STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS
Christian M. Allen, Giessen, Germany
Today I will take the L to Union Square and transfer to the N or R up to Macy’s at Herald Square. A ride in the New York subway is a treat every visitor to the Big Apple should indulge his senses. The subway is as much a monument to the city as the Empire State Building or the Statue of Liberty. Not only is it the quickest way to travel around town, it is also the most concentrated helping of the “New York Experience” one is likely to get. The streets of New York seep into the bowels of its underground mass transit system like industrial waste into the water table of an unsuspecting country village. There it stews and simmers year in and year out, offering its essence to those brave, crazy or needy enough to sup.
The first thing I observe while descending the subway stairwell is the air. No matter how many times I smell it, it’s always like the first time. There is, more often than not, an updraft, wafting up tantalizing samples of the olfactory treats that wait below; a hint of axle grease here, a smattering of recycled wine there, myriad human bodily fluids in various stages of fermentation. It’s all rounded out by an implacable undercurrent which defies description. I like to call it non-dissipating-electro-ozone-carbon-dimonoxidized-perpetual-perspiration, but that doesn’t really do it justice.
I can hear a train pulling in, but I’m not sure which direction it’s going. Bounding down the steps, I reach in my pocket for a token and find one. Good, maybe I can catch this train. As I go through the turnstile I hear, “Stand clear of the closing doors.” The train pulls out and I now have a seven to ten minute wait. I might as well walk around the platform and see what there is to see.
The floor, walls and ceiling are coated with a film of grime which is surprisingly unnoticeable due to the fact that it’s everywhere. (I once watched a station being cleaned with bleach and discovered that the floors are not actually dark grey.) Some arts and crafts were infused into the design of these stations. The station names are made of tile work; pretty good, in fact. In some of the bigger stations there are even intricate mosaic murals. Here I see something that was added by one of the talented subway patrons, a very large piece of poetry written in thick black marker. ‘I see a woman wrapped in rags against the cold - struggling desperately to keep her children warm - passers-by avert their eyes and shamefully look the other way - terrified of what they’ll find behind a child’s gaze.’ It seems the artist decided to disseminate some thought-provoking rhetoric to the masses, and it’s a fine example of New York street art, too. It looks like free-verse, but is actually chock-full of imperfect rhyming (and timing) and even more imperfect alliterations. Across the tracks on the opposite platform I can see where another artist has displayed his wares: ‘yall can have this city’. I sense a lot of pain expressed in that statement. The city can do that to you sometimes.
The Manhattan-bound L train is finally coming down the tracks. As it pulls into the station I see a car that is not full, which means I’ll probably be able to get a seat in it. I enter the car and am immediately greeted by a visual feast which appears to be an abstract painting covering one third of the car’s floor. What it is in reality, is a huge puddle of vomit which I have just stepped in. The car is well heated and the vomit has mostly dried, so at least it isn’t all over my shoe. Thank God for small favors. The presence of vomit explains why there are plenty of free seats on this car. It doesn’t make much difference to me, so I’ll joint the other apathetic souls here and rest my feet for this leg of my journey.
The train’s jerking movement rocks me back and forth in my seat, lulling me into a meditative state. Some of my best thinking occurs on rides like this. But today I’m thinking about the desperate feeling of knowing that one may be just a paycheck away from homelessness, starvation or worse. I’m not in such straights now by any means, but I have been and I can sense it in others. New York is inundated with people who are at that point of desperation, and all of them come through the subways sooner or later. Sometimes seeing a genuinely happy person in here is like seeing a real animal in Disneyland, it is obviously not like the other plasticized fakes, but it’s difficult to pinpoint why.
The click-clack of iron wheels on iron rails peaks sharply as the door between this car and the next slides open. Through the orifice emerges an unavoidable sight of any train-ride. The man is probably in his thirty’s, but he looks to be fifty. He is clad in three or four coats and adorned with a thick mat of facial fur. There is dark, oily grit under his finger nails, lining his cuticles and tracing the cracks and wrinkles of his hands. His left arm is drawn up toward his chest and his wrist is bent over at an impossible angle. “Ladies and gentlemen, please excuse me for disturbing you…” I don’t need to listen to the rest of his spiel, I’ve heard it before. He was diagnosed with cerebral palsy and had to go to Bellevue for treatment. While he was there he lost his job and apartment. He isn’t able to work and he can’t get assistance from the government for some unlikely sounding but probably true reason. “Any change or food you can spare would be great. Thank you and I’m sorry for disturbing you.” I reach into my jacket pocket and find one of the folded bills I keep there just for this purpose. I let it glide from the tips of my washed and manicured fingers into the crumpled white paper cup he holds out with his good hand. He turns his head in my direction but doesn’t make eye contact as he mumbles “Thank you.” I say, “It’s OK, man.”, and let the train’s rhythm lull me back into my trance as he continues on to the next car.
“Next stop, Sixth Avenue, stand clear of the closing doors.” Oops, I almost missed my stop. I jump up and slide sideways through the car doors, but my bag gets caught as they shut. The train conductor is leaning out the window about 15 feet away. I know he can see me and I know he knows my bag is caught in the doors, but he isn’t opening them. Tugging on my bag won’t wrest it free, so I stand here calmly holding the strap, looking at the conductor. Once he feels that I know who is in charge and have learned my lesson, he opens the doors about three inches and yells, “Stand clear of the closing doors!”, then lets them slam shut.
Union Square, this is where I will circumnavigate a series of stairwells and hallways to get to my next train. I’m going to barely miss the next one. I always barely miss the next one. One of Newton’s original laws of physics was “For every subway transfer attempted there is an inevitable and frustrating subway transfer missed.” Newton left it out of the final edit when he realized he didn’t know what a subway transfer was. I’m approaching the platform for the N and R trains, and there are hundreds of commuters flocking down the steps like lemmings. I have once again barely missed my transfer. Not to worry, it’s almost rush hour and there will be another train in two minutes.
The first train to come is the R, and just as I thought the platform is almost full to capacity. The doors open and the passengers hoping for a quick transfer to the L (which has naturally just come and gone) pour out of the car, fighting and clawing there way through the mob which is frantically trying to enter the car before the inevitable “Stand clear of the closing doors.” I stand back and let the off-going passengers exit before I enter, ensuring I get the worst spot in the car. Sure enough, I find myself sandwiched in between four other people right in the center of the car. I can’t even reach the overhead handrail to steady myself. The train jerks its way out of the station causing me to repeatedly slam into my neighbors and sending stabbing bolts of pain through my distended bladder. I close my eyes and steel myself for the ride. At each station it’s the same, I hope the woman next to me doesn’t think I’m trying to grope her. If she has any experience she knows better, but crowds and accidental contact with strangers are like brothers-in-arms against my self-consciousness and I can’t help feeling guilty.
I survive to the Herald Square station and barely manage to wriggle my way out before the imminent “Stand clear of the closing doors.” It’s time to leave my fellow denizens of the deep to their own devices. I take the stairs two at a time; bidding a hasty farewell to the place I spend 25% of my waking day. I enter the real world of noisy streets, stunning architecture (and bathrooms!) knowing that the subway will be there when I need it again. In fact, I think on my ride home I’ll walk over two blocks and catch the A down to the L, just to keep things interesting.
I used to fancy myself a decent writer and I've just started again. I'm going to be real selfish and start a new thread of my own stuff (let it never be said I do not suffer from a modicum of hubris. 
) If you are feeling so inclined, please post and tell me if you like my work 
, hate my work 
, whatever. All I ask is that any criticism or suggestions be constructive. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them. 
