When you arrive in New York City, nobody educates you about riding the subway system (though they should). Consequently, I’ve learnt how to survive this commuting nightmare on my own.Firstly, the subway is no place for the mild mannered, or polite. You want to get on the train? Learn how to elbow people in the kidneys. Otherwise you’ll be stuck on the platform with all the other respectful suckers whose manners have got them nothing but late starts to their days. Brute force is the only way you’ll gain passage on the train, and certainly the only way you’ll score a coveted seat. Sitting is the ultimate prize. Sitters are much higher on the mass-transit totem pole than standers. That’s just how it works. The sitters look at the standers with an expression that screams "Suck it, dumbass!” Some standers desperate to enter the ranks of the sitters will attempt to squeeze into an “available” seat peeping between two obese people who exhale loudly and roll their eyes in disgust as the about-to-be sitter squeezes her way between the two heifers.
Once inside the car, the first thing you notice is how utterly miserable everyone looks. Half the people have headphones on. The cacophony of sounds blaring out of everyone's headphones all at once sounds like a bunch of munchkins on a trading floor. Those not wearing headphones are either engrossed in a book or newspaper, or have their eyes closed giving the appearance that they’re meditating. Apparently, if people don't have to hear or see you, it helps alleviate the discomfort of riding inside a rattling shitcan. The message is clear: No one gives a fuck about you or your problems.
Then there’s the unique code of the subway. Like your newspaper is no longer YOUR newspaper. It’s the train's newspaper. People will literally ask you to turn the page back because they have been reading over your shoulder. Before long you find yourself adopting this otherwise impolite practice. I’ll notice a guy sitting across from me, holding up a newspaper as I catch a glimpse of the cover but can't read the whole headline because the top corner of the paper is hanging over. I strain my eyes, "Police rescue…." Ooh, I wonder what the police rescued! Suddenly the paper stiffens slightly. O.K. here we go. "Police rescue 34…." Shit! The corner flopped over again. 34 what? Fuck! That son of a bitch just folded the newspaper inside out. Now the cover is gone forever. I shoot the guy an irritated look as my mind starts to guess the potential things that could have been rescued.
Something else that’s unique to the subway is the vast assortment of people stuck inside the “metal chamber of depression” with you. There’s the woman attired in fur and sunglasses. Pissed off that she's crammed into a subway car with a myriad of peasants. She acts like the only reason she’s on the subway is because she awoke gagged and bound on the train after one too many arrogant remarks to her driver.
There’s the guy who people think is sleeping, but is actually dead. No one sleeps on the floor of a subway, folks. Stop stepping over the guy like he’s fresh dogshit.
That guy isn't break dancing; he's having a seizure. 65-year-old white men don't break-dance. Stop giving him tips. Call 911.
Then there are the inner city kids that everyone knows to avoid eye contact with. These are the type of kids who, if they caught your eye, would immediately ask "What the fuck you staring at bitch?" forcing you to decide whether or not you want to get in a verbal spat with a 14-year-old kid on your way to work.
Of course every subway car features a guy who might be a terrorist. This guy is clearly not traveling to any type of a professional workplace. Not with that 5 o'clock shadow, filthy polo shirt, rolled up trousers, and worn, leather sandals. Here’s an insight for all subway newcomers: The closer the dude’s beard/neck hair is to connecting with his chest hair is directly proportional to passengers’ certainty that he’s a terrorist.
During a subway ride it’s almost impossible not to stare at someone for so long that you start to silently judge everything about them. "Gosh that woman looks like someone slammed her face repeatedly with the back end of a shovel! I wonder what her parents look like?” “That guy’s neck looks like Clint Eastwood’s dick.” Etc. It’s all fair play though because others are judging your ugly mug too. The secret to staring at someone is to observe their window reflections. It's near impossible to detect.
So now you know what to expect. You may not find the subway to be the most pleasant way to get around the city, but remember, nobody gives a fuck about you or your problems.
