I did not grow-up in New York City, and so I did not take the subway to school, parties, or sporting events. And because of this I do not have the subway map memorized and don't know which series of trains will get me to Far Rockaway when I find myself standing on East 98th and Madison. Nor do I intuitively know where to position myself on the platform at the West 96th Street stop so I can exit the 2 train near the stairwell at Times Square.

But that’s okay, because I will learn it all, I have moved to New York City; I now ride the trains endlessly, and I love every minute of it. From the ancient gum embedded on the platforms in every station to the ceilings that drip murky water in every hall and tunnel that connect them. From the vendors selling socks on every train line to the homeless asking for change after breaking into song, the New York City subways have more stories per moment then any other place I've ever been.

And these are some of my stories.

The Bag
I am heading to the office on Friday morning my first week on the job as a caseworker. I am carrying a large overnight bag with me because I plan to head out of town after work. I catch the 3 train at 96th Street and I head south to the Times Square/42nd Street stop where I need to catch the 7 train to my office. The station is packed when I get there, full of guys in black leather coats and sweatpants; women in fuchsia business suits and Reebok workout shoes; and young men, black, white, Hispanic, and Asian, in baggy Phat Farm jeans and Timberlands.

Everyone is pushing one another, and pushing me, as they race to their respective trains, and my bag is constantly slipping off of my shoulder as I try to right myself in the tidal wave of bodies around me. I head to the stairwell that will take me down to the platform where the 7 train is already approaching and as I do I work my way past a newsstand that is covered with lurid NY Post cover stories about heads being found in hotel rooms; issues old and new of Elle and Vogue with their too skinny waif-like Kate Moss clones; and endless copies of Playboy, Screw, Big Busts, and Stud.

The stairwell is convulsing with people and I am at a virtual standstill when a burly, mustachioed guy behind me starts to yell.

"Hey, c'mon already, the fucking train is right there," he says.

"What do you want me to do," I say, "look at all these people in front of me?"

"What do I want you do?" he says, "You got that big bag, knock someone the fuck over."

I do not respond, and we do not catch our train.

The Fight
It's five o'clock and it's very warm out. I get on the 1 train heading to the Bronx and am immediately assaulted by the air conditioning, the contrast in temperatures sure to lead to a summer cold. The train is packed, and I have my bag hanging over my shoulder. I'm holding the pole with my left hand, and reading Newsday with my right. A young couple starts to argue off to my left by the door.

"Yo, fuck you man," the brown-haired girl in the tight jeans says with her right index finger to make her point, "you suck."

"Fuck me, fuck you," the dark-haired guy in the black hooded sweatshirt replies, barely moving an eyelash much less a muscle.

I think about how this is the classic subway pick-pocket situation. Dumb-ass guy reads his newspaper. He is not paying attention to his surroundings, and not paying attention to his wallet because his hands are not free. He gets distracted when two people start having an argument. And when this occurs, a third person takes his wallet after pretending to inadvertently bump into him.

I have read about this scenario over and over again, and it's brilliant in both its concept and execution. Successful pickpockets work like magicians, their mastery lying in their ability to create a diversion that shifts your attention just enough from the task at hand to make their move. But just because I know this about pickpockets, does not mean I think I'm above being victimized. Far from it. In fact not only am I certain that I could have my wallet stolen at any time, but I also recognize that this sort of knowledge means nothing, because I am not the type of person who is willing to take steps to protect myself.

I am not keeping my right hand in my pocket, for example, where my wallet is, instead choosing to keep both of my hands tied-up with other things. Nor am I avoiding the crowd by the door, much less fully paying attention to my surroundings. All in all, I’m an easy mark. As I sit here playing all this out in my head, we arrive at the next station, where I become distracted by the idea of being distracted even though I know that being distracted is the last thing I should be.

The doors open and another guy in a hooded sweatshirt bumps into me on his way out of the train. I reach for my wallet, but it's gone, as are the couple and the guy who bumped into me, all of who have now blended into the exiting crowd.

The Old Lady
Another day, another crowded train, this time the E train. Everyone has packed in around the doors and I do my best to move into the aisle and toward the center of the train. There is a big Ving Rhames-type standing in front of me though, unmoving and seemingly unmovable. I cannot get around him unless he gives a little, but it's not clear whether that's ever going to happen.

I think about what I might say to him. "Yo, Ving do you mind moving up some, or maybe letting me by, you know maybe giving a brother a little space?" It sounds sincere and neighborly, but I'm not so sure it sounds convincing. Ving may very well be willing to move, but he hasn't done so on his own despite the fact that the car is filling up around him. He might respond of course to a conductor asking him to move along, or even a taped message regarding train courtesy, but none is forthcoming, and no one can follow what those taped messages say any way.

I wonder how best to proceed and decide to forget about the whole thing. I soon find myself lost in one of those packed subway car kind of reveries, only to be abruptly snapped back to reality, by a smallish, fire hydrant of an older woman who brushes up behind me. At first I think she is just getting pushed into me by the other passengers around her, and I feel bad, bad that I cannot get Ving to move, and bad that she does not have enough room. And then she starts to speak, and when she does, I stop feeling so bad.

"What's wrong with people," she says, clearly talking to me, about me, and through me. "They don't fucking move for anybody, they just stand there, not moving, not trying to move, not a care in the world."

My guilt becomes exasperation. I turn to face her, motion to the behemoth in front of me, and give her a look that I hope says, "Gimme a break, what am I supposed to do here?" She has no love for me though, no understanding, and no lack of feelings about this predicament we are in.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, motherfucker, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," she says.

Well, she may not be saying exactly that, but it certainly sounds a lot like it. This goes on for several minutes, no one seeming to notice or care, least of all Ving.

I finally look at her and say, "And what the fuck would you have me do?"

There is a pause, and then the guy standing behind her leans over and says somewhat menacingly, "Now, why don't you show the lady some respect."

I do not respond. Instead, I turn away, face Ving’s back, and find a happy place to focus on until my stop comes up.

The Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich
I'm tired. Tired of my inability to help the children and families that I work with. Tired of the shell-shocked neighbor and his angry pit bull that we constantly need to avoid in the halls of our apartment building. Tired of watching John Starks miss three-pointers. And tired of the endless stream of cockroaches that inhabit our wannabe-one-bedroom apartment, despite all our best efforts to stop them, including our use of the magic chalk from Chinatown that helps some, but not enough.

There I am on the N train, minding my own business, reading my Newsday, heading to visit someone when he walks up. He's a pasty white guy, with long brown hair and a beard. He's wearing several layers of mismatched clothes. He's clearly homeless.

He walks up and stops in front of my seat, the fluorescent lights washing over him and setting off a weird glow. He doesn't say a word to me; he just stands there, and stares. I look up over the top of my newspaper and we make eye contact, but he still doesn't say a word. I look back down, but he doesn't go away. Nor does he say anything. He's just standing, not talking, not moving. A minute passes, and then another, nothing, no movement, no words, nothing.

I look up again. Should I say something? He must want money, right? But he hasn't said so, and I don't have any. I really don't. If he doesn't want money, why else is he standing there? Might he be a messenger of some kind from the other side? Maybe this is like a Twilight Zone. Maybe he's me off in the future or in a parallel world? Maybe the universe has inverted itself while I've been underground and everyone is now homeless but me? And then again, who's to say I'm not homeless, too?

He still hasn't said a word. Now I feel a little angry. Is he trying to intimidate me or stage some kind of silent protest against all that I represent? "Hey man," I say to him, though actually just to myself, "I'm a social worker. I'm on your side, go pick on one of the lawyers on the other end of the car." I don't say that though, but I do speak to him.

"Hey man," I say, "what do you want from me?"

He doesn't speak at first, but then says, "I need some money to eat."

"I don't have it brother. I’m sorry," I say.

"I said, I need some money for food," he says raising his voice and stepping closer to me.

"I really don't have any," I say.

"I said, I need some money for food," he repeats.

"Hey man," I say feeling a little panicked, wondering if I can get around him if needed, "do you want one of my sandwiches, I brought two for lunch."

He mulls this over, not saying a word.

"You said you wanted some food, right," I say my voice raising, "and now I'm offering you some. Do you want it or not? And if you don't please move the fuck away from me."

"Okay, sure," he says.

I hand him a sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil and he opens it up. He looks unhappy. "Peanut butter and jelly," he says disgustedly, "is that all you have?"

"Look buddy," I say, "if you don't want it give it back, that's my lunch."

"No man, I'll eat it," he says.

He walks away. I get off the train a few stops later, and now I'm really tired. My girlfriend and I move to Chicago two months later.

Ben Tanzer is a writer and social worker. His work has been published in a series of journal and magazines including Midnight Mind, Rated Rookie, Punk Planet, Windy City Sports, Chicago Parent, and Abroad View.