My rides on the subway have become much shorter since I quit my first job and started working across town, nevertheless, traveling on the Green Line is still an adventure in itself. This train would be exciting, and slightly terrifying, even if it were empty. It reminds me a lot of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, only on that attraction, you know your going to reach your destination alive and in one piece.
At North Station the C train to Cleveland Circle was virtually empty so I grabbed a seat by the door and tried to focus on my daydreams while I listened to “In Too Deep” by Genesis. I think I actually like Phil Collins but every time I hear this song my brain goes straight to the Christian Bale monologue in American Psycho. I have to restrain myself from turning to a stranger next to me and asking, “Do you like Phil Collins?” I like this song, but thinking about that scene in the movie just makes me want to listen to Sussudio while making hookers dance and chopping people up, but I am dedicated to my iPod’s shuffle setting and ignore my impulse.
At Government Center the train begins to fill up with Sox fans due to the three game home stand about to start down in Fenway. Two of the only people boarding the train not drenched from head to toe in Red Sox gear caught my attention, I guess technically it was four people: A husband and wife and their two young twins. Each of the parents had a sibling strapped to the front of them. My keen observational skills kicked in as I concluded that one was a boy and one was a girl. I guess my first clue would have to be the huge blue and pink helmets the two kids were wearing. I don’t know what these things were for but they looked like hallowed out bowling balls. Maybe they had misshapen heads or something and needed some sort of humanized meat baller to smooth them out.
At Park Street the train tried to squeeze in even more Bo-Sox fans. I had no obligation to give up my seat to anyone else due to the fact I had the window and the guy next to me had first dibs at being polite, sweet! The last lady on the train took her place on the first step right in front of me at the doors. She is an older lady dressed in all brown from top to bottom. It appeared she was wearing hand crafted shoes, a trench coat that was so badly stained it could pass as two toned camouflage and a knit beanie that was holding in massive amounts of dreadlocks. Her lips are moving but I don’t care, Gladys Knight & The Pips start singing “Midnight Train to Georgia,” which I am sure is much more relaxing than whatever this lady is saying. I can’t believe how many songs I have about trains; “Peace Train,” “Train in the Distance,” “Train with no Love,” etc, etc. The bizarre thing is that they all seem to come on when I’m actually on a train. Steve Jobs is a genius.
Just as the conversation with myself was getting interesting, the music in my headphones abruptly cut out and the sounds of the subway came alive. Instantly the woman’s message was no longer muted, she was coming in loud and clear. In a slow, deep, mono-toned voice she repeated over and over and over, “Jesus saves, Jesus died for you, pay day is coming.”
I must have leaned against the pause button or something. I fish my MP3 player out of my pocket hoping to re-enter my bubble of solitude. The reality of my situation becomes clear as I try over and over to resuscitate my iPod, but with no luck, she’s dead. Now I am stuck listening to this lady and trying to avoid eye contact.
“Jesus saves, Jesus died for you, pay day is coming.” This is an uncomfortable train. Nobody dares to make eye contact with the lady or each other, and nobody is talking, well, one person is.
I think she means judgment day, she should know that pay day, in this day and age, is usually thought of as a positive experience. The more she repeats that “pay day” is coming, the more the travelers seem to smile, and agree. Someone should explain this to her. This lady is preaching so much that the Pope himself would say “Hey, take it easy lady.”
Then somebody breaks the silence. The long gangly fellow behind the woman opens his mouth; “You know, some people say Obama saves.” As if all of the passengers were going off the same script, a gigantic moan compiled of a mixture of “come on man” and “oh god” filled the train. This opened the floodgates, the woman turned around and unleashed a plethora of new religious facts and phrases, nobody had any sympathy for the man. I’m sure glad I didn’t say anything, this guy is getting reamed.
The woman takes a break from her freestyle rant and returns to her comfort zone, “Jesus saves, Jesus died for you, pay day is coming.” This ride has been absolutely dripping with awkwardness, the guy standing next to me, who looks like J-Lo’s boyfriend from Selena, steps aside for me as I start working my way to the door at Hynes Convention Center. He looks at me and calmly states, “My name is Jesus.” I can’t do anything but laugh. That must of been brewing inside of him the entire ride.
So let me emphasize before I begin my most recent subway adventure that I am no racist. Don’t get me wrong, I find Daniel Tosh extremely entertaining, but with me, everybody starts with a clean slate no matter what kind of shell they are in; white, black, yellow, green, hairy, fat, skinny, zitty, smelly and stupid people alike, all have a fair and equal chance of pissing me off. That being said, when I got on the green line I couldn’t help but notice I was one of the only white guys on the whole train, and I can guarantee that I was the only person with “Pump Up The Jam” on the iPod too, probably in the entire city, hell, now that I think about it, I was probably the only person in the whole world listening to it at that exact moment.
We were cramped. This had to be the most crowded subway ride to date. I had physical contact with at least 5 different people simultaneously. The train was packed so tight that I watched a man at Boylston wait for the doors to open and attempt to shimmy his way on the train only to give up and watch the doors shut in his face. The best part was that nobody would make eye contact with him or even acknowledge his feeble attempts to communicate his urgency to catch this particular train. At Arlington the train emptied a little, not enough to make it comfortable by any means, but the extra breathing room was appreciated. Keeping to myself, I focused on a little bit of discolored, lets call it water, slowly trickling down the grooves of the subway floor. It was calming, it was peaceful, it was my own little subway cesspool Zen garden accompanied by Paul Simon. Just as I was on the brink of a deep, awkward, germ-ridden meditation, I was startled by a blurred mass flying through the subway door.
Three slightly thugged out dudes straight out of Nellyville were rushing to make the train. The first two reached the train incident free, sporting Phillies caps with all the stickers still neatly attached, Adidas shell toes, jeans and plain white tank tops. The third and final member of the crew, dressed identically but with a Brewers cap, was not so graceful, It all happened in slow motion; yet I could do nothing about it. With one hand on the handle, and the other fishing deep in my pocket, my defenses were down as the guy came rushing for the door. He leaped over the step and overshot his landing, giving me a decent little shoulder check clean knocking “St. Judy’s Comet” out of my ear and sending me half a step down and bumping the doughy stranger behind me.
As I turned to look I was very careful not to make a confrontational face and appear like I wanted to throw down, but I still wanted to communicate that I was extremely irritated by the way this guy barreled into me. To his credit, the linebacker looked down at me, and actually gave a half-assed attempt to catch me, and said,
“Aww, Shit! Sorry white guy.”
In my three months of living on the east coast I have said zero words to strangers on the subway, and why I chose this moment to start eludes me, but the only thing that seemed appropriate, came out of my mouth.
“It’s alright black guy.”
As soon as the words were half way across my lips, I knew I had about a 50-50 chance of getting my ass royally handed to me. I know it probably wasn’t the most politically correct thing to say, but I felt it was an appropriate response to his comment. Without even letting the words sink into their brains, the two friends erupted like two audience members at a Def Comedy Jam show. These weren’t even laughs, they were screams, these two guys started laughing, crying, hugging and shoving their friend and calling him “black guy.” I couldn’t help but feel elated that I wasn’t being jumped. The linebacker who was smiling and laughing put his hand out to me.
Oh shit, he wants to do a handshake/slap/finger/snap thing. Fuck! I always screw these up. I never know what different shakes and greetings different people, from different places and backgrounds are going to do. When I’m behind the bar I always force people just to give me a firm handshake, but I know that is not going to fly here. Should I let him lead? Perhaps I’m over thinking this. As I extend my hand he grabs it almost like a regular shake, but it turns into the righteous flip grip one armed man hug. I did it flawless! Yes! I was feeling the love as we approached North Station and it seemed fitting that Snoop Dogg’s “Lodi Dodi” had just started.
All three of them were still chuckling at the incident and busting my chops as I left the train, “See ya later white guy!”
I wasn’t about to press my luck.
Now that I am working in the city, and no longer looking for work, my commute times and my travel companions are very different. I get a slightly more “wholesome” group in the morning, and a much more exotic batch when it comes to my return trip. This of course makes for very different, but still very entertaining subway adventures.
Boarding the train at Alewife I was joined by a Japanese family and 3 separate solo travelers. The family consisted of a mother, father and two boys. The older brother was probably around 12 years old while the younger around 7. Immediately I was pestered by the little one. He was running around the train and shoving his little face right over my shoulder as I was trying to study.
“Why the hell did I forget my iPod today?”
This kid is loud…and annoying. He is scampering around the train screaming and running into complete strangers.
I was strategically going through the scenario in my head. Visualizing the kid coming at me just a little too close, I was planned on an “accidental” nudge of foot… not to hurt the kid, but just enough to cross his feet up and put him down.
Don’t get me wrong, I love kids, and believe it or not I respect them. In fact I respect kids so much that I believe they should be treated like everyone else. It is something that I feel Larry David does quite brilliantly.
However before I had an opportunity to put my sinister plan into motion, the heavens opened up and God himself organized a truly ironic series of events.
The boy made a jump stop right in the middle of the train and took a standard athletic stance.
“Look I’m surfing Dad!”
The father gave a quick unimpressed glance to the boy.
“Make sure you hold on to the pole.”
As soon as the last syllable leaked out of the father’s lips, the train made a sudden jolt on the brakes. The boys’ eyes expanded, and they were looking right into mine. A slow look of elation started to emerge onto my face as I watched the boy glide through the air with almost perfect form. Still in his athletic stance and suspended in mid air, the boy elegantly drifted towards the front of the train until he was stopped abruptly by his fathers leg. After a pretty descent thump on the ground, which always has gross stains and liquids on it, the boy looked up at me, obviously terrified, confused and embarrassed and let the water works start to fly. His Father picked him up to console him as the doors opened at Park street to let me out. No music, no coffee, no red bull, and I have a great bounce in my step. There is nothing like sweet, sweet justice!
On a quicker note, I was entertained by a 4 piece band in the Copley station of teeny bop, Justin Bieberesk boys with a serious “GLEE” influence. They were actually pretty good. But then through the crowd, a tall drink of water emerged wearing tight charcoal pants, pointed cowboy boots, a rolled up camouflage umbrella and sporting a mullet that would make Joe Dirt push Billy Ray Cirus aside just to say “Dang.”
Today was just like every other day on the “T”, only this time I was armed with a pad of paper and a pen. I figured if I am going to write this blog I might as well start taking notes so I can remember the little details and nuances people have. My biggest fear was that now that I am actually posting things online, nothing was going to happen and everyone will be extremely boring and plain. My fears were confirmed from Alewife to Harvard…nothing. I still had the headphones bumpin, “Fighting Blindly” by Sublime from the album Sinsemilla 86’-96’ was playing as I was going over my resume for yet another interview.
At Harvard the music changed as did the scenery on the train. The Flight of the Conchord’s “Motha’uckas” started up right as a bunch of motha’uckas entered my side of the subway car. It was quite the eclectic group; a couple Harvard tennis dudes, some thug lifes, a couple of old grumps and a lady with an insane amount of luggage. Just as the doors were closing an arm jabbed through from the outside and forced a 30 second delay and the doors to reopen. What entered was a man that I was 95% sure was homeless and had been for a while. The man was filthy in the face and hands, wearing a stereotypical tattered flannel shirt, disgusting jeans and dingy worn out running shoes. He was sporting a Red Sox cap (snap back of course) and donning a TJ Maxx plastic shopping bag stuffed to the brim. He sat about 5 seats down from me on my same side and went right to work.
Out of the TJ Maxx bag the vagrant pulled out a square packaged collared shirt, and investigated it thoroughly. It caught me off guard because it appeared as though he had never seen it before, as if maybe it was stolen or gifted to him. He unwrapped it and carefully pulled out all the placement pins and set them on the seat beside him. He shook the shirt at least 10 times as hard as he could, probably trying to get the wrinkles out but to no avail. He then took a pair of brand new khakis out of the bag and began his thorough search for stickers and tags. ”Breakdown” by Jack Johnson starts. Why is all my Jack so fucking quiet? Damn It!! Skip to the next song. ”Boombastic” by Shaggy? Really? Whatever, I’ll deal with it.
At this point I’m not even pretending to ignore him, I have shifted myself in my seat, thrown one foot up on the seat next to me to get more comfortable and am enjoying the show. Little did I know that it was about to get semi risque. In consecutive, precise moves, he kicked off one shoe, then the other, stood up, unbuttoned his dungarees and let them slide off. This move caught me, and most of the other passengers on the train off guard. He was standing holding the handle above his head with one hand, and his new khakis in the other. He jumped a leg into the slacks and then careful not to lose his balance, he put his other leg in and pulled up his cardboard starched pants. Then as quick as he did the lower half, the nasty flannel came off and the collared shirt went on.
After a quick button and a tuck, the man removed his cap, stuffed everything into his backpack and pulled out two packages of wet naps. He lathered his hands with one, and his face with the other. He gathered his pins, trash and bag, stood up and exited the train. This all happened within the span of 3 train stations (about 7 minutes). I wanted to give him a round of applause, but he was gone. A grubby little caterpillar bum entered, and a somewhat decent looking gentleman butterfly emerged.
This was by far one of the more interesting days on the subway, maybe not the most exciting or entertaining, but certainly interesting. Too bad after all of this, my new pad of paper was still blank, and my pen wasn’t even clicked open. Maybe I should just stick to observing and recollecting.
One thing I have noticed in my short time in the city is that Bostonian’s have evolved into some seriously skilled nappers. I have witnessed people doing all sorts of sleeping styles like the classic head roll, the dead reader, the upright zombie, the stranger lean and I even witnessed a very impressive standing slumber. But one specific traveler took the prize the other day with his own personal accessory to the dead reader.
I was having a great walk down to the train, “Hand Springs” by The White Stripes was on the iPod and it put such a great bounce in my step that I even considered having it on repeat while I walked around the city…but I didn’t. As usual on a weekday afternoon at the first station, I am one of the first people on a virtually empty train. Let’s see, we have me, paper back old guy with glasses, really old really white lady with really dark freckles and backpack, and an overweight hardened version of TVs Eddie Winslow. Two stops later, as Paul Simon’s “Train in the Distance” is finishing up, a woman grabs my attention sitting across the train. She isn’t making any noise and obviously not trying to draw any attention to herself except for the fact that she has a steady stream of tears running down her face. Sometimes my musical background plays right into the hands of what I am seeing, unfortunately for this young lady, “Cleaning Windows” by Van Morrison was not really putting her feelings into perspective for me. I was thinking about all the different scenarios that could be making this girl so sad. Family, relationship, job etc. but regardless of what it was, it didn’t hold a candle to what I saw next. It was paper back old guy with glasses, he was in the middle of a viscous head roll. He kept trying to pretend he was reading his book, but he wasn’t fooling anybody. Another gentleman (GQ) also was noticing the man start his slumber, and I found myself more interested in watching the watcher then the actual guy I was watching in the first place. Did you follow that?
At Harvard Square, really old really white lady with really dark freckles and backpack got up to exit the train.
Did that say “eastpack?” I don’t even think that brand of backpack was made anymore. I’m pretty sure that was my brand in 4th grade, and not only that, I was super jealous of my sister who had a Jansport. For how old that backpack must of been, it was actually in pretty good shape.
As soon as the doors shut, like it was choreographed, the first beat of “King Nicky’s Crown” by Andre Nickatina hits. I love when that happens. My subtle grin fades to worry as I notice GQ. GQ looks extremely disturbed… What did I miss? I draw an imaginary line from GQ’s gaze and try to follow the visual path that he is on. The road ends back at sleeping paper back old guy with glasses. He is in a deep coma now, his chin and chest connected and his limp hand barely keeping a hold of his novel. Something is gleaming… there is a string of some sort…oh crap, he is drooling all over himself.
I thought this was bordering on funny and gross, but when I took a closer look, I changed my diagnosis to disgusting/disturbing. This wasn’t your average drool string. This thing was moving. Like a steady lava flow, the drool was continuously oozing from his bottom lip.
There was only one other drooler in history to test the boundaries of my gag reflex, and he was 3000 miles away and very likely dead by now. A very old man at Taco Roco in San Luis Obispo had an obscene amount of drool falling from his face as he was all over the salsa bar, and as I watched people eating their chips and salsa, I literally had to fight the urge to vomit. This was a close second. I couldn’t believe the amount of spit that was falling on this guys lap. The train hit the brakes hard and jolted the old guy up. I heard a slurp noise and he wiped his face with the back of his hand. Yea, that should take care of the cesspool in your lap. He then went back to reading and I was thrilled that my stop had finally come. I love people watching, but that trip really grossed me out. I strutted out with Stone Temple Pilots and promised myself I would never fall asleep on the subway, I vowed to leave my own drool on my own pillow.
My occupational hazard being, my occupation’s just not around.
I’m one of the first people on the inbound train from Alewife. I’m heading into the city for a job interview so I am one of the nicest dressed people as well. I have the headphones in and the iPod on random, which always makes the people watching much more entertaining. I walk into the first completely empty car that i see and take my favorite seat by the pole, where only two people can sit next to me. Immediately I start my perimeter gaze. It takes me all of 2 nanoseconds to recognize a face up band-aid relaxing on the seat directly across from me. This thing isn’t crinkled up or anything, it is lying perfectly flat like it was just unwrapped, only it has a perfect nickel sized goo glob of puss and blood on the cotton center.
Great, now i have this to worry about all the way to south station. What is my responsibility in this? do I have to warn people when they are close to the danger?
I watched on pins and needles as oblivious passengers sat all around the disease ridden fabric, not even looking at where they were planting themselves. I’m secretly hoping for contact. The anticipation is heightened due to “savage as fuck” by Andre Nickatina.
At the first stop an overweight man with glasses and weird shoes rolling an overly stuffed piece of luggage behind him entered the train and sat right next to the bandage. He looked at it, and went on staring at the ground. Keep in mind there are seats open right next to him, he could slide on, if not two over to get away from this thing, but “na” he’s good.
I tried to ignore the splinter in my mind, Lionel Ritchie’s “Say You, Say Me” was helping, but like some sort of sick seduction, my gaze was intercepted by movement, movement from the big guy.
Oh, he’s just putting on lotion….wait, that’s not lotion. What is that? is that toothpaste? Hemorrhoid cream? Athletes foot cream? It looks like some sort of prescription paste. I can’t get a good look at the label, and trust me I tried. This shouldn’t bother me, maybe he has dry hands, chronic dry hands…is that a real thing? Maybe it’s a fungus…maybe he has the fungi. This is burning a hole in my sub-conscience, it shouldn’t bother me, but I can’t shake the question “what does this guy have?” It’s not like he lathered up and put the stuff away, Lionel Ritchie has given way to Whitesnake and this guy is still lathering, reapplying and lathering some more.
Shit, where is the band-aid? I don’t want to lose site of that.
At harvard square the train started filling up as usual. A petite little asian girl in a brown pant suit with cream heels, sits on the opposing side of the band-aid, and put her purse right on the seat that was occupied by the bio-hazard. Now I have to step in. I wait for eye contact…. still waiting… “Palmdale” by Afroman starts… waiting.. there it is…eye contact. I give her a silent gesture and a slight motion with my hand that simply says, be aware of that fuckin thing. She looks down, grimaces, gulps and moves her purse to the floor by her feet. I’m a god damn superher…Is that guy still fucking lotioning?
No way! No God Damn Way! It’s not the hard stuff anymore, he has moved on to a secondary moisturizer. It looks like standard unscented Jergens but I can’t be certain. He is so lotioned up I can’t believe my eyes. When he finally puts it away all I can do is look at his glistening greasy hands. Then he takes out his iPhone and starts rubbing his hands all over it.
I’ve seen enough! and just in the nick of time too, I can finally separate from chronic alligator crackle hands and puss topped bandage that plagued my entire ride.
Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not complaining about this ride, it was actually one of the more relaxing subway rides this month. I walk out of the station with James Taylor serenading me with “Carolina in my mind,” I just change it to California, it’s no big deal, actually sounds kinda cool.
