Tag Archives: subway

Pointless Nostalgia

If You See Something

Earlier this year, on one of the first nice weekends of the spring, me and my family decided to venture out of the house so we would hopefully no longer be tempted to murder one another. It was that kind of winter.

Unfortunately, everyone else in the city decided to do the same thing. So we waited forever for a bus to take us to Queensboro Plaza hoping to take the N/R into Manhattan, only to find the platform packed three deep with scrambling, antsy folks who’d clearly been waiting for quite some time. After a ridiculously long winter, the mild, almost-70-degree temperatures felt downright balmy. Everyone was a little sweaty and nervous and pushy. Especially me, as I tried to keep my daughter from running around the platform and zipping toward the third rail like a magnet.

And while I was trying to corral her, I noticed something odd: A large suitcase sitting on the edge of the subway platform, in the yellow space where you’re technically not supposed to stand. It was the wheeled kind, designed to be dragged behind you as you run through an airport or knock pedestrians over on a busy street while you talk on the phone. Its retractable handle was fully extended. The reason it stood out is because on this crowded platform, it was all by itself. No one was standing near it. The suitcase had either been accidentally abandoned or was left there on purpose.

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NYC

The Return of the Fashion Ninjas!

About a month ago, I wrote about seeing a young lady in the 14th Street subway tunnel between the L and the 1-2-3, who wore a t-shirt with a fashionistia/fascist slogan: THOSE WHO SACRIFICE BEAUTY FOR EFFICIENCY GET WHAT THEY DESERVE.. Her outfit and aggressive manner of zipping through the corridor made me think she was part of some secret, fabulous paramilitary organization.

However, I’d completely forgotten about her until this morning. I was in the same tunnel, beginning my walk from one train to the other, when I was passed on left by a girl much like the one I saw not too long ago: in workout clothes, on her way to or from the gym, hair done up in a neat, tight ponytail. Completely, disgustingly toned and tanned and young and extremely aware of this fact. I’m not sure it wasn’t the same girl. A millisecond later, I was passed on the right by a nearly identical girl, also in gym gear. They converged in front of me, linked arms, and forged ahead with speed and determination. Other pedestrians parted for them without even seeing them; others could just feel them approach from behind and gave way in fear.

I searched my memory to try and think if I’d ever seen something like this before. There are, of course, those infuriating times when you’re stuck behind a group of slow-walking people strolling in tandem. But I couldn’t recall ever seeing two people actually link up like this, and for the purposes of going faster.

I couldn’t think about this for more than a few seconds before I had the sensation of someone trying to pass me again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another girl to my right. Down in the tunnel, people are always passing one another, trying to get out in front of the slow, the slightly slow, and the just not fast enough. It’s the law of the jungle down there–pass or be passed.

My first inclination was similar to that I get when driving and someone wants to pass me: I feel vaguely insulted and want to speed up. (The operative words being “want to”; my car’s ability to speed up is severely limited.) But before I could even think about doing so, the girl was past me. Once she was past me, I saw that she not only in gym clothes, but she too had linked arms with another girl.

The two sped up ferociously and caught up to the first pair, filing behind them, like ranks in a military parade. Together, they dashed through the tunnel with brutal efficiency. In no more than 10 seconds, they were completely out of sight.

I was totally joking before about there being a silent army of La Femme Nikitas. But guys? Now I’m a little scared.

NYC

Beauty Knows No Pain

Part of my morning commute usually involves trekking through the tunnel between the Sixth Avenue L train station and the 14th Street 1-2-3 station. It’s like a supercollider powered by anger, all the individual particles seeing just how fast they can zip around each other from urine-soaked end to another.

This morning, as I ascended the stairs from the L platform, I spotted a young lady whose outfit–particularly, a pair of tiny shorts–suggested she was on her way to or from the gym. If the clothing didn’t give this away, her bearing would have. Her hair was up in that kind of ponytail that only women at the gym have–short, severe, yet completely symmetrical and untouched. And she just carried herself in this very athletic “I’m in great shape” manner. I sensed a scooped-out bagel in her immediate future.

None of this is remarkable. The back of her shirt, however, was. She wore a bright red tee with white writing that read:

THOSE WHO SACRIFICE BEAUTY FOR EFFICIENCY
GET WHAT THEY DESERVE.

Holy crap! I haven’t heard a slogan that confrontational since “It’s Nerf or nothing.”

Words like this shouldn’t be on t-shirts. They should be hanging from the rafters during a fascist rally, in a country with a military junta led by Anna Wintour. Is there a paramilitary organization I don’t know about, filled with perfectly toned female assassins who can kill a man with their thighs and look wonderful while doing it?

In truth, this quasi-Ayn Rand-ian trope was followed by a URL for what appears to be an A/V systems integration firm in North Carolina. Nothing about their Web site suggests they are training an unholy army of the night to murder us all fabulously in our sleep. But then again, that’s what they’d like us to believe, isn’t it?