Friday, March 26, 2004, 6:15 p.m., 14^th Street Union Square Station

I was waiting for Michael at the very end of the platform. The plan was for me to ride the uptown "4/5" and meet him on the last car at 14^th Street. Last time this had worked perfectly, but this time he wasn't there, so I got off the train to wait.

I kept meaning to pull out my book and read but I was distracted by the people around me, as individuals with individual quirks, and as a rhythmic tide flowing in and out of the train doors. Off the local train, across the platform en masse, wait, then onto the express, sluicing through the riptide of people exiting the express.

On one train that pulled in, a young girl, a teenager, got up to pose for her friend's camera. She clutched her pink handbag under her arm and swept all her long hair to the left side of her face. Then she assumed a casual pose and smiled. A boy with masses of curly hair, sitting on the other side of the car watched, smiling too. When the photo was taken, a third girl handed the camera to the curly-haired boy and posed with her two friends, the three of them sitting in a row, heads close and framed by the large rectangular window.

I was standing on the platform directly behind this window. I knew I would be in the pictures. I didn't smile, but I looked at the camera lens, knowing that when the photos were developed there would be a fit of giggling and exclamations of, "Who's that girl and what is she doing in our picture?" The flash went off just as the train started to pull away.

Soon after that, I saw Michael walking down the platform towards me with that grin that would have made me forget it if I was upset.

"I thought you were going to call me before you left work," he said, hugging me.

"I thought we were supposed to meet at six fifteen or six twenty," I said.

It didn't matter. There was a train every two or three minutes.

Wednesday, March 24, 2004, 6:15 p.m., "4/5" train from Fulton Street to 103^rd Street

The guy who got on the train ahead of me went right to the seat I had scoped out. In the middle of the car, end of the row, next to the door. He bent and peered closely at the periwinkle surface and moved on to the next best (in my mind) seat. That one also failed his test. I didn't see anything wrong with the first seat, but I looked more closely than I usually do. Nothing. Hesitantly, I sat.

Across the aisle a middle-aged woman met my eyes and smiled, obviously amused by the experiment in behavioral science that she had just witnessed. I smiled back. Meanwhile, down the car, the man inspected and rejected a third seat and finally sat down somewhere else. A minute after that, he got up again and went back to the other end of the car and stood by the doors. Before we made it to the next station, he moved to the next car.

Friday, March 19, 2004, 7:40 a.m., "6" train from 103^rd Street to 86^th Street

I went to work an hour early today, because the firm I'm temping for was having the Annual USA Meeting of Blah, Blah, Blah, Yawn and I had to be there to impress people with my nice suit and my noteworthy copy-making abilities. I had assumed the trains would be less crowded at 7:30 than at 8:30, but I couldn't have been more wrong. Oh well.

A guy standing behind me was eating something that looked fried flat like a grilled-cheese sandwich, but in a pouch instead of two pieces of bread. He was standing towards the middle of the car, which meant he was eating over the row of people sitting down. How rude is that? Eating crumbly, drippy sandwiches over someone's head? I turned back around and went back to my morning commute daze.

After 96^th Street, I happened to direct my stupor to the right and noticed a seated woman eating one of those same food items. And standing in front of her, a guy eating one as well. Being half asleep, the idea of everyone suddenly eating this strange new kind of People Food seemed surreal and kind of scary. I whipped back around to check, and the first guy was gone. I couldn't tell if the second guy was really just the first guy in a different spot, because his holding-on arm was blocking his face. And anyway, I hadn't really looked at the first guy past seeing that he was eating so rudely. And there's no excuse for that, even if you are eating something that meets all the hot, crispy and cheese-filled requirements of a perfect breakfast snack.

Saturday, March 14, 2004, 6:30 p.m., Fulton Street Station

Something was wrong with the "4/5" line and the sole employee in the vicinity, a security guard in an orange reflective vest was being bombarded by questions from confused passengers. He didn't seem particularly friendly or helpful from what I overheard, so I just consulted the tiny plastic map that I keep in my wallet. A filthy man with dreads that he had probably not planned on having was dragging a loaded garbage bag around the area.

He was yelling incoherent phrases to no one in particular about birth and the sun and rising up.

"You better take that mess out of here," the security guard warned.

I pretended to continue consulting my map and watched to see what would happen next. The guard began taunting the dirty man, who was probably homeless and clearly not well. He told the man to leave, but he didn't do so in his capacity of removing a disturbance, rather he added to the disturbance with his loud, non-constructive insults. He was more like a middle-school kid with the right brand of jeans than an adult with responsibilities. The dirty man raised his voice, shouting more incoherencies and the guard put his bullhorn to his mouth and made a crazy, mocking, howling noise in response.

I walked as fast as I could to put distance between myself and this blatant display of inhumanity. It both amused and disgusted me that this man in his orange vest, only two or three rungs above the crazy homeless man on a ladder of a hundred rungs, felt like he had the right to push the other man further into the ground. Was this because of or despite the fact that so very many people have the right - if they live by the same code that this man has claimed for himself - to do the same to him?

And I really needed to ask for directions. It took me fifteen minutes to find the uptown "J/M/Z."

Thursday, March 11, 2004 8:45 a.m., "4/5" from 86^th Street to Fulton Street

I got a seat at 42^nd street. Not too bad. I sat back and pulled out my book. The guy sitting on my left had his knee pressing against mine, so I scooted over a little. A few moments later, it was happening again. I glanced over at him. Ordinary sized guy, not especially wide or tall, wool coat, collared shirt, engrossed in his paperback. I scooted my knees closer together and went back to The Grapes of Wrath.

Then, not a minute later, there was his knee again. He was holding his book in his lap, his legs spread open wide. What's with this guy? What affliction does he suffer from that prevents him from closing his legs? Maybe he has a goiter. That must suck. I thought about saying something to him, but what? I could ask him if he had a goiter, but he'd just think I was being sarcastic. And it would be sarcastic because American salt contains iodine, a necessary nutrient, and no one who lives here has goiters. Maybe it's something else. Like that he has no sense of other people's boundaries or understanding of the purpose of the scooped dividers in the seats.

I tried to fall back into my book. I was near the end, the part where the Joads are living in half a boxcar and picking cotton. One would think that reading about starving depression-era migrant workers would stop me from feeling sorry for myself just because some stupid guy's stupid leg is in my seating area, but no. It didn't.

I couldn't stop looking at him, at his stupid legs all splayed out. I wished I hadn't been a mousy little woman and yielded him the initial millimeters. He was reading Donald Trump's The Art of the Deal. Figures.

Tuesday, March 9, 2004 8:45 a.m., "6" and "4" from 103^rd Street to Fulton Street

I ran into an ex-boyfriend on the way to the subway this morning. The first time we ever talked on the phone, he asked me where I lived. When I told him, he shrieked, "You're shitting me!" so loudly and abruptly that I wondered if Nerve personals were such a good idea after all. But then he told me that he lived around the corner on my block, that the backs of our two buildings were practically touching, which is indeed noteworthy. So I wasn't surprised to see him, I'm only surprised we don't run into each other more often.

The thing about riding the subway with someone you just happen to run into is that unless you're very assertive it screws up your whole platform placement. I have a routine: I wait for the "6" just to the left of the stairwell, so I will be perfectly positioned to go down the stairs at 86^th Street. Then I walk to the very front of the platform to get the "4" or "5" at the spot where it's least crowded and is close to a good exit at Fulton Street.

Andrew walked way down to the middle of the "6" platform. I don't know if that's his perfect placement or if he's just random about his commute, but I just went with him. We chatted about this and that, but I could tell he wanted to read his New York Times. I don't blame him; I wanted to re-read my Grapes of Wrath. It's nothing personal, at least not on my part - I'd go and have a drink with him no problem - but the morning commute is for easing into the day, not for trying to make other people feel either nostalgic or emotionally healthy.

When I got off the train at 86^th Street, I had to turn sideways and scrape my way along the wall on the packed platform in order to reach the stairs. Downstairs on the express platform, the people were three rows deep - two rows by the tracks and one against the wall. It was a long, long way to the front of the train and my routine.

Friday, March 5, 2004, 8:00 a.m., Fort Hamilton Parkway station, Brooklyn

The staircase closest to my grandfather's house has been under construction for months now, so everyone has to use the other side. I climbed to the top of the stairs and reached the door to the station just as a woman was passing through. She let the door drop behind her without checking to see if anyone (like me) was there. There is something wrong with this door, with most of the doors in this station and it has been wrong for as long as I can remember. It doesn't just glide shut; it bangs shut abruptly enough to take off a person's arm. Having this door slam in my face was a crappy way to start my day, so I tried to make up for it by making a point of holding it open for a woman behind me, even though she was a little too far away to really warrant the courtesy. But she speeded up and said thank you and I felt better. Then she swooped rudely past me and headed into the turnstile first and all my good feelings went away. I watched her slide her Metrocard through the slot. Insufficient Fare.

Ha.

Thursday, March 4, 2004, 6:30 p.m., "4/5" from Fulton Street to 103^rd Street.

There was a girl across from me reading a brand-new Lonely Planet guidebook, Thailands Islands and Beaches. On the seat next to her were a bag from EMS, the camping supply store and B&H, the camera store.

I am not jealous.

I am not jealous.

I am not jealous.

Wednesday, March 3, 2004, 8:30 p.m., West 4^th Street Station.

There are some conversation snippets that I overhear that make me want desperately to turn around and look at the people speaking, but for whatever reason I can't, and then I lose my chance.

"...and that was my first experience with alcohol poisoning." A woman's voice and her laughter. "So I wasn't a big drinker for a couple of years," she continued, in the same light tone. "And then I discovered beer."

"Right." A man's voice. He didn't sound as amused as she seemed to want him to be, but maybe that's just me.

"And then when I got to college..." The woman's voice again. I was dying to hear what happened when she got to college, but they had veered off somewhere.

Saturday, February 28, 2004, 12:30 a.m., "6" Train from Astor Place to 103^rd Street

Whenever I complain that nothing interesting is happening on the subway lately, Michael says I should ride with him, because he sees the illest shit. So maybe it was Michael's subway vibes that brought the man to us. He was a short, brown man with curly hair sticking out from under his baseball cap. He was standing by the door and we were sitting on the end of the row right next to him. He turned to us and said, "I guess I'm an idiot, I didn't know it was 51^st Street. Three guys knew, but I didn't. I guess I'm an idiot."

We had no idea what he was talking about.

Then he changed moods. "Hey, you wanna hear a Cheech and Chong joke?"

"Sure," I said. I am, after all, a Subway Diarist.

The man across the way, who had been manicuring his nails since we got on the train, also seemed interested and leaned in to hear. There was no need for anyone to lean in; this man could be heard throughout the car.

"So this gringo goes to Mexico and gets lost," he began. "He's a real nerdy guy. You know, black socks, shorts, pocket protector. And he's lost, he doesn't know how to get home." He rambled on, adding details and acting out each word with sweeping gestures, but it was funny, and the guy across the way abandoned his nail file for the moment.

"So he sees a Mexican guy with a burro and a big hat - you know? - and he says, 'I'll go ask him what time it is,' because he lost his watch, and he goes over and he says, 'hey do you know what time it is?'

"So the Mexican dude reaches up in between the burro's legs and grabs his balls. He squeezes them and moves them from side to side a little, it's a funny thing to do - why would you do that - like 'homina homina' right? And then he says 'it's two-thirty.' And the white guy - sorry..." The man stopped and patted Michael on the knee apologetically, "...says 'how did you know?' so the Mexican guy reaches back under the burro and squeezes his balls again and moves them to the side and says, 'see that clock over there?'"

We all laughed and assured him it was a funny joke and the guy shook Michael's hand, saying again, "Homina, homina, right? It's funny - pass that joke on! I have another couple of jokes but they're too dirty. And knowing her," he pointed his chin at me, "she'll call the cops on me." He mimed being handcuffed and wailed, "Officer, it was just a joke..."

Friday, February 27, 2004 6:00 p.m., Fulton Street Station

For some reason, the company I'm temping for likes to wait until 4:00 on a Friday afternoon before telling me they want me back next week. I guess this is to give me my own exciting real-life roulette wheel. Red or black? Employed or unemployed?

I was meeting some friends at West 4^th Street. I finally figured out the best way to get the "4/5" at Fulton Street Station, but I was dreading the search for the "A/C/E" and I decided to go into the station from a different entrance to see if I had any luck finding it right away. I had no idea where I would end up. Would this be that dreary beige walkway with two different revolving doors to endure and the wall on which someone had written, "Osama bin Laden is gay," or would I end up in the long urine-smelling passageway with the mosaic of the Earth on a dais at the end?

It was something new. At the bottom of the stairs I found another little street, right there underground, lined with tiny little low-ceilinged shops. I wandered into a fancy soap store, where the soap was hand cut into rough blocks and sold by the pound or by the chunk. There I rubbed some fourteen-dollar shea butter and vitamin E cream onto my hand. It made my skin feel incredibly soft, but it smelled funny. I lingered in front of a two-seat noodle and bibimbap shop that advertised a Healthy Winter Breakfast of miso soup and rice for only a dollar and I peeked into a shoeshine shop and a gift shop selling plastic novelties from Taiwan.

It was the coolest thing I've seen in a long time. Fulton Street has been vindicated; I was wrong. It is now my very favorite train station in New York City. I love finding new things every day, and this station is a treasure trove of new things. If I can ever find it again, I will stop in one morning for a cheap Healthy Winter Breakfast on my way to the temp job that never ends.

Thursday, February 26, 2004, "2" train from Fulton Street to 96^th Street

I knew they were strangers because I saw them reach across the aisle to shake hands. Later on, a seat opened up and I sat down next to the man. Sitting right next to him, I didn't get much of a look at him but I saw that the woman was young and extremely pretty, with delicate features and a teeny-tiny nose ring.

"Why not?" the man was saying.

"Well he has a crush on me and I'm not interested in that."

"My three best friends are women," said the man. "You can ask my mom." He pointed to the woman sitting on his other side. "If you can't trust my mom, who can you trust?"

Monday, February 23, 2004 6:00 p.m., "2" Train from Fulton Street to 14^th Street

I sat down across from a woman teaching letters to a little girl in a stroller. The little girl was wearing a multi-colored, crazily pattered dress, and her hair was sticking in wisps out of two crooked French braids. She wasn't catching on to the lesson very well but her mother had lots of patience.

"Buh...bbbbuh...what words start with buh?"

"Buh...buh...elephant!"

"No, elephant starts with an e. Eh...Ehh...elephant."

I know I'm supposed to smile at parents of little children, especially ones who are displaying their skills or cuteness. Actually, I'm not even sure where I got that idea from, but it's firmly entrenched in my brain and also includes people with animals or unusual items. Last year when I rescued those kittens and carried them on the train, I accepted the smiles as my due and even got a little miffed when people looked and didn't smile. (Can't you see I'm carrying a box of kittens? Kittens!) But tonight I was tired, so my smile at Phonics Mom was a little weak and perfunctory.

A woman with a child in a sling around her neck got on the train at the next stop. Phonics Mom offered her seat immediately, but Sling Mom declined. "She'll scream," she said, indicating the child around her neck, who probably was big enough to be squashed if her mother sat down. "She doesn't like to sit when she's in this." She fished a tiny Tupperware full of Goldfish crackers out of her pocket and started feeding them to her baby.

Phonics Mom remained turned towards the other woman, seeming eager to talk. "I was telling my husband how hard it is to get around with this-" she gestured to the stroller. "And he said maybe I should get one of those slings, but I mean, can you imagine? Look at her!" She laughed, displaying the size of her daughter like Vanna White simpering over a wood-panel TV set. It's true; the little girl was way too big for a sling. And in my opinion she was too big for a stroller too. Her feet in their little buckle shoes sat flat on the ground and her shoulders nudged the handles. I wouldn't have been surprised to see her stand up and walk away, the stroller still strapped to her butt, forgotten. I've seen a lot of great big kids in strollers lately, kids that in my admittedly inexperienced opinion, look big enough to be walking and probably even doing their own laundry.

Sling Mom smiled politely and busied herself with the Goldfish. One of the crackers fell to the floor and she started to bend to pick it up and then hesitated.

"Don't worry about that," said Phonics Mom. "When it's that small it doesn't matter. I was telling my husband that if I ever go missing, he should just follow the trail of food." She laughed. I wondered how much adult conversation she managed to get per day and whether she was going to go home and tell her husband, "I was telling a lady on the subway..."

Sling Mom smiled again. "Well, I just didn't want her to pick it up," she said, meaning the girl in the stroller. Not to worry, as the girl was gleefully smashing the cracker with her foot and seemed to have no intention at all of picking it up.

"I broke it! I broke it!" she crowed. "Mom, look!"

Phonics Mom finally noticed the fate of the Goldfish. "Oh..." she started to say, grimacing, but that's when I got off the train. At 14^th Street, because I had been so engrossed in watching them that I had forgotten to get off at Chambers and transfer to the "1/9."

Saturday, February 21, 2004, 3:00 a.m., "6" train from 23^rd Street to 103^rd Street

It didn't take too long for the train to arrive, which was nice, especially at this time of night. Going uptown, I always get on the next-to-last car, because that's the one that lines up with the exit at my stop, and because it's usually emptier than the ones closer to the middle. There were about ten others in the car, including a man lying asleep across a row of seats. His clothes, khaki pants and a red and black checkered hunting jacket, were filthy and his shoes were worn, but behind him in the sheltered cove of his bent knees was a bright orange basketball that looked like it had never touched the ground. A pair of beige hiking socks with red bands around the top lay on the bench under his feet. They looked like pretty good socks, the kind that wick away moisture.

I assume it was he that was producing the unpleasant smell that filled the car. After a while I noticed that someone had opened the window over the other bank of seats. I didn't even know the windows opened on the new "6" trains. As we progressed uptown, it was interesting to see which new passengers stayed in the car and which took one look at him, said, "Nuh-uh," and moved to the next car. A trio of young women in expensive-looking high-heeled boots stayed all the way up to 86^th Street and I was surprised and impressed.

The man stirred at 42^nd Street, sat up and mumbled to himself. His hood was pulled down low over his eyes, so I couldn't see much of his face, but his mouth kept moving. He seemed confused, turning this way and that like a blind kitten, and doing a lot of scratching. When he reached his hand down the front of his pants, I thought maybe it was time for me to quit being the hard-core unfazed New Yorker and switch cars. But as I reached for my bag, a guy getting on the train gave me a look that made me think he thought I was trying to avoid him. He could have been thinking any number of things that had nothing at all to do with me but still, I didn't want to take the chance of offending him. Luckily the scratching man took his hand back out, rearranged the hiking socks and lay back down on the seat, still protecting his brand new basketball.

Friday, February 20, 2004, 8:20 a.m., "4/5" & "6" trains from 103^rd Street to Fulton Street

Michael had to be at Canal Street by 9:00 to order some frames for his upcoming photography show. I had to be at work by 9:00, but somehow it's easier to leave the house on time when it's someone else's schedule I'm worried about. Some guy pushed in front of him at the doors of the "6" train, intent on grabbing a seat. Michael doesn't understand this phenomenon. He stands up most of the time, with a pointed, "Take the seat then, if you want it so bad" attitude that is probably lost on most other riders. But I've started to get a taste of the Seat Frenzy myself. I can't help it. It's just better to be sitting, especially if the train is crowded.

At 42^nd Street a woman started, looked around and stood up to exit the train. Apparently realizing that it wasn't her stop after all, she moved to sit back down, but someone else's butt was already lined up and aimed for her seat. The second woman, the one who was sitting down, started to get back up. The first woman graciously waved her back down. "I'm getting off at the next stop," she said.

"Me too," said the second woman. She shrugged and sat down anyway. They both got off at 14^th Street-Union Square. Michael got off there too, to transfer back to the "6". I actually got to work on time for once.

Thursday, February 19, 2004, "2/3" train from Fulton Street to 96^th Street

Three young guys were sitting near the doors. As I got on the train, the one with the black leather jacket and the sharply creased Dickies pants swooped across the aisle to claim the seat opposite his friends. He and the one with the Yankees cap were laughing at the one with the bright blue Nikes. I gathered that the blue Nikes guy had just had one leg slip into the gap between a train and the platform. This event was described in detail, complete with pantomimes and freezes, and laughed at over and over again.

"Yo, it was like this - 'I just seen his leg twist and then...' Yeah, yeah, it was like whoomph. Man I didn't know whether to go over to him or I mean, he was just all -whoosh." The laughter was hysterical, unstoppable. No one seemed to have any interest in moving on to other topics, not even the one who had slipped.

It made me think about that split-second crossroads moment between your friends making fun of you on the way to the next good time, or crying to reporters about what a great person you were and how much you liked to dance. That moment took the opposite path for Lina Villegas last week when she was hit and killed by the "V" train. In describing the tragedy, the Daily News kept mentioning that she had gone down onto the tracks to get her eighty-dollar cell phone like they were trying to pass judgment while still remaining impartial reporters. Moral: an eighty-dollar cell phone is not worth your life. True, of course. But if your fate took the other path, the one where you rode away unharmed, that eighty dollars would seem like an awful lot of money to have saved, especially if you're eighteen and work in a perfume store.

The guys told and re-told each other their story with little variation all the way up to at least 34^th Street, when I moved down the car to sit. I wondered if those guys felt lucky at all, consciously or subconsciously, if there was therapy in the re-tellings, or just young-guy joking and teasing. I know I took a deep breath of relief every time the story got to the part where the guy with the blue Nikes pulled himself back onto the platform.

Friday, February 13, 2004, 8:45 a.m., "5" train from 86^th Street to Fulton Street

We were just out of 86^th Street when the connecting door slid open and a man's voice rang out, "Ladies and gentleman..." A solicitor of some kind. Par for the course on the MTA. He would deliver his speech, walk the car, and be out before the next stop.

"...we apologize for the unavoidable delay. We are being held by the train's dispatcher. This is a Brooklyn-bound "5" train," he continued. "The next stop is 59^th Street. Stand clear of the closing doors. Bing-bong."

There was some laughter, some taking notice of the exactness of this man's impression of the usual announcements and his eerily good reproduction of the bell sound.

"Bing-bong. Bing-bong. Thank you, my brother. Respect. Don't worry, I wont hurt you. I don't do that no more. I turned my life around. I used to be a gangsta and all that, but I turned my life around through Jesus and you can too.

"I wanna be ready, I wanna be ready, I wanna be ready to walk in Jerusalem, just like John.

"Any change you might have, anything, even as small as one penny. If you have money and you have food, keep the money and give me the food. An apple, an orange, a can of soda, half a sandwich. Anyone who wants a blessing, give me a dollar and I'll give you a blessing. Twenty dollars gets you into heaven. I'm sorry to disturb you, especially those of you who are trying to read or take a nap, or have a conversation.

"Hello young lady, you are beautiful. I hope you pass that test you're studying for. You know, you don't need no makeup. When you get home tonight, just throw all your makeup away, because you don't need it. Or if you want, you can send it to my ex-wife.

"Thank you, sir! Thank you, Jesus, thank you. Thank you, Lord. Thank you my brother. You are going to Heaven for sure. You are getting into Heaven. Hallelujah. Thank you, Lord. Looks like I won't have to work overtime tonight.

"Ooh, look at this bag, its so soft and nice. This is nice. This is the softest bag I've ever seen. Are you Chinese? No? Happy New Year to Chinese people. It's Chinese New Year. Happy Valentine's Day to everyone.

"Hey, beautiful. You're so beautiful. Happy Valentine's Day, bye now.

"I just want to let you all know I'm not begging, I'm singing songs and cracking jokes so my kids can eat tonight.

"Ladies and gentleman, this is a Brooklyn-bound "5" train, the next stop is 42^nd Street. Bing-bong.

"Just remember, none of you are perfect. We're all human beings. You might need my help tomorrow. No, I'm off tomorrow. Just kidding, ladies and gentlemen, just kidding. I'm not begging, just singing songs and cracking jokes. Happy Valentine's Day to everyone."

Wednesday, February 11, 2004, 8:30 a.m., "M" train from Ft. Hamilton Parkway to Fulton Street

I stayed with my grandfather last night and went to work from Brooklyn instead of uptown. Nothing makes me feel more like an adult than waking up in the morning in my childhood home and then getting on the subway to go to work. It's like my own personal time-warp. I'll probably never get used to jaywalking in view of the crossing-guard when I pass my old elementary school. Good old P.S. 131. I wonder if the principal still confiscates books on how babies are made and makes the entire student body stand silently with their right foot on the line for the remainder of the lunch period after everyone's finished eating.

I took the "M" train because its never crowded, and the "W" practically always is. This might have something to do with the fact that the "M" train was specially designed to take an ungodly amount of time to get into Manhattan. Whatever. I don't have to transfer and I get a seat. This morning, still basking in the glow of my immunity from the crossing-guard, I had no trouble saying excuse me to someone so they would slide over and give me room to sit down.

Besides, the "M" trains are the old trains, my favorites of all. These are the trains that were running when I was a kid. I didn't feel too sad when the last of the Redbirds was dropped into the ocean last November, but when the last of these trains goes, I will probably cry. These are wider than the trains on the IRT and there is a healthy amount of room around the poles so that if you're so inclined, and if your mother lets you, you can swing around and around them.

I still miss the "B" train though.

Friday, February 6, 2004, 9:30 p.m., "A" train from High Street Brooklyn Bridge to Fulton Street

Michael and I were coming from a bar in DUMBO where we had gone to see a former writing teacher of mine read one of his essays. The weather was lousy and the train was nearly empty. Probably most people who were able to go home had already done so.

Only a few people shared our car, a group comprised of several women, a couple of adolescent girls, and a few children. One of the children, a little boy, was sleeping, draped over the seat like a Dali watch. I kept reevaluating my assumptions on which were the adults and which weren't, because they were all bundled up and it was hard to see their faces. They seemed to take turns claiming responsibility for the tasks at hand - repeatedly waking up the little boy, looking at the map, complaining about whose fault it was that they had not gotten off at the right stop, suggesting that all or some of them switch cars, and yelling at the ones who wanted to switch.

One of the mothers, or maybe she was a daughter, or she could possibly have been both, was standing and looking at the map. Across the seat of her jeans was written, in black laundry marker, "Sexy." Her left upper thigh said, horizontally, in the same marker, "You" and her right upper thigh said "Wish." Written vertically down her left leg was "Hands" and on the right "Off!" with a big circle as the point of the exclamation mark.

Sometimes, especially when I'm on the subway, because of the size and shape of the cars, I think of goldfish. How we go to the pet shop and pick out an aquarium and some gravel and a few fish, some of these and some of those, and ooh, one of those cool-looking ones with the super-long fins, and take them all home and expect them to be friends and keep each other company. This is not an analogy about race or color, but about personality. How do we know which fish would think it's a cool idea to scribble all over her jeans and which fish would think it's a silly idea?

I start to wonder sometimes, usually when I don't have anything to read, what I would do if I had to spend the rest of my life in a subway car with a random selection of people and we were all expected to amuse ourselves day after day with the same old benches and poles and pictures of Dr. Zizmor and his wife.

I thought about that again tonight, and it made me sit a little closer to Michael and feel grateful to be with someone so awesome, grateful that someone so awesome actually wants to be with me. We always have something to talk about. We always want the best for each other. I can tell him some crazy half-baked analogies about goldfish and subway cars and he'll listen and know what I'm talking about. It's not only a joy but a relief to have found someone out of the random blur of people in New York City who appreciates me and my little quirks and who I know could actually keep me amused if we had to spend the rest of our lives in a subway car.

Happy Valentines Day, Michael.

Friday, February 6, 2004, 5:00 p.m., Fulton Street Station

I just found out my temp job has been extended another week. That means rent gets paid next month too, which is nice. I'm even starting to get the hang of Fulton Street. If I had known I would be working at this place so long, I would have been friendlier. Michael says I should always be friendly anyway. Yeah, well. Sometimes it's hard.

I was walking through the labyrinth to the "A" train when some guy stopped me. "Hey, you know where I can get the "2" or "3" train?" I don't know any particular shortcuts or secrets. If I were looking for the "2" or "3", I'd just follow the red circles and arrows, but in the few seconds I had to think, I couldn't find a way to say this without sounding sarcastic, so I just said I didn't know.

Thursday, February 5, 2004, 8:45 a.m., "4/5" train from 86^th Street to Fulton Street

I caught a later train this morning and it was so empty that I wondered if it would be worth it to get to work fifteen minutes late every day and travel in relative comfort. There was even almost a seat. A woman sat in the middle of a space that might have been two seats if she'd moved over a little. Plus I'm so skinny that women sometimes get angry at me and accuse me of showing off when I turn down a piece of cake or say I'm not hungry. I could have fit in that spot. But in order to do that, I would have had to say something. It would have been as simple as 'excuse me' and she probably would have moved immediately, but for some reason I couldn't do it.

My foster mother's daughter used to say that she always put her backpack on the seat next to her, and left it there even when the train became crowded. Why should she move it, she reasoned, when, if someone wanted to sit there, all they had to do was ask?

I didn't know if this woman even saw me. I stared down at the dark roots in her auburn hair and at her long pink claws clutching her Nora Roberts paperback and disliked her. But I knew I was really mad at myself for not speaking up.

The train emptied out at 42^nd Street and I sat down across the aisle and several feet down the train from her. She looked at me when I sat down, looked straight at me for a moment, but her face didn't reveal what she was thinking. Then she went back to her book.

Monday, February 2, 2004, 6:00 p.m., "A" train from Fulton Street to 59^th Street Columbus Circle

There were gospel singers on the platform. Amazingly loud ones. Two women whose voices were not drowned out by the girl bumping her wheeled suitcase down the stairs or the trains screeching in and out of the station. Even after I got onto my train I could hear them loud and clear. A man sitting near the door and reading a leather-covered Bible was moved to close his eyes and nod along. "Mnm-mmn-mmn."

This man went back to his reading when we pulled out of the station and the sounds died away, but then he was distracted by the newspaper of the guy next to him. He asked one of those conversation-opening sports questions that socially-at-ease people are able to come up with at a second's notice. "Do you think the blah are going to blah-blah-blah?" I wish I could do that, but I usually end up stranded in some awkward silence wondering whether I should mention again how good the olives are.

At the next station, three young people, two girls and a guy, got on the train and arranged themselves evenly along the length of the car. Once the train was moving, they introduced themselves one at a time and then broke into a speech in perfect unison. They said they were collecting money for the homeless and mentioned God a few times, assuring us in surround-sound that even something as small as a nickel would help. They were also giving out food. The speaker nearest me had a duffel bag full of single-serving bags of Doritos. When they were finished their presentation, they walked the car to collect.

Then the wailing started. This was one of those trains that I always think of as the new trains even though they haven't been new for twenty years, one of the ones with the orange and yellow seats in L-shaped formations. Somewhere behind me someone was wailing, no, singing something in a high, creaky voice. I thought at first that it was part of the homeless advocates' presentation, but it turned out to be an old woman who was also soliciting, but apparently for herself. She came down the aisle shaking a milk carton full of coins and passed the leader of the two kids. She said something in Spanish, and the group leader replied in English.

"How are you, Mami? You want something to eat? Some food?"

The response came in Spanish and was apparently a refusal.

The solicitors all got off the train at the next stop after a lengthy Jesus-filled speech from the leader only, which she ended by saying, "Again, we'd like to thank you for being humane."

There was a massive shuffling of passengers at 34^th Street. A young guy and a perfectly normal-sized woman who might have been his mother got on. The guy suggested that his mother take an open seat between two other people, but she demurred. "I can't fit," she said, covering her face and giggling a little. "You sit down."

"I seen bigger people than you try to squeeze in these seats," he said ungraciously and sat down himself.

They chatted for a while.

"I can't wait for people to stop standing in front of me and staring," he said, narrowing his eyes. "I hate that shit."

His mother giggled again. She glanced nervously at the woman who was looking at the map behind the boy's head. I did my best to stop staring at him, but he was so twitchy and volatile and his nostrils were so remarkably long that I almost couldn't help it.

At the next stop, my seatmate got off and I scooted over to the window. Another seat opened up next to the boy, between him and me, and the mother plopped down into it, ending up pressed against my knees. I sat back a little to give her more room.

"I'm sorry," she said to me.

"It's ok," I replied.

She giggled yet again. "I'm so fat," she said.

But she really wasn't.

January 28, 2004 6:45 p.m. - "N" train from Chambers to 14^th St./Union Square

There was a couple on the other side of the train speaking in sign language. I started thinking that it must be nice to know sign language, to be able to communicate so quietly and privately. I've never liked talking about personal things on the subway, even before I took it upon myself to listen to people's conversations and write them down to amuse others.

They were clearly having a wonderful time, their smiles wide, their gestures expansive and enthusiastic. They were quiet but not completely silent; there was the soft slapping of fingers on palms, the whisper of nylon-covered arms. Suddenly I realized that their broad gestures must be the signing equivalent of shrieking. Anyone on our car or the cars on either side of us could easily have eavesdropped on their entire conversation. Their only privacy lay in my ignorance of the language.

They got off the train at Canal Street, each of them dragging a large rolling suitcase.

January 26, 2004 - 8:40 a.m. - "6" and "4/5" train from 103^rd Street to Fulton Street

There were a bunch of floor tiles missing at the foot of the stairs from the street, exposing a sad layer of sand. The whiteboard hanging in the token booth was wiped clean. No mention of the date, no suggestion that we passengers have a particular type of day.

As I was moving towards the turnstiles, there was a man already going through them. He swiped his Metrocard, but as he walked through, the card slipped out of his hand and tumbled to the ground. He was inside, the card was outside.

"Oh, hell naw," he said.

I automatically bent down to retrieve his card and hand it to him before I swiped my own card. He didn't even look at me. He had something that looked like the butt end of a joint or a hand-rolled cigarette clenched in the corner of his mouth and he mumbled the shape of the words thank you while staring past me at the floor. He was probably worried that I had chosen the wrong card from the many littering the floor.

You're welcome, buddy.

There was a pile of snow on the platform, which was a bit mysterious as it hadn't snowed for a while and all that was left on the streets were forlorn islands of dirty ice. There were alarming slip and skid footprints this snow, many of them pointed towards the tracks. I wish they'd put in a railing between the foot of the stairs and the tracks, like the one at Canal Street.

The transfer crowd at 86^th Street was worse than usual, but I found myself at the edge of the platform with a good chance of getting onto the "4" train when it came. I was standing back to let the people out when a woman came from behind and stepped onto the train ahead of me.

Oh, hell naw.

I squeezed in next to a tall old man with large pores before the door closed. Somewhere in the dark between 42^nd Street and 14^th Street, the train stopped. Not only stopped, but shut down, so there was a silence that one rarely experiences from the inside of a subway car. Half the lights went out. There was a collective sigh. We sat. Well, some people sat and the rest of us stood. The woman who'd squeezed ahead of me at 86^th Street had gotten a seat at 42^nd Street. I waited for an announcement, an unconcerned recorded voice enunciating, "We apologize for the unavoidable delay," with a not-so-subtle emphasis on unavoidable, but it didn't come. After a couple of minutes, the train took a deep breath and started up again and we limped along.

I got a seat at 14^th Street and immediately dozed off, only dimly aware that we made frequent and unexplained stops in the middle of the tunnel. I awakened with a start when the woman next to me asked something about Nevins Street.

It's in Brooklyn, I said, too groggy to really be of help. A woman standing on her other side, who I thought was very young until later when she was talking about her youngest said she had three or four more stops to go. My neighbor thanked her and settled back. Then she turned again and started talking to the girl, saying she'd just moved back here from the South. It turned out the other woman was from the South too, and the two of them got into a lengthy conversation about the pros and cons of each location. For a moment I felt left out and wished I was more outgoing. But then I decided they weren't really listening to each other as much as they were using each other's words as a prompt to tell their own stories.

The Fulton Street Station was muddy and gross and I was twenty-five minutes late to work. Today is Monday, January 26^th. Have a pleasant day.

January 25, 2004 - 7:30 p.m. - "6" train from 14^th Street Union Square to 103^rd Street

I was coming from the Strand, happy that I no longer have to hang my head and admit I'm a travel writer who hasn't read Pico Iyers's Video Night in Kathmandu. The "6" train was on the express track and due to construction would be running express until 42^nd Street. Nice. That sort of thing usually doesn't work out in my favor.

My neighbor, a young woman wearing high, fur-lined boots, was reading over my shoulder. I hate it when people do that, but I do it myself, so I couldn't act snotty about it. She turned away when I glanced at her. The book was making me feel restless. Why can't I be watching Rambo on a bus in Indonesia? It's been too long since I've been anywhere. Anywhere besides New York, that is, which is a lusted-after destination itself, but still my home town and thus not exotic to me. Even the subway is losing its ability to thrill me, something I thought would never happen. It now takes a special occurrence - stepping calmly between the closing doors, making a perfectly timed express to local transfer, hearing a particularly good platform sax player- to make me feel that thrill.

Two teenage girls got off the train with me at 103^rd Street. One of them, inspired by a platform ad, began to sing, "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard." Oblivious to the guy walking behind her, she stopped short and tried to do a dance that presumably goes along with the song. The guy ducked around her and hurried up the stairs. Her friend laughed at her, asked her if she was shaking her booty for her man. Then the first girl got sidetracked. "Look, there's icicles in here," she said, pointing to a row of thick, milky spikes hanging over the tracks. "I didn't know they could have icicles in the train station."

Interesting, but I still wished I was on bus in Indonesia.

January 22, 2004 - 8:30 a.m. - "4/5" train from 86^th Street to Fulton Street

The train was particularly crowded this morning. I was in the very first car, because the first and the last cars are always at least a little less crowded, but this was one of those mornings when not even secret inside knowledge gets you any breathing room.

When we pulled into 42^nd Street, the number of people crowded on the platform was dismaying. An argument broke out as people wedged themselves onto the car. Two voices, one male, one female. She was older, I think. Black, probably. I couldn't see them through the elbows. He was accusing her of pushing and she was denying it, and this continued even after we pulled out of the station. The argument reached a critical pitch. Necks craned, eyes peeked over newspapers. The woman's rich mahogany voice interrupted. Abandoning her defensive tactics, she sang out, "Me, push you? Now why would I push you, handsome as you are? Handsome as you are, why would I push you?"

Silence. I mean, besides the screeching of metal on metal.

The man across from me was reading the paper and drinking from a Dunkin' Donuts styrofoam cup. His eyes stayed on the paper even when he sipped, so it was easy to stare at him. He was thin, with a narrow head and a buzz-cut, dressed the high end of corporate casual. I watched him sip and read for a while. Without looking up, he put his cup down on the empty seat to his right and stuck his little finger up his nose. Then with the careless speed of a lizard catching a fly, he stuck this finger into his mouth.

I don't care that he did that, but I'm twenty-eight years old and until today I never believed this was a real phenomenon. I thought it was no more likely that someone would pick his nose and eat it than that there was a Baby Baby out there who sticks his head in gravy, washes it out with bubblegum and sends it to the Navy. I thought it was just something future frat boys accuse other kids of to make them unpopular.

I'm told I always show my true feelings on my face, so I'm sure I had a look of horror at that moment. The man still hadn't looked up from his paper. He picked up his Dunkin' Donuts cup and started drinking again. Sipping and reading as though he had not just shattered someone's lifelong assumption about humanity right there on the "5" train.

January 15, 2004 - 12:30 a.m. - "L" train from Lorimer to 14^th St./Union Square

I don't usually mind when my writing group runs late, but tonight was a crappy night to be out at midnight. Besides the record-breaking cold, periodic gusts of wind blew fistfuls of icy, powdery snow into any vulnerable crevice between wrist and glove or face and scarf. Luckily this week's venue was only half a block from the train station. I figured it wouldn't be that bad - "L" train to Union Square, transfer to the "6" (or "4/5", if it's there) and up to 103^rd Street. Not too much time outside. Well, aside from the six block walk to my apartment.

What I discovered was that being inside Lorimer Station was almost as bad as being outside. I stood in a huddle with a few of my fellow writers and felt my toes gradually giving up the fight for blood. After a while a train approached and we all cheered up a little. Then its horn honked. I hoped the "L" train honking had a different meaning from the "6" train honking, but nope, same thing. It wasn't going to stop. We all watched as it trundled past us into the tunnel, going on to Manhattan without us. We waited some more. The next train didn't show up for a while, but at least it actually stopped.

It was wonderfully warm on the train, and I felt sleepy. Is it still part of the social event once you leave the meeting and get on the train? Because if it is, my falling asleep was terribly rude, but I couldn't help it. I'm always falling asleep somewhere. At Third Avenue the train lingered with the doors open. Frigid air from outside slowly mixed with the nice warm air of the train until it was just that tiny bit too cool. We sat and sat. It's kind of funny to watch people gallop downstairs and fling themselves through the doors of a train that's been sitting there for ten minutes and will continue to sit there indefinitely. Well, funny in a mean way.

Almost everyone was having the same conversation, "Why are we sitting here...", "...ten minutes already...", ..."get home...", "...take a taxi...", "...if we get off the train that's when it will start up again...", "What's going on?"

The people next to me were considering getting off the bus and taking a cab, but didn't think they'd fit in one cab. Maybe they'd take two cabs. Maybe they should just wait. Maybe they could all squeeze into one cab. They decided to discuss matters with the rest of their party, which was standing over by the doors. A tall woman was drawing designs with her foot on the muddy floor and when they approached her, "What do you think about getting a..." She frantically flapped her hand to warn them not to step on her art.

At last there was an announcement. Something about having to wait until the train at Eighth Avenue turned around and only being able to use one track.

I stood up. "You guys," I said, "I think I'm just going to walk to Union Square. What is it, like two blocks?"

"It's one block," said Jessica. We all got up, got off the train, went through the turnstiles and started walking up the stairs into icy misery.

That's when the train came into the station going in the other direction, meaning our train could move. Oh well. It has to happen sometimes to keep the clichés alive.

January 15, 2004 - 6:45 p.m. - "L" train from 14^th St. Union Square to Brooklyn

There was a man standing in the middle of the platform, slightly closer to the Brooklyn side. When I came up behind him, I thought he was bent over to zip up his jacket. But as I passed him, he remained in that position, even bent over more. Maybe he was in pain. He wore a ski cap and clutched at a creased and grimy rolled up newspaper. Commuters brushed past him. No one looked at him twice.

He swayed slightly and dipped lower. It was like some trick of cinematography that he wavered there in slow motion while everyone else blurred past. Suddenly he started to fall backward, and he took a lunging step to stop himself from hitting the platform. This action nearly knocked a red-wool coated woman onto the tracks. They turned to look at each other, she in surprise and curiosity and he in indignation, as though she had disturbed him. I saw his face for the first time; he was maybe forty and his eyes were half-closed. She edged away. He appeared to pull himself together and moved toward the stairs. Perhaps he was going to look for a better place to crouch and sway.

Just as he reached the foot of the stairs, a fresh gust of passengers came scurrying down. He was buffeted, pushed back, turned this way and that by the mob of people anxious to get to Eighth Avenue or Williamsburg and points east. If the crowd had been going upstairs instead of down, he would probably have been carried along with them and reached his goal, but they weren't.

But he had the determination of a salmon swimming upstream. After struggling for some time without making any headway, he squared his shoulders and with effort pushed into the crowd right up the middle of the staircase and managed to gain two or three steps. He was still in limbo, neither up nor down, when the "L" train arrived and I was caught up in my own frenzy. There was plenty of room on the train but a few people had bunched up by the doors, making it difficult for anyone to squeeze in or out. Why do they do that?

January 14, 2004 - 8:30 a.m. - "6" train from 103^rd Street

I didn't get that temp job I interviewed for, but the agency sent me to another job in the same monolithic building next to the pit that used to be the World Trade Center. I get to enjoy the Fulton Street Station for the next three weeks. The "6" train was already there as I was coming down the stairs. I waded through the throng of exiting passengers and made it to the doors before they closed. A woman carrying a child got on the train before me and she stopped and stood still, directly inside the doors, leaving me no room to get in. I hate that. There was no reason for her to do that, child or no; there was a decent amount of room and things to hold on to directly ahead of her. I squeezed on anyway, knowing I might be forced to let several crammed "4/5" trains pass at 86^th Street.

The child, maybe two or three years old, was crying. She put him on the floor where he continued to wail, his head tipped back, his throat gurgling so thickly that I was afraid he would choke. Her head was right in my face. The stretch of dark hair between her honey-blond tips and her scalp roughly corresponded to the age of the boy. She must be exhausted. A coating of empathy began to form over my annoyance. Until she spoke.

"Get up off that floor," she said sharply. "Stop it!"

The boy sobbed. His hair was meticulously braided into tiny cornrows.

"Dacari, stop crying!" She jerked at his tiny arm. I winced every time she spoke, her words and tone were so sharp and cold. Dacari wobbled and swayed, gurgled and sobbed. Heads further down the car turned towards the commotion. Passengers standing and sitting nearby focused on their papers or the ads or out the blackness of the window.

A woman stood and offered her seat, spoke softly and soothingly, offered to hold the child until she got settled. This woman expertly picked up Dacari and prepared to place him in his mother's lap.

"No, I'm not going to sit down. I'm going to put him down," said the mother. She took Dacari back and put him, still sobbing and gurgling, onto the seat. I relaxed a little and hoped her day would begin to improve after that. Maybe she would pass the kindness on to her child.

But she was still angry, still sharp and snapping, still ordering the baby to stop crying.

The last thing I heard her say as I got off the train at 86^th Street to transfer was: "You are going to school today."

January 7, 2004 - 9:45 a.m. - 4 train from Fulton Street to Grand Central

I hate the Fulton Street station. They advertise almost every color in the system and trick you into thinking you hit the train jackpot, but once you swipe your Metrocard you're stuck wandering up and down stairs and ramps and platforms for blocks before you get to the train you want. It's all a big hoax and I get suckered every time.

I found my way out of the maze just in time to miss the uptown train. The 4 or the 5, I couldn't tell which, but it had been just about my last chance to make it to the temp agency on time. I hoped my counselor would assume I'd been delayed by the front desk process and not by the fluffy allure of my pillow.

The only reason I noticed the woman was because she was standing right in the middle of the way and it seemed like she was smiling at me. Her very short-cropped hair was dyed almost the same brown as her skin, giving her an odd, almost bald appearance. Her face was smooth and powdery and suspiciously pink-cheeked. I'm brown myself and we do blush, although some people have told me otherwise, but not in that shape and color. I'm wary of strangers who smile at me, especially in the subway. Careful not to meet her eyes, I made a smile-like expression in her general direction and hurried past. There was an empty seat on a bench in the corner that would be a good semi-private spot to apply some mascara, so I made a beeline for it. I'm not much of a makeup person, but I was going for that much-coveted front-office appearance. Everyone wants a receptionist with lots of eyelashes.

I was carrying way too much stuff for a job interview, but I was going to stay with my grandfather afterwards and it just seemed easier that way. This meant I had to balance my backpack on my lap and hang onto my glasses and a mirror while I coated my lashes with Maybelline Great Lash in Brownish Black. As I was doing this, the woman appeared and sat down beside me.

"I see you're putting on makeup," she said pleasantly, if a little timidly. "Has anyone ever introduced you to Mary Kay?"

Oh, man. I guess it could be worse. I could be peddling makeup in the subway.

"I don't usually wear makeup," I told her, stuffing mascara and mirror into my backpack.

A 4 train rattled into the station. I might still be able to make it on time. I stood up. She remained seated. Still gently smiling.

"I was talking about the skin care line," she said. Slowly and pleasantly. Maybe in her experience people groom in the subway because they didn't just fall out of bed late for a job interview. And what's wrong with my skin? But still, I didn't want to be rude.

"Uh, yeah, I don't really - are you taking this?" I pointed to the train. The doors were standing open.

"No."

"Ok, well I have to." I made some apologetic gestures and ran for my train.

I wonder if Mary Kay still gives out pink Cadillacs.

January 7, 2004 - 12:15 p.m. - "5" from Grand Central to Fulton Street

I aced the re-tests and the job counselor liked my fancy suit from Ann Taylor Loft. He had me wait (and wait) while he talked me up to big law firm looking for a temp secretary and then sent me on an interview on the spot. He seemed to think that in forty minutes I would have time to make it from 41^st and Fifth to Lower Manhattan and eat, too. Please. After sitting in that waiting room all morning I was hungry and lightheaded and would have loved to eat, but that was just going to have to wait.

The "5" train wasn't that crowded, but the few empty seats were taken up by newspapers and knees and backpacks. I stood by the door, next to a young guy sitting at the end of the row of orange and yellow seats. He wore a baseball cap and a knee-length jersey and was delivering a monologue that I wasn't listening to. Across from him sat two women. A mother and daughter, I think, with a McDonald's shopping bag at their feet. I didn't even know McDonalds made bags that big. Both were eating Big Macs. The young woman took bites at steady intervals, chewing and nodding. The older woman held her Big Mac box closed and just chewed and nodded. After a while I realized she was missing her entire top front row of teeth. The guy talked on and on. Finally the older woman interjected.

"That's your uncle you're talking about," she said.

"I know, but when you can be buying five hundred dollar jackets and things and can't even give nobody no..."

A seat opened up further down on his side of the car and when I went to sit down I couldn't hear the rest of what he said. The young woman kept eating. She was biting into her burger sideways, so the open innards were facing her, the bread on the left and right sides of her mouth instead of the top and bottom. The older woman kept chewing. Finally she opened her Big Mac box and prepared to take a bite of the half-eaten sandwich. Just as we pulled in the next station. Without taking a bite, she closed the box again and they all got up and exited the train. They took their McDonald's bag with them. At least I didn't feel so hungry after the view of those Big Macs.

January 5, 2004 - 8:00 p.m. - 6 train from 103^rd Street to Union Square

A couple got on the train somewhere in Midtown and sat down right across from me. She was meticulously coordinated in a cream coat, brown gloves, brown shoes, brown beaded handbag, and cream-and-brown scarf. Brown hair. The only respite from the cream and brown was her blue jeans.

"If you don't have any gum, I'm going to be disappointed," she said to her companion.

"Why don't you tell me how you really feel?" he replied. He was cute in an "MTV Real World" sort of way.

I mentally gave their banter a 'C'.

The guy produced a pack of Dentyne Ice gum, popped out a piece, and held it out to the girl. And then pulled it back before she could take it! Oops! Oh, ha ha, here you go...nope, fooled you again! Here you go...

Ugh.

She finally pouted him into handing over the gum for real and I was sure I was more relieved than she was that the game was over.

"Here, can you hold this a second?" He asked.

She took the item he held out. When she saw that it was only a crumpled, empty gum pack she made a face at him and dropped it on the seat between them. I felt certain they would leave it there when they got off the train.

I couldn't help watching them. They clearly seemed to find themselves adorable and, anyway, there was nothing else to look at. After a while they caught me and I had to pretend to be looking at the route map above their heads. They kept glancing at me. I know this because I kept glancing at them. I was so uncomfortable that I got up and stood by the door before we even pulled into the 14^th Street station. I could see their reflections in the glass. Staring at me. I couldn't tell if they could see me watching them look at me or not.

Megan Lyles is a travel writer living in New York City. She can be reached at megan_lyles@yahoo.com.