten Island Ferry into Manhattan it would definitely be Carly Simon’s Let the River Run (theme from Working Girl). Arriving on a train in a tunnel under the East River calls up something less spectacular, something moody. Something.. … I don’t know.

Eventually, we arrived at Union Square, where I transfered trains and began thinking about other things.

Today on the L Train

I found myself taking an unplanned trip into the office on a Sunday. It’s interesting to see the train when it’s not crowded with rush hour commuters and late night drinkers. More than a handful of Orthodox Jewish women, heads shaved and wigged, in smart shoes and accompanied by their progeny. Their blatino counterparts pushing SUV sized strollers. A few women coming home from church in their crowns.

At one stop I was able to maneuver into a seat situated next to a sharply dressed woman - houndstooth wool coat, black tights, low heels, conservative makeup. She sat upright with a gymnast’s posture. Two minutes into our neighborhood, she extended her left arm straight out, made a fist, pointed her index finger back at herself and brought it to her nose, then extended her arm again, then brought it back to her nose, and extended, nose, extended, nose. She did this about 6 times.

I’ve noticed over the last month that I stare. Sometimes I point, but today I was travelling alone. I turned my head and looked right at her face and arm. Shoulder to shoulder, we were about 6 inches apart. She ignored me.

Arriving at my stop, I exited and walked to work.

Today on the L Train

It’s Halloween, and that means the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade. I didn’t make it to the Village, but I did get an eyeful of what was heading that way on the train.

My favorite by far was the group of four young women dressed as a mariachi band. They were hilarious, working the train with their guitar, accordian, tamborine, sombreros, and huge mustaches. One of them solicited donations from the other passengers.

The icing on the cake came as I was about to exit. I witnessed an Orthodox Jewish man taking a picture of them with his cell phone. Three of NY’s icons intersecting: subway performers, Halloween, and Judaism.

Lord, I love this town.

Today on the L Train

Friday morning, on my way into work, I found myself standing in front of a woman who was applying her makeup on the train. She started with her eyes. Shadow, more shadow, another color of shadow. The entire eyelid, from the lashes up to the brows.

I’ve never watched this happen before. She was seated, but three feet away was a standing woman applying mascara with one hand, the other doubly gripping a compact mirror and the metal pole to balance herself. I looked up and down the train car to see if anyone else was changing their appearance.

The woman in front of me finished her eyes and moved on to the dark circles beneath. She dabbed some flesh toned cream under each eye then rubbed it in. Dropping that bottle into her purse she pulled out another cream to rub into her forehead and cheeks and chin. A brush was produced from her bag to powder on some blush to each cheekbone.

The woman holding onto the bar was applying lipstick now. She wasn’t using the compact mirror anymore, but looking at her reflection in the train window. The people standing next to her didn’t seem to notice.

I looked back to the woman in front of me. She was combing her eyelashes, seperating any tangles or clumping. Then she plunged the brush into her bottle of mascara and meticulously applied the black ink to every lash. She looked up at me watching her between working on eyes. I smiled meekly. I was caught staring.

She finished both eyes, then whipped out a bottle of lip gloss. It was red. She brushed that onto her lips, very carefully. And finally a compact to cover the entire face with a layer of flesh toned powder.

What a process. She looked good.