The Fucking Subway

Today was a terrible day on the subway. First, the 125th St station smelled like something crawled in from the tunnel and died on the platform, decayed there for thirty years in a small box, and finally, in a fit of undeadness this morning, burst out to stink and feed.

The 5 train arrived and took us to 42nd St, where it held for about ten minutes because someone on it was sick, probably from the stench. It may have continued sitting at 42nd St for hours, I don’t know. None of my fellow passengers know either. We all boarded a nearby 6 train as soon as one arrived.

Among my fellow passengers were two twenty-somethings with conga drums and folding chairs. These they unfolded and sat on.

They made an announcement. “We are here to turn your negative energy into positive energy, with music.”

Right.

They played. And I thought, Jesus Fucking Christ, why can’t everyone one the subway just leave everyone else the fuck alone?

Soon I felt bad for thinking so, because the drummers were really okay, and may actually have been making good energy from bad. I felt my mood lifting.

Maybe this day will not be so bad, I thought.

Near 28th St they stopped playing and started their Coin Harvest. One of them was headed my way, and as I was trying to determine how generous I felt, the guy with the crew cut in front of me said this to the drummer:

“You’re getting off the train with me at 14th St, pal.”

The drummer looked (1) confused because it was a strange thing to have said, and (2) afraid because there was nothing even a little bit friendly about the way Crewcut had said “pal”.

“Don’t try to get off sooner,” Crewcut continued. “See the handcuffs on this guy? You’ll be next.”

He pointed to the guy in front of him, who, lo!, was cuffed. That startled me, then startled me again when I thought about how long it had taken me to notice.

After a brief argument about whether it was, in fact, illegal to drum on the subway, during which the drummer tried to be friendly and Crewcut acted increasingly lke a dick on a power trip, the train pulled into 23rd St and the drummer decided to make a break for it.

He had, of course, no chance, because Crewcut had a partner, heretofore hidden, who revealed himself just in time to nab the drummer on the platform. He, the partner, was smirking.

Let us toast the NYPD: To a job well done, to making sure no one puts any positive energy into the subway, ever. Cheers, boys, and thanks.

At 14th St, a decrepit sixty-something-year-old woman boarded and told the heartbreaking story of how she had become homeless, what she was doing to right her life, and why she needed our help.

Nobody gave her a cent. And though she, having just boarded, had missed the earlier scene, she didn’t seem surprised. Just sad.