Subway Stories, Volume 1

Text © Robert Barry Francos
Images to come

In one of my favorite moments from All in the Family, Archie comes home disgruntled. Edith asks concernedly, “What’s the matter, Archie?” He snarls out, “On the whole ride home, I got stuck next to some guy talking to his daughter.” Edith, confused, asks, “What’s wrong with that?” He spits out, “She wasn’t there, Edith!” That’s the thing about New York City: no matter who you are, if you ride the subway you are going to have stories. Here are a few of mine…

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In 1976, as I had stated in an earlier blog, I worked in the West Village at a Baskin-Robbins. Many times I would lock up the place at 11:30, and then ride the train home. If I saw a midnight movie at the Waverly (now the IFC Theater), it was much later. Despite hearing some horror stories, including the murder of the son of one of my mother’s co-workers while riding underground, I was never afraid to ride, generally, though there were moments.

One night, after a movie I was riding home, a small, thin man in his mid-thirties or so got on at the Broadway-Lafayette stop. He was a very drunk African-American man who appeared to be derelict. He stood in the middle of the car, swaying with the train’s rhythm, talking to everyone and no one, slurring at the top of his lungs.

“I’m fuckin’ Jesus, man! I’m god! And I love everybody. That’s right, I love every fuckin’ one of you! I’m the fuckin’ god of peace and love. I’m fuckin’ Jesus, man…”

He continued on and on, past Canal Street and over the bridge. Everyone in the semi-empty car just sat there calmly. The Hassidic woman across from me read her paper, never looking up after the first glance to check the situation out. People continued either sleeping, or trying to do so. I was reading my book, amused by it all, as were some of the people down the car. Except…

As we approached Pacific Street (since changed to Atlantic Avenue/Pacific Street), from the other end of the car a rhythm was generating, as Patti Smith may have said. A huge white guy with a scowl on his face came over to him and yelled at him: “Hey, stop saying you are Jesus! You are going to burn in hell!”

When the doors opened, the big man grabbed the little one by the collar, and full strength threw him out the door. Stumbling, the drunken guy staggered sideways across the whole length of the platform, and if he hadn’t bounced off the column across the way, the momentum would most likely have sailed him right onto the opposite tracks. Stunned, the little man actually shook himself off, looked around confused, and started walking down the platform, hardly aware of the fate he came so close to reaching.

As the train pulled, the big man, who had everyone’s attention at this point, turned and looked around at his fellow passengers in disgust and distain. “You fuckin’ Jews and Italians,” he said in a thick accent, “You are weak and pathetic cowards. You need us fuckin’ Greeks to protect you, since you won’t stand up for yourselves. We fuckin’ Greeks don’t take that shit like you fuckin’ Jews and Italians…” And so on. [Note that I am totally aware this does not reflect on Greeks in general, but this person specifically.]

The Hassidic woman across from me was following the second guy with her eyes, looking over the edge of her newspaper, hoping not to be noticed, scared by his anti-Jewish (among others) rant. When our eyes met – as I did the same hiding with my book – we gave a “Yikes!” look at each other. He continued on with his rant for the next 30 minutes until I got off at my own station. As I walked home, I realized that these guys were identical in their mythology about themselves as saviors of sorts, but it is the difference that is most telling: while the first man was talking about peace and love, and everyone did not feel threatened in any way, the second one had us all edgy with his threats of violence.

* * *
Sometimes, it is the dialog one cannot help overhearing that keeps me amused. One holiday season I heard this exchange:
Woman 1: Y’know what my favorite Christmas movie is? March of the Wooden Robots.
Woman 2: That’s a good one. Me, myself, I like Miracle on 42nd Street.

However, my all time favorite (that I can think of offhand) was one evening on the way back to Brooklyn, I heard these two guys discussing something, and to emphasize his point, one man coda’d his statement with, “All I’m sayin’ is it goes without sayin’.” Brilliant!

* * *
Sitting by the door and heading into Manhattan, two women boarded at the station after mine. One sat by the window diagonally across from me, and the other sat across the train from her, two seats from me. They started talking to each other very loud across the span. After a stop or two, I turned to the one sitting next to me, and said, “You know, if you sat next to each other, you wouldn’t have to scream across the whole train and make everyone in the car have to listen to you.”

She responded, in a thick Spanish accent, “Why don’t you mind your own business?! We have a right to talk!” I said, calmly, “You have every right to talk, and I have every right to complain about you yelling in my ear. Your right does not include annoying every one else who has to listen to you.”

She angrily moved over next to her friend, and they started talking in Spanish, a language I don’t speak, but it was pretty obvious by the way they were looking at me and tipping their heads in my direction, that I was the focus of their discussion. I didn’t care, since it was now at least quiet enough to read my book.

At 34th Street, they both got off, and as they passed me, the one I had the altercation with said to me, “Ass.” Without even looking up, but seeing her peripherally, I said, “puta,” which means “whore,” one of the few words in Spanish I know (growing up in New York, one learns to curse in many languages). Her head whipped around as she walked out the door, as the realization came to her, mistakenly (though I lead her to believe), that I understood everything she and her friend were saying about me in Spanish. She seemed upset about this by the OMG gesture of putting her hand up to her mouth, and as we pulled out of the station, I smiled to myself.

* * *
As I was sitting on the train going home after work, a woman got on playing a DVD device at full volume and no headsets. I believe it was the film, Are We There Yet?, starring Ice Cube. People started grumbling at her, and she said in a loud voice. “I paid my two dollars! I got a right to play to my personal DVD player if I want to!” Gratefully, she got off a few stations later.

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Feel free to write some of your own stories at the comments area of this blog.

The New York City Subway System

Photos from the Internet

Is there any public utility that has such little regard for its survivors…I mean riders than the New York Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA)? Let us look at the subway as an illustration.

What a mismanaged mess so many of us are forced to endure day after day after day. And soon, not only are the fares supposed (read: are) to go up again so soon after last time, but also the MTA has already announced that after the hike, service will still be cut. To what, I’m afraid to ask, because it is already pretty bad. Below are just some examples.

[Graph from gridskipper.com/64518/the-history-of-subway-fare-hikes]
There are so many ways the MTA lies to us. The MTA claims poverty while just a short time ago they had a surplus in the millions. Yet, they refuse to show anyone their accounting ledgers, even to the City – who should just go in and seize them. We have a right to know where our fares to. But transparency and responsibility are just two of the words not in the MTA’s lexicon.

The Authority’s whole “on-time record is based on falsehoods. As anyone in an outer borough knows, unless your station is built as an “express” stop (i.e., build on the center track), to make up time for their lateness, the train will run on the center track, leaving the other riders to wait for the ext one, which could mean 20 minutes more (again, this is before the service cuts). Supposedly, if one is on a late train, one can write down the car number and your boss can check out if it is your fault or not. Of course, most of the time, the train is on time, even if you are not. How do you say to her, “Well, the train was on time, but I’m late because of the train”? The MTA’s on-time record is officially bad, but it is actually much, much worse.

Most of the information is either direct or indirect lies. “There is a train right behind this one,” more often than not, is a wide stretch of the truth, when that train behind may not have even yet left the terminus. And then there is the ultra-vague, “We are being held here by supervision.” How about why we are being held? And how long the delay is expected to last?

And speaking of being held hostage, why are drummers allowed on subway platforms? While I admire the talent it takes to play the instrument, with the large echo common to stations, the snare-cymbal-and-sometimes-bass is exceedingly loud. After a hard day of work, the last thing I need is a drummer pounding his skins. It’s not like one can walk to the other side of the station, because there is no way away from it. Certainly I love a good drum solo, just not in a reverberating tube.

Most of the time, people asking for money or playing an instrument/singing in a subway car, is easy to take, since other than the rare overly aggressive panhandlers, they come and go quickly. This is not so with preachers who will pace a single car for many stops (uptown, I have seen them go from Atlantic-Pacific all the way to 7th Avenue). They usually preach not the Bible but an angry (“Believe as I do, or burn for eternity”) and anti-Semitic (“Adam and Moses betrayed God!”) interpretation of it. If there were some kind of enforcement of the no preaching on government property, that may help, but I have often seen these preachers rant while the Transit Police (TP) navel-gazed close by. Bet the TP would take action if they were yelling and preaching about Islam rather than Jesus.

Speaking of the TP, I have often seen those announced “check backpack” tables with three or four TP standing around and either merrily talking to each other, or on cell phones. Looking back, I have seen them actually looking into a bag once, and that belonged to an African-American in a predominantly white neighborhood. So much for social justice for all.

Why it is that some stations (e.g., 57 Street and 7th Avenue) do not have anyone in the token booth, but do have someone standing around the overcrowded vending machines? Does it not make more sense to have someone in the booth, so both the vending machines are working and cards can be issued, rather than having long lines standing in front of the machines? Also, if a vending machine is broken, and the booth is occupied, why won’t the person sell a single ride? It is not the passengers’ fault these machines are don’t work. I’ve had to walk to another station on another line in a hard rain because of this. While I never have done it, I understand why some people would jump the turnstile in these situations.

While I bring up the topic of transit workers, it is possible to hire people who care about their riders? As noisy and rude as some passengers can be, no one can top transit crews. Whenever I share a car with them, three or four guys will take up a whole section, talk at top volume, shouting at each other across the train, and often use vulgar language no matter who – or how young or old – the people are around them. They should be setting examples, not expressing hostile “ownership.”

We all have horror stories that are commonplace. Like having the train that one needs to transfer to pull out just as the train one is on stops. Just the other day, I was sitting on a train parked in a station for quite a while, and when the train across the way pulled in and opened its doors, that is when my train shut its doors and pulled out. At some point the MTA made announcements saying that even if they wait 30 seconds, it would upset the whole system. That is a lie, because they make us wait anyway. There is no need for trains not to be able to make connections if both trains are across the platform from each other. It is cruelty.

Part of the problem is that those within the MTA who make the decisions about the MTA do not ride the MTA. Rather they ride in town cars paid for by the riders, or get free parking placards and E-Z Passes (and I bet they get reimbursed for gas). When hearings are held by the MTA about rates and services, a long stream of constituents tell of the hardships it will produce while it falls on death and uncaring ears. If I remember correctly, at the last set of such hearings, some members of the Board sent underlings with no power for change in their stead, rather than bothering to go at all, since even they know they do not really care, and the hearings are an empty legal formality and nothing more (as was the term limits hearing for Mike “Mayor of the City; Mayor for some of the City” Bloomberg recently).

Meanwhile, ridership is higher than it has ever been, and there will soon be fewer trains. Is the MTA going to hire people to shove riders into cars, like they do in Japan? We are already treated like cattle, so this step is probably inevitable if they continue in this direction.

Right now, there are some major discretionary expenses for the Subway system, including the 7 line extension to 34th Street/Jacob Javits Center, and the 2nd Avenue line. They should obviously be cut, especially as we are in a recession (thank you, Mr. Bush and fellow “let’s deregulate” Republicans).

One action that I truly believe must be taken is that all executives in the MTA should be mandated that they must experience their own handiwork by riding the subways/buses to and from work, and between meetings. All free rides and privileges should be taken away from them (both for the system and for driving), and make them suffer as we all do.

HAIR-less

All photos from the Internet

A Broadway-bound production of the 40th Anniversary of the “The American Tribal Love-Rock Musical” HAIR has been playing at Joe's Pub in the Park at the Delacorte Theater in Central Park this summer.. The tickets are free, but it is not that simple. But first, a bit of history:

My first memory of the music from HAIR is my older brother coming home, and telling me he had heard this song on some soundtrack at his friend’s house that said, “Oh, say can you see my eyes / Then my hair’s too short,” which he found hilarious. ASoon after that, I was babysitting some “cousins” (friends of my parents kinda thing), and that family had the HAIR Broadway soundtrack. I started listening it to it there (my other musical memory of them is of CCR’s “Bad Moon”). Eventually, of course, I got my own copy of the album, and loved its anti-establishment message (which would be enforced – though transformed – a few short years later by the Ramones, etc.). I would learn that album backwards and forward.

The songs were everywhere, with covers by some top artists like Fifth Dimension (“Aquarius”/”Let the Sun Shine In”), Oliver (“Good Morning Starshine”), and Three Dog Night (“Easy to be Hard”). Through it all, though, I liked the original soundtrack better.

The closest I came to seeing it live was a revival at Queens College while I attended, but of course, it was severely edited (taking out most of the cursing and of course all of the nudity). And the movie was okay, but they totally screwed with the theme by actually putting in a plot, rather than it being sort of freeform and stream of consciousness. I will add, though, Cheryl Barnes’ version of “Easy to Be Hard” in the film is possibly the best-recorded version of it I have heard.

Now there is the production at the Delacorte Theater. My pal Alan Abramowitz, his nephew Alexander, and I decided to see the play. We know we have to go early to get on line. Alan says he’ll be there at 7 AM. Alex says he’s going to be there earlier. I tell Alan I plan to be there around 10 AM to join them in line. I’d just left my job, and wasn’t really in the mood to get out of bed any earlier yet.

When I actually do get to the park around 9 AM, the line was ridiculously long. I started at the beginning, and walked and walked, looking for them, and eventually found them around what is known as “the third fence.” In other words, odds are we would be too far on the line to get tickets, but maybe… People were in blankets, sleeping bags, and even brought along practically entire living room sets, and I was thinking that all the space that was taken by accoutrement could mean less people in front of us than it seemed.

It was the first time I had met Alex, so the three of us hung around on the line and had fun talking. At 12:45, members of the theater organization announced to the line that we should pack up, as the line was going to start moving. We were no more than 100 yards from the box office when they told us it was sold out, including the standby tickets. So we walked to the train and went home.

Alan and Alexander tried again a week or so later, and managed to get in. Alan raved about how good it was.

A few weeks after that, Alan and I decided to try again in September, during the last week of the production. Since he enjoyed it so much he wanted to see it again.

The night before we were to try one more time, I went out to an art show at the Avenue A Japanese Restaurant Gallery. It is one of those holes in the wall places with expensive food, but this exhibition has representations by 45 artists, including the reason I went, which was some photographs by Alyssa Tanchajja (this is her first public show), one of the people I had met at the Punk Temple and still keep in touch with, though loosely. I walked in and saw that there were many media and styles, such as paintings and photos. As I walked around I noticed a series of three photos that were, well, pedestrian and boring. Thankfully, they were not hers. When I finally did locate her two selections, they proved to be quite impressive, and I was not the only one to think so, because one had already sold the first night. I’m very proud of her. Check out the show (which runs through October), and her Website, flickr.com/photos/notjust_airtime. It was also good seeing her again (the previous time was at Monty Love’s last performance).

The next morning, I was out the door at 6:15 AM, and got to Central Park at 7:30. Alan was already there. In fact, at the start we were almost in the exact spot last time when we were told that it was sold out. In other words, we were pretty much a shoe-in. Finally, after some announcements (by some guy who sounded like the person on “Movie-Phone” and looked like a young Cary Ewels) about how if the weather is inclement one cannot use an umbrella in the open-air theater, and that so far only 2 performances have EVER been cancelled at the Delacorte, we got our tickets (I had Entrance 4, Section N, Row N, seat 304).

After walking to Broadway for a quick and dirty lunch, Alan and I went to our respective homes, since after eating it was 2:00 PM, and the show didn’t start until 8:00 PM. On the way home, there was a sick passenger in the next car over, so the train was delayed. And that’s after a more-often-as-time-goes-by 20-minute wait for my train, so I got home just as it was starting to drizzle.

At 5:00 PM, I was on my way, and the drizzle was a bit harder. Another nearly 20-minute wait for my train, and I was back heading uptown. Chug-chug-chug (wait for the N train to pass in front), chug-chug-chug (wait for the B train to get on the bridge first), chug-chug-chug (wait and switch at 59 Street). Though umbrellas aren’t allowed in the theater, there is still the wait outside of it, so I brought one along.

I stood under an awning with many others, trying to avoid the pigeons that were perched just above our heads. Alan showed up shortly after. They were to let us in at 7:40, and the performance to start around 8:00. The rain is slowing down significantly, and we’re keeping our fingers crossed.

We’re waiting, and waiting. 7:40 passes. 8:00 passes. 8:30 passes. My feet are starting to hurt. Around 8:45 or so, they make the announcement that the performance is cancelled, our tickets are worthless (i.e., if we want to see the show, we have to wait in the morning line again), and there is going to be something special for us. I turn to Alan and say, “I bet the cast comes out and does ‘Aquarius’.” Sure enough they do, but way by Gate 1 rather than in the center, and we can NOT see anything; we can barely hear it. Woo-hoo.

With that, we trudge toward the subway. The way is packed with disappointed people, so we know getting on the subway by the park will be a horror show of crowds, so we walk over to Broadway in the light rain, up to 86 Street (hoping to find someplace inexpensive to eat, which there wasn’t), and then home.

The show’s run is now over as of this weekend at the Delacorte, so there really is no point in trying to get tickets again, and I for one do not want to waste another day. Alan says he is going to try to turn in his ticket to the Broadway Theater box office, hoping for a discount, but I’d be shocked if that happens. I just hope they don’t sic the dogs on him.

Hanging out with Alan was fun, as it usually is, but man, I could have done so much more with the day.

The Faustian Bargain of Cell Phones

Images taken from Internet

The omnipresent cell phone has proven to be a true Faustian bargain, a term that social critic Neil Postman used to describe a role of technology. As an axiom of Media Ecology posits, when a technology is introduced into a culture, the culture not only cannot go back, but that the new technology does not change any one thing, it changes everything.

It is not that cell phones exist that is a problem. In fact, I can cite a number of times it has proven quite useful, such as when trying to locate pals, help when directions are needed, calls for emergency help, or in one case I know of personally, a cell phone camera has helped an activist friend prove a case of false arrest.

The problem lies in the difference between publicly needing and wanting to make a call. All those people who used to ride public transportation and basically spend the ride staring at their nails are now either on the phone loudly chatting with no purpose other than to kill time, or sitting with a blank stare holding their still phones tightly in their hands as if it were some fetish object, or religious icon. Certainly it has taken the place of the rosary and worry beads.

We all have stories of inappropriate behavior mixed with TMI. Cases in point for me include a woman angrily yelling at her husband for leaving rehab and spending their money buying drugs when there were already some in their apartment, and one guy whining to a pal that if he doesn’t get $12,000 to “Vinny,” he’ll never be caught up with the interest, which would be disastrous for his own knees.

Of course, the biggest issue is not content, but rather a mix of context (spatial or semantic environment) and volume. Certainly, if one is in public – and as a comedian once pointed out, there is no privacy in public – if one must scream on a phone to be heard, than one should not be on the phone at all.

The New York MTA is going to have the subway stations, and then the tunnels, wired for cell phone use “in case of an emergency” (i.e., fear of terrorism). An easy solution is to just have it wired to accept 911 calls, but there is no financial gain in that, as it is the telephone companies, who stand to gain the most reward, who are going to do the wiring.

While the noise pollution toll is heavy, so is the body politic. How one uses their own physicality when in relation/ship with a cell phone can also prove problematic. The day I write this, I was exiting a subway stop, and the line to get up the stairs was blocked by someone climbing very slowly because he was checking his phone. Waiting the 30 literal seconds to climb the stairs was too much to wait; it was certainly more important for this person to slow up 100 people behind him because he could not wait, even for one flight of stairs.

We’ve all seen the weaving and/or slow drivers on the road. Used to be it was usually the classic “old man in a hat,” but now it is the person deeply engaged with someone not present. The scariest case of this I’ve encountered was when I saw a huge Yukon style SUV often sliding into my lane in front of me. As I sped up to pass this scary vehicle, I glanced over and saw the woman driving: she had a cell phone cradled in her neck. A cup of coffee in her right hand, and a cigarette in her left, while she drove this tank with two fingers.

There is also the proximity of the polluter and the pollutee. Sitting on a subway car at the end seat by the door, I’ve had people hold onto the overhead bar and lean right next to my head, or leaning on the door facing me, yelling into a phone. When asked to not do that, they get huffy, or pretend not to hear, or even threaten me, the person who is stuck there, forced to listen to this volumous talk right into my ear. After all, in their mind, they’ve paid their $2 and so have earned the right to be abusive.

It needs to be socially acceptable to say, “Please stop yelling in my ear.” There is nothing in that request that is a personal affront to the speaker; it is simply a request not to be disrespected.

At times when parts of eateries were set aside for smokers, I remember seeing a one-panel cartoon titled “How smokers view restaurants.” The image was of a room with one part that had a sign that said, “Smoking Section,” and as if by magic, the smoke only stayed on their side. Public cell phone users seem to practice this, as if they are the only ones who are affected by their noise. And don’t get me started with the T-Mobile walkie-talkie style phones. I hope I never meet the person who invented that little piece of modern communication. He will certainly get an earful from me, during which I will interrupt each sentence with a blearing electronic sound.

There is a man who rides the Long Island Rail Road who has quite famously been ferocious with the rude and the loud. He has yelled at people, gotten into physical fights, and even threw coffee in people’s faces. While I agree with his argument about the lack of necessity of the interruption, the excessive methods employed by this ex-police officer are equally abusive, if not more so. Asking someone not to be rude is not the same as assault.

I once commented to my brother that the start of this whole public lack of regard as far as sound stems from the VCR. My argument is that people got used to talking during films that were being played in their own living room, especially those who grew up with the medium, so it was a natural transition to be talking in theaters. This led the way for people to feel natural conversational in public, which was exacerbated by the cell phone.

He disagreed. What he felt was the turning point was the pre-Walkman boom box, where people started blasting music in public spaces, making disregard for others’ silence moot. I believe my statement is truer, because while the boom box is “others” making noise (the music), talking during a pre-recorded film is more a personal “expression,” if you will.

Mostly, though, I think we are both correct. Both the VCR and boom box had a cultural effect and affect. Whether the expansion of cell phones is to the positive or the negative is in the hands of whomever is in control of that supposedly personal technology, which has changed everything.