I have a love/hate relationship with commuting. This is to say: I love the places where I commute to, but I hate the commutes.
It all began last year during my high school’s senior internship program. I was so happy to work at a famous independent bookstore, despite it being a 45-minute drive away. My naive bliss lasted all of three days, for, on the Thursday of my first week, I got in an accident on I-95.
This year, I was over the moon again when I got a summer internship in New York City. That was until my dad, a former commuter himself, began to tell me horror stories. I shrugged him off; he was just being pessimistic. He spent 20 years commuting, of course, he’s scorned. I had to drive through New Haven under construction every day, I thought, I can survive a train ride.
In the ten weeks that I've been commuting in and out of the city, I found that I was so wrong. I was not prepared in the slightest for the lessons I have learned or the people I have encountered. The notes I kept on my phone just scraped the surface of what I experienced on a daily basis, but nonetheless, the following anecdotes provide a strong representation of my summer -- and hopefully a laugh as well.
What to Expect When You Find Yourself in the Booze Car
When I was younger, I was always told not to turn my music up too loud or I would damage my hearing.
Yet, there was not a volume level high enough on my headphones that would drown out these people. Taking up two six seaters and evidently in cahoots with the conductor, it was clear that this was a fairly common occurrence. I lost count of the alcoholic beverages passed around and consumed after wine bottle #2 and the fourth can of beer the guy in my immediate eye-line drank.
When you’re trapped in the booze car, the only thing you can do is pray for salvation and no delays.
Things You Realize When You See Your Future Self On the Subway
- You're going to be stylish as hell well into your 50's and probably even your 60's.
- You're also going to be that asshole who spritzed her face with Evian mist on the 6.
- But you’re still going to have great taste in hand bags!
The Private Seat and How I Made Friends
In every new Metro North train car, there is a tiny alcove seat that is coveted on crowded commuter trains. Very rarely have I been able to grab one faster enough, and each time I fear it'll be like the first time I ever got one: crammed against some aggravated Buzzfeed writer after he asked me to share the not-quite-two-seater like he was asking for water in Death Valley.
One Friday, however, I made it to the 5:41 at 5:15 and got the first pick of seats. Of course, I immediately flocked to the first private seat I could find.
Ecstatic following my success, I took a Snapchat to send to my friend and fellow commuter. When I turned to look around the glorious wall separating me from everyone else, I saw a man staring at me and chuckling to himself. Realizing the scene, I couldn't help but laugh too, albeit with an incredible amount of shame.
Potentially seeing my pain and pitying me that much more, he congratulated me on the seat. I told him who the picture was for, just in case he thought I was crazy. As he turned away, a third voice out of view piped up and asked, "Taking a picture of the private seat? Nice." I sank back into my seat, alone and now completely validated.
Wally
Twice a week after work, I would walk down two streets and go to spin class. Classes at Flywheel, just at any cult-like cycling studio, are designed for you to physically sweat the devil out of your body. That, and the whole pizza you ate last night… and the Shake Shack you convinced your family to get a few days ago… and then the Shake Shack you got on your own…
Anyway, you walk out of a Flywheel feeling like you just stepped out of the world’s smelliest shower. Then, if you’re me in this situation, you have to book it three blocks to catch a subway in time to catch the last semi-express train home. By the time you reach the platform, you’re really sweating.
As I quite literally fell into a seat on the 6:49 train at 6:47, out of breath and sopping wet, the man across from me has the gall to look at me and chuckle.
“Hot one out today, huh?”
Now, this takes me a minute to process, mostly because I'm not really breathing at this point and also because I have had minimal human interaction within the past four hours between reading alone at my desk and acting as aloof and cool as everyone else in my studio. Then I realize: this man has taken one look at me and decided I sweat this much on an average day. He thinks this inhumane glisten coating my whole body is natural.
I can’t help but think of a moment in the episode of It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia where “Nosy Wally” always talks about the weather.
Now, I look at this man, and I think, “Sir, I paid $35 for this sweat. I got my highest Torq score tonight, I burned over 700 calories in less than an hour, I fought for that double locker so I had enough space for BOTH of my bags, I Usain BOLTED for this train. I am a champion, so watch how you speak to me!”
But I say, like a buffoon, “Ha ha. Nooooo, I just came from exercise class.” That showed him.
An Open Letter To the Guy Who Tried to Make Conversation With Me
Don't do that.
The One When The Guy Next To Me FaceTimed His Kids
There was no way this was not a prank TV show.
It was a silent car. I didn't even have to put headphones in while I read my book. I was thriving. And then we got out of the tunnel.
It would have been topically annoying if the man seated next to me had taken one phone call. After the second, I thought it couldn't get much worse. When he FaceTimed his family so that they could see the world passing through the windows, he also managed to capture every single passenger in his panoramic coverage of our car. Somehow, this man made as much noise as all twelve drunks in the booze car and made me as physically uncomfortable as a guy who sat next to me that may or may not have had lice (also in the booze car).
If someone had told me it was filmed, I would not have been surprised.
What Do You Do When Someone Sits on You?
Nothing. You were here first. It's not your fault there's more space in the seat behind you; he really just had to make your life difficult and then patronizingly call you honey and then sit on you. Stay strong. You can make it through this.
The History of My Almost Lover
It started on the train one morning. We kept making eye contact. He closed his eyes when I caught him looking. I glanced away when he turned to face me. We both passed out at the same time.
I thought it was over until I spotted him again on the subway platform. It’s obviously meant to be, I thought to myself. Trading glances, we packed into the same car. We moved closer and closer to each other until a sharply dressed man and his overly-excited-for-8:30-a.m. 5-year-old ballerina daughter divided me and my new fiancé. Our relationship held strong despite this new strain… but then tragedy struck.
As our subway jerked to a stop and the doors opened at 28th Street- the stop just before mine- my husband of 25 years got out without even saying goodbye.
“Bitch,” I whispered to myself, just loud enough for the 5-year-old to wonder if I was talking to her. Then I got off at 23rd and went to work.
