Commuter Pains and Sweaty Trains

I’m pretty sure whatever noise the iPhone alarm defaults to is and always will be the worst noise I’ve ever heard. My first thoughts of the day rush into my brain as I attempt to claw my way back into the dream I was having. I open my eyes. Hudson is staring at me – he was promised a run before work. Sorry dude, I say, raking through the sheets and blankets for my screeching phone. I wonder if anyone has strangled themselves to death accidentally sleeping like I do amidst a web of cords, bedding, and electronics.

THUD. Something falls to the floor as I whip the bed covers around. It’s my work computer. Please don’t be broken. Locating my phone, I look at the time. 6:45 am. I had planned to be running in Riverside Park by 7:00, showered by 7:45, Hudson fed and out the door by 8:10. I almost laugh out loud as I reset the alarm for 7:45 am. Sleep. It’s worth the jet lag that comes from the bonus hour in bed. Hudson flops down on my feet, huffing audibly, a cloud of dog hair escapes his body like the wake from a meteor hitting the ocean. I fall back asleep.

The demonic alarm extracts me, yet again, from sleep with such violence it’s as if I’m in a comfy nightmare. Annnnd I’m up, I say, looking over at my struggling AC unit. Anxiety creeps in slowly most days, this morning it starts in the far corner of my bedroom with the burping Frigidaire monstrosity taking up valuable real estate from my view. Do we think that mold growing in the vents is the kind that kills you? Hopefully I’ll remember to google that later.

My feet hit the sisal carpet. They’re sore. What from? I’m not sure, but these body-wide aches must be something that happens when you hit thirty. That or I’m finally overweight enough that simple weight bearing is so tenuous it elicits tennis-pro like grunts each day. Already at the door, Hudson looks over at me. His hopeful and excited eyes bleary from sleep, he stretches and yawns. He’s so happy. My alarm starts seizing again. My feet hurt.

Pee. Brush teeth. Clothes. Poop bags. Walk Hudson. Climb infinite flights of stairs. Feed Hudson. Shower (maybe). Make myself look human. Pack bag. Worry about leaving Hudson. Do hair. Worry more about Hudson as I hear him attack my roommate in her bed, ripping her from sleep like a fish yanked from water. God bless her. I’m late. Check electronics, check doors, clear floors of all shoes. Bye Anna and Hudson, and I’m gone with a wave down the stairs.

This morning, like all mornings, my bag is unbearably heavy. Surely at this point I’m suffering from clinical thirty-something onset spinal stenosis, I think to myself, as I give a cockroach carcass a wide perimeter on the 3^rd floor landing. Shit, my sunglasses. The thought causes me to miss the last step onto the ground level of my building. I see my life flash before my eyes and my body whips itself automatically into an evasive maneuver. What I’m evading, I’m not sure, but I picture myself on a stretcher as I do it. Alas, I land on my feet and the adrenaline rush makes my pulse visible in the reflection in the front door window.

At least the weather is cooperating, fall in New York has finally arrived and the air is crisp. I squint and wonder if my decision to forego climbing back up the five flights of stairs for my Ray Bans was a wise one. Sweating versus squinting. Life’s all about decisions, I guess.

I descend from my stoop without incident and turn left down the street. I mentally run through the cast of characters I’ll have the pleasure of encountering as I walk the four blocks to the subway. Each morning the line-up is a little different, but it’s the regulars that are the real stars of this show. There’s the troll-like super from down the block who limps slowly behind his two half-dead, always off leash, dog-rats. We exchange cheery “F you’s” if I’m lucky enough to time my departure with his dog’s morning bowel movements. Our relationship turned sour a year ago when he threatened to have me arrested on a dog poop violation. I told him I couldn’t wait for his dogs to die. It was the start of something really special.

Further down my street I usually see the old homeless man who likes to use one of the only remaining phone booths in the tri-state area as a post-breakfast urinal. It’s actually a genius move on his part and it beats having him pee in our trash house. Balancing his fare from the soup kitchen across the street in one hand, he uses the other to shoot at the trash that’s typically piled by the street. They really should just make it an actual urinal, so I wouldn’t have to witness the act each morning. I pass him this lovely morning and notice he’s whistling while playing target practice with the trash – “Devil Woman.” He must like the I, Tonya soundtrack too! I’m inspired and scroll through iTunes on my phone to the same bop.

Up next is my favorite army vet who lives on the median that bisects the north and southbound lanes of Broadway. He likes to talk shit about other homeless people and regale me with stories of ‘Nam, where I assume he left his hearing and thus, volume control. “We had shepherds over there, too” he usually scream-shouts as I round the corner towards the subway. This morning, I try to ignore him. It doesn’t work, and he continues to yell in my direction. I wave and tell him to have a great day, and immediately turn my headphones as loud as they go.

The walk signal at 81^st street invites me to cross to the other side of the street where I’ll inevitably catch the train downtown. I don’t accept the invitation however, knowing the gaggle of construction workers will be ready and waiting, taking one of their 34938943 coffee breaks, cat calls at the ready. “Ayo baby, come give me a hug! MMMMmmMMMmmm.” They always start with Ayo Baby. Sometimes I get a lunch invite. Not this morning boys, I’ll pass on the drive by verbal harassment today. Maybe tomorrow.

Finally at the station I descend the stairs, dodging newspapers and oh, is that vomit? So many bodily fluids before my morning coffee, I feel like a coroner. Swipe Swipe and I’m thr – nope, the screen to the right of the steel cage blocking my path reads INSUFFICIENT FARE. I try three more Metrocards. No dice. Where the F-bomb is my subway card with money on it. I peel out of the metal corral where a line has formed behind me, my fellow comrades in commuting misery giving me looks of disdain and pity. Great there’s a train approaching. I feel the familiar whoosh of carcinogenic air as the cars roll in and slow to a stop. I step in line to add value to my card and by the time I’m done it’s gone.

I make it through, god the subway is expensive these days. Fleetwood Mac does it’s best to subdue my annoyance, but I’ve started to sweat which adds to my mounting anxiety. As I walk to the end of the platform I see the rats dancing along the tracks. Their frantic movements so similar to mine on my morning scramble to work, dodging and weaving, trying to be invisible. Something in the darkness sparks. I wonder if the rats ever touch the third rail? They must know not to. As they hurry to the shadows to escape the oncoming 1 train I feel a little jealous. They’ve created an aura so abhorrent no one bothers them with an onslaught of bullshit. But they do have to worry about that third rail. Good luck vile friends.

I always head to the first subway car as it is usually the least crowded and ensures optimal positioning for the next leg of my journey. My car this morning looks okay, meaning there’s no sleeping homeless man who’s peed himself or obvious voyeurs, and the MTA has the AC blasting. I settle into a seat, it’s my lucky day! But then feel an unnerving cold drip of water hit my neck, AC run off down the collar of my blouse. Gag. The kinship I feel with the railroad rodents grows.

Because I’m without eyewear this morning, I have to be sure to avert my gaze appropriately so as to avoid inviting interpersonal engagement of any kind. There’s always someone coming in the back of the car in between stations – some days a homeless man or woman peddling fruit snacks or tissues while other days it might be a mariachi band or subway pole gymnast. Eye contact means death when they come aboard. Today it’s a fruit snack vendor, and she’s brought her kid to hand out each sale. Jesus. I pretend to read the subway map peeling from the walls and my forehead begins to hurt from prolonged fake brow furrowing. I continue to furrow, nonetheless.

My favorite person to encounter on the train is the MTA vigilante. She’s a loudmouth lady who takes no shit from anyone and commands the masses with gusto. She’s iconic. MOVE IN PEOPLE, NO LEANING ON THE POLE, LET THE MOTHER F-ING PASSENGERS OUT BEFORE BOARDING, NO HOLDING THE DOORS, she screams at the top of her lungs. God bless her. She’s always in a parka of some kind, this morning it’s green, and has huge square glasses that fog up as she works herself into an angry lather. She huffs and puffs after her outbursts, mumbling incredulously about the stupidity of everyone around her. The OG of the “may I speak to the manager” movement, she’s a venerable superhero in my mind. I imagine her riding the trains north and south from morning til night, crossing town on the shuttle, using her gift for the betterment of our city. I know it will be a good day if she crosses my path.

We cruise into Penn Station and she positions herself at the doors, directing those boarding to STAND THE F BACK, giving me a clear line to the stairs. More stairs. This particular set of stairs likely had a right angle at some point, but the years of heavy heel strikers and sensible patent pumps has smoothed the metal treads like river stone. The middle of the staircase sags downward, one bad step and you’re toast. It’s always a tough decision when a public stair railing presents itself, but I always risk the possibility of touching death-fluids on this descent.

A rollercoaster of stairs later I emerge unscathed on 32^nd street. I reverse commute daily to Hoboken, requiring still another train to cross under the Hudson to work. Passing the umbrella and tchotchke salesman, I’m simultaneously bombarded with hot air from the subway grate below and an arctic blast from the Macy’s entrance on my left. For some reason it makes me think of hot air balloons. My shirt is blown up by the dueling winds exposing my stomach. Awesome.

More stairs and I pass the soldiers armed with automatic weapons looking so bored they’re basically catatonic. My train awaits. Entering the path train is like going to the home of a rich relative compared to the subway. There’s no frantic running or shouting, and typically no bodily fluids to avoid. We board in silence and it’s almost empty. Everyone gets their own row on the perimeter of the car, sitting in a staggered manner to minimize the possibility of eye contact.

There isn’t cell service on the path. It’s less of a travesty than it would be on the subway, especially with the nifty monitors they’ve mounted to the walls of each car. Who needs Instagram when you can read your daily horoscope, get a run-down of the news, and see a bit from the police reminding all if they see something, to say something (in both English and Spanish!). Most mornings, I write the mundane thoughts that ramble through my mind in the notes section of my iPhone. On this particular morning I spend it writing about an army of subway rats that escape a treacherous flood using hot air balloons. Really.

My story is interrupted by the train lurching this way and that as we make the right turn under the Hudson river. I wonder if Parka Patty would prefer the atmosphere of the Path train? What would she do with no people to yell at? She’d hate it. I finally look up at the right time to see my daily horoscope fill the screen. “Stay the course and only good things will come.” Oh goodie, I think, and I look at the time. I’m late.

Climbing yet another staircase out of the train station in Hoboken, I worry less about who I may encounter on my two block walk to the office. Hoboken is like the Upper West Side except everyone is whiter (yes, it’s possible) and there are a lot of toddlers. They even have stroller buses to strap six toddlers into presumably to get to mommy and me classes. 10 am on the promenade in front of my office is like happy hour at the Standard on the first nice day of spring. The only difference is everyone’s wearing Lululemon and miserable. But, my worries as I cross Hudson Street are now fueled by my late arrival to the office. If there is a god, I plead, please ensure my boss has gotten caught in traffic or working remotely. I’ll do anything. I’ll even stop paying less than the suggested amount at the Met. I’ll NEVER leave Hudson poop on the sidewalk again. PLEASE.

In my office building I turn my music back on and pass through the metal security gate to the elevator. Devil Woman is on again. Ding! I see my bosses name light up my iPhone screen with a text: “Why are you not at the office today.” I yell expletives at the closing elevator doors and watch the two halves of my reflection become one. I let Cliff serenade me a little longer. “Then I looked in those big green eyes…and I wonder what I came there for…” honestly, I couldn’t agree more.