Notes from the Underground

Anybody who's anybody knows that the New York City subway system is no ordinary place. Spend just a single day riding one of the many trains belonging to the MTA's color-coded spectrum, and you're bound to come out with at least one interesting story or two. (Or three. Or ten.)

These stories can be good: happy, cheerful, uplifting. Perhaps you had the pleasure of listening to a three-piece Mexican mariachi band play a few numbers right in the middle of the train car, complete with cowboy hats and bow ties. Or maybe you watched a seven-foot-tall tattooed punk rocker give up his seat to the pregnant woman who already had a child glued to her hand. There are many little miracles that happen underground.

Unfortunately, the subway can also bring out the ugly in New Yorkers (unless the ugly was there all along, of course). And lately, I see more and more of it.

This past summer I've witnessed a noticeably increase in the amount of nasty confrontations and hostile behavior that take place on and around the subway. These bizarre blowups happen fast-- in a number of seconds-- and they turn scary in an instant.

In the Union Square N/R/Q/W train station a few weeks ago, a white man and a black woman were arguing (I didn't see the incident that sparked the fight). He hurled the N-word at her, and she called him a "f-ng white bastard." This was all in front of the woman's daughter, who remained completely silent and couldn't have been older than ten.

Then, on the Q train, I heard a woman across the car tell a man that she would pull out a knife and start "shaking it all over, God damn it" if he brushed against her one more time. Whether or not the physical contact had been accidental, I don't know.

And today, a man began addressing an invisible opponent on the Q. Every other utterance out of his mouth was a curse word of some sort. He had a small child at his side-- the boy's feet were too short to touch the ground from his seat-- that I assumed to be his son. The man even got up at one point and attempted to open the door that separates one car from the next (which any Q train user knows are always kept locked). I could feel the droplets of sweat forming on my neck when the man suddenly exited the train at Newkirk Avenue to switch to the oncoming B express, dragging the boy behind him. The image of that kid being pulled away like a rag doll wouldn't leave my head until all traces of light disappeared, and we were swallowed up into the underground tunnel to 7th Avenue.

So what is it that makes rationality go out the window and cause subway-goers to lose control-- aside from the obvious possibility of mental illness or emotional instability?

Claustrophobia and impatience may be at work. Every day, we pack ourselves onto crowded trains, giving up personal space and privacy in exchange for a [relatively] speedy commute. All of that stored energy squished together just can't remain inert for too long. At some point it fizzes up, bubbles over and, as witnessed, explodes all over the place. Gross.

On the subway, too many human bodies become forced to do something that we're supposed to learn on Day 1 of preschool: share.

Ultimately though, as a collective community of commuting New Yorkers (how's that for alliteration?), we all have to take the train together. Therefore, play nice, or don't play at all. A conscious effort of increased self-restraint and courtesy towards our fellow straphangers may do the trick, no matter how much you want to punch out the oversized guy who's practically sitting on your leg in the seat next to you. (Then again, speaking of courteous, it would be kind if he moved just an inch over.) Or else, don't buy a Metrocard in the first place. The $2.25 fare won't be worth it.