There’s this announcement that plays on the subway: “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.” It’s not a rule. Just a suggestion. A kid wedges his foot in anyway. I’ve done it too. But today, the conductor was done playing nice.
I hadn’t seen a proper scolding in years. This one? Full-throated. “Next time I’ll drag you to Times Square with your foot stuck. Let’s see who’s laughing then.” The kid didn’t flinch. AirPods in. He shrugged a lazy “sorry.”
I apologized. Not sure who to. Felt like someone should.
I like the subway. Morning express, Bronx to Manhattan. This is real New York1, not some artisinal Brooklyn-based, climbing-gym, hot-yoga-going—well, whatever they’re playing at.
Our train is packed, shoulder-to-shoulder from 4am until 8:30. By then, the neo-Yuppies are only just hitting snooze. In my traincar, we wear Carhartt to work. Not brunch. And not with a Baggu. We face forward. No headphones, no books. You’re not fooling anyone with your dog-eared Ulysses—couldn’t read that thing in a monastery, let alone here.
A blank mind is best. Unless I’m restless—then I StreetEasy. One bar of 5G as we whir past the local stops, just enough to load the next SoHo listing. $4,000 for a studio with in-building laundry? “What a steal!!” I whisper to the churro lady beside me. She’s dozing off on her cart. Every few stops, it rolls forward; she yanks it back without opening her eyes. I murmur sorry when it accidentally brushes my knee.
This morning, I watched a tall gentleman solve a Rubik’s cube with nothing but willpower. No moves, no tricks. He looked like Will Smith: herringbone coat, paint splatters, 3M ear protection. Pursuit of Happyness, but underground. Hipster girls would eat up his chaos, their dream aesthetic. But they’re not here, and that makes it more magical.
I transfer at Times Square.2
It’s not so bad. I sprint through the station to the next train. Like that weird nerd from middle school, gripping my backpack straps to my chest. Two steps at a time up and down through the tunnels. I almost knock over a mom who stops dead at the foot of the stairs to check Google Maps. I steady her, say sorry, then slide her my secret pizza tip. Her kids’ll love it: Sbarro!
One more train, just a few stops. The platform smells like manure. Worse than usual. I open the MTA app, live chat connects me to Kierra. I apologize for disturbing her so early in the morning. She escalated my smell report! Wow, I really am a good guy.
At the office, the kids next door zip through their luxury high-rise lobby on Razor scooters, right past the “No Riding” sign like it’s decoration. Dumping them in a heap, the doorman scoops them up while the driver buckles the kids into the Uber black.
Their commute: ten seconds. Mine, thirty minutes. I hate to admit it. I’m jealous. Not just of their park-side real estate.
But if they lived uptown with my subway crowd, I like to think they’d be no different. Maybe they’d wedge a foot in the subway door, too. Maybe they’d get the Riot Act—and shrug.
Me? I’d still be the one apologizing. Not sure to whom. The door? The conductor? The doorman? Doesn’t matter. I’d say sorry anyway. Just feels right.
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