The Subway

Luke Gernert

I am standing in the subway beneath Grand Central, waiting for the 6 train to Union Square. I feel like I’m standing on top of a mountain, but not in the good, refreshing, spearmint gum commercial kind of way. The wind coming from the tunnel is blowing my hair around, and the sound is almost deafening, a constant blast of somewhere-deep-inside-that-tunnel-a-giant-heap-of-metal-is-hurtling-toward-you-at-high-speed. I am alone, but I am not alone. In New York, there is no such thing as alone. In New York, alone is at most a feeling that cautiously creeps into the back of your mind, testing the water, thinking perhaps it will catch your attention, when all of the sudden you look up and realize there are 8 million people surrounding you, in every direction, at all times. Alone is scared off by the stranger bumping into you on the street, or the smell of hot dogs, or the incessant roar of trucks, cars, planes, trains, motorcycles, helicopters, and energy.

I am alone, only in the sense that nobody nearby is a direct acquaintance of mine. But I am certainly not alone. A few feet to my left is an Asian girl – my guess would be Japanese – texting furiously on the same kind of phone that I have. To my right is a small family of Hispanics, just a mother, a father, and a son, all dressed in stained and torn clothing. Over the din of life happening all around me, I can just barely hear a businessman arguing with someone on the other end of a phone call. We are all together standing there on the subway platform, together in staring at our feet and avoiding eye contact. We are together in our growing annoyance that the train is taking so long; I can see it in the way people start shuffling around and looking at their watches.

A rat appears on the tracks. Most of us disinterestedly glance at it, then go back to whatever we were doing before. I keep watching it, only because it is more interesting than my shoes. The family of Hispanics is more excited than anyone is, pointing and whispering to each other. They must be new here.

Above the sound of people and the tunnel wind and the constant drone of machines, it is impossible to make out the words of the crackly voice that comes onto the intercom to make some announcement about the train. I wonder briefly if it was an important announcement, but then the train finally arrives, and we all surge in through the sliding doors. The car is full to bursting, and we are all packed together many times closer than would be acceptable in any other setting.

The doors close, and suddenly I am in a new place. No more wind, no more buzz of machinery, just people talking quietly and the rhythmic bump of the train rolling over the tracks. On the way to the next stop, we all listen to two construction workers talking about everything they can think of that can be described as “bullshit.” Our attention wavers as the old man standing across from me leans over to the college student standing next to him and says something in a voice too low to make out. The college kid laughs and replies, “Call me David Copperfield.” The old man grins. I wish I had read that book so I could understand the reference. Everyone is subtly intrigued by this interaction; the college kid was already on the train and the old man got on at Grand Central, so they almost certainly do not know each other. The train reaches the next stop, and they both happen to be getting off. They continue their conversation as they walk out onto the platform.

We are all very mildly amazed at what has just occurred. They broke the seal, transcending the state of collective aloneness that the rest of us are bound by to reach a new state, informal camaraderie. It’s a rare sight.

“Huh,” grunts the man standing to my left. A couple other people shrug, or raise their eyebrows. Everyone glances around, confirming with each other that we are all pretty sure those two didn’t know each other before they got on the train. We all agree silently that they did not.

As the signal begins to beep indicating that the train is about to leave, an old woman quickly steps into the car. Her outfit is very tight and revealing, which is strange for someone her age. She must be at least 70. She walks to the middle of the car and takes a seat, looking down but basking in the collective attention of almost every single person in the car. Again, we all glance around, eyebrows raised, confirming that this is indeed a strange sight. Certainly not something you see everyday. Nothing to write home about, but enough to share with another alone person standing across the car from you. I catch the eye of one 30-something-year-old man dressed in a suit with a fedora hat and a fancy briefcase. He gives the old lady a second look, then shrugs, as if to say, “Eh. I might. Maybe if I had a couple beers in me.” I raise my eyebrows, and he shrugs again. He’s never going to see me again. He has nothing to hide. The doors close, and we move on.