N train from 34th Street/Pennsylvania Station (Manhattan) to Union Street (Brooklyn)

Tuesday

11:05 p.m.
Descending the stairs to the Brooklyn-bound N/R train, I immediately catch wind of this horrible smell coming from the platform. Like hot air, bad smells also rise. However, they only rise as far as me, and then they linger. I suffer through the pungent stench, and get to the platform.

A train should be here by 11:20 at the latest. At this time of night, every fifteen minutes, or so they say. I sit down on a bench, and wait.

I have a book with me. It's God Bless You, Mister Rosewater, by Kurt Vonnegut. With my hands, I search for the dog-eared page marking where I last left off. With my mind, I'm thinking back on other Vonnegut I've read, which I've enjoyed (Timequake, Bagombo Snuff Box, Slaughterhouse Five) and which I've not (Player Piano, Cat's Cradle, other parts of Bagombo Snuff Box). Even though my hands have now found the page (page 94, although the last parts I can recall having read - i.e., the last parts I seem to have retained - exist on page 93), my mind has wandered to other science-fiction-esque writers, particularly Ray Bradbury. I've always thought highly of him, yet I've only enjoyed one book (Fahrenheit 451). I hated Dandelion Wine. I only moderately cared about The Martian Chronicles. I abandon thoughts of Bradbury (only after a split-second shift to a friend I have whose last name is similar to Bradbury), and begin to read page 93 (possibly for the second time).

11:07 p.m.
I check my watch. I looked at it as I sat down two minutes ago, but it seems that I often look at my watch, accept the time, but fail to retain it. As I look now, at 11:07, I watch the second hand tick around from 32 to 39 before becoming bored. I calculate that once the train arrives, it'll be about 28 minutes until I get to Union Street in Brooklyn (about three blocks from my house). Actually, it might only be 26 minutes (riding the train, not waiting for it), since I think it will skip several stops (28th Street, 23rd Street, 8th Street and Prince Street -- maybe there's one more) as it travels south through Manhattan. 26 minutes plus the 4-minute walk from Union Street's station to my house. That's 30 minutes. Plus whatever time I wait here for the train, probably until 11:20, so that's 13 more minutes from now. 43 minutes and I'll be home. At 11:50. About.

11:09 p.m.
I yawn. I'm tired. I had a class earlier this evening, and it always tires me out. I went out with friends for Mexican food afterward. I don't really like Mexican food much anymore. I've been to this one particular restaurant way too many times, so now it's more a chore than enjoyable. Except for this one cute girl who is there sometimes. But she never talks to me about much. How sad. I yawn again. I'm very tired. It's becoming difficult to stay focused on my book for more than a sentence at a time. No wonder I don't remember any of page 93. I was probably tired the last time I read it. Perhaps I've read it many, many times? I recognize one sentence. In fact, I recognize it so vividly, I wonder how I could have forgotten the rest of the page. Then I realize that the familiar sentence is the same one I was reading before my last yawn.

11:12 p.m.
I put the book away, having read less of page 93 than I had hoped for (in fact, it's quite possible that I had read further into page 93 earlier that day than I had reviewed just now). I pull out my Palm Pilot, and read the memo pad again. I read old notes I've made. I read discarded song lyrics. I read a list of women I've met who I think are stunningly gorgeous.

11:13 p.m.
I feel a breeze. It's that subway breeze, the one that suggests that the train is about to pull into the platform. I get up, eagerly awaiting my ride. The train appears -- from the other end of the station, on the opposite track.

That train is going to Queens. I am going to Brooklyn.

11:14 p.m.
Sitting down again, I pop an herbal throat lozenge into my mouth. It's berry flavored. I have to sing on Thursday, and I'm nervous that I'll lose my voice before then. I wonder if I have tonsillitis. There are no mirrors in the subway station. I absent-mindedly open up God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater to page 93, but I don't look at the page.

11:17 p.m.
I am suddenly aware that three minutes have passed. Where did they go? I hope I didn't fall asleep. The same people are sitting on the bench near me, so I probably haven't missed my train. A man wanders by, mumbling something loud enough for me to hear about 30 percent of the words:

MAN: Take my (mrbml skmbm jukin') mother-fuckin' (freemrm strmln) listen while I'm pissin' (ckfrt sfmns brbml) it's my time, buy the rhyme, commit the fuckin' crime...

...and he's out of earshot. I watch him walk away. I wonder if he's reciting his own lyrics or someone else's. I stretch my legs.

11:21 p.m.
Damn it, there's still no train. There are workers on one of the center tracks. They're counting pipes. Actually, only one of the men is counting pipes. The other sixteen men are sitting around (or standing) doing, it seems, nothing. I look at the pipes, and estimate that there are over 200 of them. It will take this man a while to count them all.

11:23 p.m.
I wander up the stairs as if I'm exiting the station. I think that, maybe, I can fool the train into thinking I've given up waiting for it, so that as soon as I leave, it arrives. But I outsmart the train by only pretending to leave. I listen down the stairs (from the top) for an oncoming train. I hear one. I quickly descend the stairs (how ironic it would be to get to the bottom just as the doors close, and I've missed the one train in the last 20 minutes), but alas, the oncoming train was coming on from the wrong direction again. I recall that there were far fewer people across the platform (heading uptown) than there are on my platform (heading downtown). Why, then, have there been two uptown trains in the time I've waited?

11:24 p.m.
The uptown train departs. I am simultaneously happy for the people on that train (for their efforts to get home are proving successful) and miserable for myself and those with whom I share this platform. Our efforts suck.

11:26 p.m.
I know page 93 in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater better than any other page in the book. I've now read it four times (if you count the time I opened it, but didn't look, a time during which I may have absorbed some of the material through osmosis).

11:32 p.m.
I see the headlights of the train. It's an R train. This is potentially upsetting. The N and the R trains run on the same tracks between Lexington Avenue in Manhattan and 59th Street in Brooklyn. Since the two stops I'm traveling between are within that range, one might think that either the N or the R will be sufficient to get me home. I have a bad feeling about this R train...

11:34 p.m.
The doors haven't closed. For some reason (which the conductor chooses not to announce), we are waiting here at 34th Street. It wasn't enough that it has been at least 29 minutes (since I arrived, and God knows how long before that) since the last train. Still, we wait here. People have told me that there's a schedule for when trains leave the station. If I believe that, then the trains should come and go every fifteen minutes. That's what the published schedule says. So if it's been 29 minutes (at the very least), why are we waiting? I ask questions that get no answers. At least I don't ask them out loud.

11:36 p.m.
The doors close (bing-bong!), and we depart. At about half a mile an hour. Christ, I could walk to Brooklyn faster than this.

11:38 p.m.
We are at 14th Street. I was right in thinking that we would skip some stops. We have skipped 28th Street and 23rd Street so far. I hope I am not right about this train not going to Brooklyn. I want to get home.

I had one too many beers with my friends earlier tonight. And now I have to pee.

11:41 p.m.
We are at Canal Street. We've skipped a few more stops (8th Street, Prince Street). The doors close (bing-bong!), but then quickly open up again. I sigh in contempt of this train. The conductor responds to my sigh.

CONDUCTOR: Ladies and gentlemen. This R train is out of service. Please wait here for the next N train for stops in lower Manhattan and Brooklyn. Again, this is the last stop on this R train. Get off this train, wait here for the N train behind this one. Board that train for service south of here.

11:42 p.m.
Fuck. I'll never get home.

11:44 p.m.
Once everyone has gotten off, the out-of-service R train leaves the station. It is my belief that when a train goes out of service (like this one), they pull it off the main track, somewhere to the side. I mean, if it stayed on the main track, how would the next train (on the same track) get to Brooklyn? And if the out-of-service train was to actually ride all the way to Brooklyn, preceding the train behind it, why is it out of service? Why can't I ride it to Brooklyn?

11:45 p.m.
The N train behind it has arrived. Not a bad turnaround, but in reality, it would only take about 40 minutes to walk from 34th Street to Canal Street. Well, maybe a bit longer. I board the N train.

11:46 p.m.
The doors are still open.

11:48 p.m.
When it comes to these doors, there is no denying their lack of closure.

CONDUCTOR: There is a train ahead of us. As soon as it clears, we shall proceed.

This pisses me off. What train ahead of us? The train ahead of us has to be the out-of-service R train. I monitored that track from 34th Street for nearly a half an hour, and there were no other trains.

11:49 p.m.
The doors close (bing-bong!), and we move ahead. About 40 feet. Then we stop. Wait twenty seconds. Move ahead another bit, into the tunnel. We're cruising at a breakneck speed of about 0.02 miles per hour.

11:50 p.m.
We stop. In the middle of the tunnel, between stations. What for? That R train had better be off this track. What else is there? I believe there are people who operate the stop lights on the train tracks, and they fall asleep at their jobs, so the lights stay red for hours. It feels like hours.

Another thought: This was the time I had originally imagined I'd be home. Ha!

11:52 p.m.
The N has decided to run local. It is my feeling that it made this choice without the help of the conductor. The R is supposed to be local, the N express. Instead of speeding toward Pacific Street in Brooklyn, we barely move into the next local station, City Hall. The doors stay open longer than they need to. We wait and wait and wait. Finally, at:

11:54 p.m.
the doors close (bing-bong!) and we proceed. Halfway to our next destination, Cortlandt Street, we come to a stop. No subway platform is in sight. And if I can't see a platform, the doors can't open. If the doors can't open, people can't get on or off the train. If the doors can't open, the doors can't close, and if the doors can't close, we can't get one more damn stop closer to my house.

11:55 p.m.
I have this awful issue with trains stopped between stations. What I mean is this: I pass the time on the train with a book or a walkman. However, if the train stops unexpectedly, I have to put down my book or shut off my walkman until the train proceeds. Maybe I want to keep an ear cocked in case they announce something important. Of course, usually, the announcements consist of "Shrmblsk memskibl no service to the yvbnmer otttkyls passengers wishing service to jyklwouy, meekfro slskti srggnp..." and so on. Why do I bother?

11:57 p.m.
Welcome to Cortlandt Street. I once got out at this station. I was meeting a friend here. I'm on the brink of not being your friend anymore!

11:58 p.m.
The doors are still open.

CONDUCTOR: We are being held in the station by train dispatch. We will be moving shortly.

I hate train dispatch.

11:59 p.m.
I begin writing a song about the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. That's the long name by which the company that runs the subway system is known. In their ads, they have a slogan, which reads: "MTA, Going Your Way." My way is a whole lot faster than this. That's sort of the premise of my song.

Wednesday.

12:00 a.m.
It is Wednesday.

12:01 a.m.
Christ, why the fuck can't we move? What the hell is blocking this track? Do I have to get up and scream at someone? Do I have to -- bing-bong! The doors close, and we proceed.

12:03 a.m.
Without occasion, we arrive at Rector Street, the next stop on this slow train to Hell. Well, without occasion as long as you don't count taking goddamned forever to get there.

12:04 a.m.
Bing-bong! We pull out of Rector Street, and move with some celerity toward the last stop under the island of Manhattan, Whitehall Street/South Ferry. I know the full names of all the stops. I could recite most of them in order, and tell you what trains you can transfer to. Whitehall Street/South Ferry isn't that interesting in that regard, since you can't transfer to anything. Well, usually, you could transfer to the R train, but as we know, the R train is out of service, and generally slowing down the N train from getting anywhere.

12:05 a.m.
We arrive at Whitehall Street/South Ferry.

12:06 a.m.
We are still here.

12:08 a.m.
I am not kidding, we are still here.

12:10 a.m.
Holy shit. We are still here. Why, at ten minutes after midnight on a Tuesday (Wednesday), when there have been no trains (except the one we're not allowed to use, the one that is allegedly out-of-service!!!), why why why are we sitting at Whitehall Street/South Ferry for five whole minutes with the doors open? What are we waiting for? The conductor isn't talking to us. He hates us. We hate him. All of us in the car are agreed on that matter. We don't discuss it, we just know. We don't even look at each other. But still, we are united on the front of hating the conductor, the whole MTA system, and most specifically, the N/R train line. I make a vow never to take the N/R line anywhere.

The vow will not last. I live near the N/R line. I have to take it. They have me there. Goddamn monopoly.

12:12 a.m.
I've gone delirious. Seven minutes without moving? I look around, curious as to whether I missed something. Everyone else is doing the exact same thing - looking around to see what they missed. None of us missed anything. Someone gets out of the train and asks the conductor (who sits in the center car, the car I'm in) what is going on. The conductor says that there are red signals. The woman asks again, but in a different way. What does she hope the conductor will say? "Oh, I'm sorry, miss. You want to go to Brooklyn? Hop on. Let's go."

12:14 a.m.
Bing-bong. I mock the woman, but she finally made the train move.

The woman kept badgering the conductor until the train moved. This does not really mean that she made the train move. But this logic is quite firm in the minds of New York City drivers. At red lights (traffic lights on the street, not red signals in the subway station), cars line up, waiting for the light to turn green. The moment it turns green, all the cars start honking.

My point, however, is this: Traffic is crowded. The light turns green. Inevitably, it takes some time to get through crowded streets. And anyone who's ever driven knows this. Yet they honk. And here's the catch: They keep honking and honking, and eventually, the traffic moves. Then they stop honking. And what they've learned from this experience is that honking makes traffic move. If we could only convince them that not-honking arguably makes traffic move faster than honking! Sadly, their minds are smaller than ours. Honk = moving traffic. And the woman who argued with the train conductor operated under a similar premise. Arguing = moving traffic. Passengers on a subway use their voices in lieu of horns.

I neither talk to strangers on the subway nor honk at traffic. I am a perfect citizen.

12:21 a.m.
Seven minutes it took to get to Court Street in Brooklyn. Seven. Seven?! This is unheard of. I should know, by now, that this train will never get me home. It's now over a half hour past my original ETA, and way past my bedtime. I'm tired. I have to pee. I hate my life.

Did I leave God Bless You, Mister Rosewater at 34th Street? In addition to being unable to retain the information in the book, I can't even recall when last I had it. I touch the pocket of my jacket, and feel a book there. I'm too tired to see if it's the right book. Do I carry multiple books? I don't think I do.

12:22 a.m.
As the train sits at Court Street (so much potential energy, this train), I wonder if I should get out and take a cab home. I know, however, that the moment I step out of the car, bing-bong, and the train will leave. It's me they're stalling. I will never get home.

Consider: Some people refer to the N train as the Never Train. I think I will refer to the N train as the Lame-Ass, Bastard-Eating, You-Won't-See-Your-House-If-I-Can-Help-It Train. My name is much more accurate.

12:23 a.m.
Bing-bwoon... The doors close, but something has happened to the audio. The chime which had become so familiar has wilted. Maybe I've just heard a door chime die. The first pitch was normal, but the second note, the bong of the bing-bong, it faltered. It dipped, it fell, it swooned. I wonder what it will sound like the next time?

12:25 a.m.
Lawrence Street is empty. I never see anyone get on or off the train at Lawrence Street. I wonder why we bother to stop there.

Bing-blrm... The chime is still broken, but we only sat at Lawrence Street for about four seconds! World record! Wow!

12:26 a.m.
DeKalb Street! I am so excited! We are finally moving at an acceptable rate!

Oh, shit. DeKalb Street. This station is so messed up. Trains stop on one side or the other, consistency never a concern of the MTA. Sometimes one track is closed. Sometimes things are express. Sometimes people get out and dance. If there happens to be another train across the platform, you can transfer quickly to another line. And more often than not, late at night, if you arrive at this station and there is no other train there, you will wait wait wait until another train arrives. Now, I also seem to recall that when I ride the D train home, and we get to DeKalb, we always sit in the station and wait for the N across the platform. When it finally arrives, passengers board it, and it leaves the station first. Then we leave. Not fair.

I reach into my pocket, and pull out the book. It is, in fact, God Bless You, Mister Rosewater. I open it up once again to page 93. But my inability to read while the train is stopped keeps me from making any progress in the book. I sit. I stare at the book, not reading. My mind goes, "I hate this fucking train. I hate this fucking train. I hate..."

12:32 a.m.
Despite no D train across the platform, the doors close (bing-blrm...) and we move on. I am torn between emotions of happiness and anger. Happy, yes, for we are getting closer to my house. Angry, yes also, for 1) we sat there waiting for the D train, when other times, I'm on the D train, and we sit there waiting for the N; 2) we waited for six minutes (not the record by any stretch, but still a good amount of time) and no train arrived across the platform. We could have left six minutes earlier and made just as many connections.

12:34 a.m.

CONDUCTOR: Ladies and gentlemen, this is Pacific Street. You can transfer here for the B on this platform, the 2, 3, 4, D or Q trains upstairs at the Atlantic Avenue station. The next stop on this train will be Union Street. Stand clear of the closing doors.

That statement should be followed by bing-blrm, and we should move along.

12:35 a.m.
Doors haven't closed. What a fucking surprise.

12:36 a.m.

CONDUCTOR: Ladies and Gentlemen. Due to delays in this service, this train will be going express to 59th Street. We will skip all stops between here and 59th Street. For local service from this station, wait here for the Coney Island-bound B train, which will make all local stops to Coney Island.

SCREAM (internal).

I get off the train. I am too tired to be livid. If I get livid, I will have to pee much more than I already do. Instead, I will calmly wait until this train leaves, and see how far behind (if I can see it at all) the B train is. If it's close, I'll take it the one stop to Union Street. If not, I'll walk home from here.

A young woman from a nearby car of my train begins to yell at the conductor.

YELLING WOMAN: What the fuck is going on here? It has taken an hour and a half from 34th Street in Manhattan to get here. Why is the N running express now? The B is the express train. Why can't the B just be normal and the N just be normal and get me the fuck home? What the fuck is the matter with you people? My god!
CONDUCTOR: There were delays in service.
WOMAN: I know! I was on the train from 34th Street! Why can't this fucking train go fucking local?
CONDUCTOR: You can't blame me for track work.
WOMAN: I don't care about track work! I want to get home!
(Bing-blrm! The train begins to pull out of the station.)
WOMAN (continued): You're in such a fucking hurry to move now, huh? How about the hour and half we all sat on the train trying to get the Brooklyn in the first fucking place! How the fuck about that! Fuck you! Fuck you!

I look down the track, and the B train is close behind. But it's not moving. A red signal, no doubt.

Some other woman (not the screaming woman, and not the first woman who talked to the conductor at Whitehall Street - let's call this new one Woman Three) approaches me, and asks if the next train will be local. I tell her I hope so. This woman (Woman Three) is cute. She's very tall. And cute. And I hope she's going to Union Street also. I hope she lives in my building, and she'll sort of be following me home inadvertently (because I'll walk faster than she will, and be a little ahead of her, but then I'll walk normal speed, so I don't get too far ahead), and then she'll be pleasantly surprised to see me open up the front door of the same building, and she'll catch up, and remind me that we spoke briefly about B train locality moments ago. She'll invite me in, which will be silly, because I live there! But, she says, she wants to invite me into her apartment for a drink. One thing will lead to another, and we'll inevitably fall madly in love. We won't mind walking the extra four blocks to the D train so that we can avoid this beleaguered N line. We'll be the happiest (and tallest) couple in all of Brooklyn. We --

Bing-bong! The B train doors are closing, and I'm still standing on the platform! What the hell is the matter with me? I charge toward the doors, and squeeze on the train. Everyone looks at me with incredulity. What was that moron doing, just standing on the platform? He must be homeless.

12:37 a.m.
Now on the B train (which normally would never stop at Union Street, but tonight, it will), I scan the car for the tall Woman Three. There she is, standing in the doorway. There's an Asian man near her, talking. To her? I can't tell. She talks. He talks. Yeah, to her.

12:38 a.m.
Union Street. Here we are. It's been sixty-four minutes since the first of my three trains arrived. It's been ninety-three minutes since I first got to 34th Street. World records for futility being set in every direction.

I get off the train, and head through the turnstiles. As I turn to go up the stairs, I notice that Woman Three has also gotten off the train here as well. Maybe my fantasy will yet come true! She follows me up the stairs. She has no idea what is yet to come. We reach street level. I cross Fourth Avenue, and head up Union Street. I don't want to look over my shoulder, for fear she'll see me too soon, and the moment I've planned for the threshold of our building will be destroyed. But I hear her footsteps behind me. I walk a normal pace, slower than usual. I turn left onto Fifth Avenue. I pause for a moment to look at my watch. I hear the footsteps coming closer. She's still behind me! I get to my building, and put the key in the door. At this point, I finally turn, for she would have also just arrived at the building.

It's not her. It's some guy. It's some guy with a beard. He's short, and has a beard, and he just walks past me (which is fine). Where is Woman Three, in her long turquoise coat? I look around the street a bit, but she's not there. Fantasies created, fantasies unfulfilled. No surprise.

12:43 a.m.
I trod up the stairs to my third-floor apartment. I unlock the locks, step inside, and greet my cat as I close the door behind me.

"Bing-bong!"

Brian Cimmet is an award-winning columnist for Grumble Magazine http://www.grumblemagazine.com)but spends most of his time writing music and playing the piano for anyone who will pay him for it. As a composer, he has written music for several musicals, plays, cabarets, television and film. He also wrote The Complete Reference Guide to Psychometricology, and is a two-time winner of The One-Page Play contest's Best Play award for Clams: The Musical (1997) and The Von Trapp Family Reunion (2000). He is a graduate of Wesleyan University, a member of the BMI Musical Theatre Workshop, and enjoys well-prepared meals.