Transit

We rode the New York City subway system regularly when we were growing up. My mother took decades’ worth of rides on the L from Brooklyn to Manhattan and back. She was a secretary, and worked for a real estate company, lawyers, an investment firm. She wore makeup, had her hair done, and dressed up in attire one might now wear to a fancy cocktail party or a wedding. My sister and I infrequently went with her to work. Or we took the trains to the beach. Or to a play, or museum, or shopping at one of the many department stores in downtown Brooklyn or the city. As an adult, I rode the subway to visit grandparents in Flatbush and Coney Island. I rode to Hunter College. Often during rush hour I had to force my way onto the overstuffed car. I recall standing on a crowded platform reviewing material for an astronomy course that fulfilled my science requirement. That review earned me an A, as the question, about some astral life cycle, was on the exam. I loved riding the trains. Never got motion sick the way I did on buses and cars. The rocking lull, the roaring song, the underground journey from station to station, light to dark, dark to light, nothingness then somethingness then nothingness shrieking past the windows, the sudden lurch to a stop, the creeping acceleration, was as good as a best friend who always wants to hold hands. There was an endless variety of bodies holding themselves in an endless variety of ways. Often it was difficult to stay awake; on many a ride I slept the sleep of the dead, while honing the twin skills of not falling out of the seat or missing the stop. For awake times, there was an endless supply of reading material in the form of ads that ran the length of either side of every car. The photo is of the piece of framed subway art, from the time when art on the trains was a thing and my sister knew someone who knew someone. My severely handicapped, mentally retarded uncle also rode the subway. He rode on weekdays to a job in the northernmost part of the Village. I think he folded packing boxes. He rode for free, was known by and knew most of the token collectors by name, and could navigate the system like he’d designed it. He was loud and physically aggressive at times with my sister and me. I never ran into him on the train, though I worried I would. When we were little, our mother told us if either of us ever got separated from her on the train, we should get off at the next stop and wait there. She would come back and find us. I don’t know why, but I was never scared that would happen, and it never did. I wish I could remember the first time I rode the subway by myself. It must really have been something.