It's 11 a.m. on Tuesday and my normally reliable downtown 1 train – reliable being a relative term – is late, very late. I step into the first car of the train, as always. This was, at first, because I could usually get a seat and it would let me off close to the exit at my 50th Street stop, but now because it has become almost a pathology for me, to where I will actually miss trains if I can't get to the first car quickly enough. Today it is packed, wall-to-wall, and I immediately regret my decision to layer a thick hoodie under my pea coat in case of rain (Hoods, always hoods.  I refuse to contribute to nightmare-ish problem of umbrellas in this city.  The fact that I have both of my eyes after a good rain never ceases to amaze me.)

     The train begins moving at half the normal speed and the commute is already excruciating.  I only have five stops to go between 86th Street and 50th Street, but I'm sweating profusely and jockeying for arm space between two tall men in heavy jackets.  At a slow crawl we make it past 79th… 72nd… 66th…59th… picking up hoards at every stop. Why doesn't anyone get off? I wonder, slamming my bag into the lady's face in front of me as my left earphone falls out and I struggle to replace it. Someone has to go to these places. They have to. Carefully timed to my absolute breaking point, we finally begin the nine block trek from 59th to 50th, and pick up speed at that, when the train comes to a total, sudden, dare I say, screeching halt. No.  No.  Why?  We're so close. I can smell the Times Square tourists. Come on train, come on. Slowly the train moves again, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Inch by inch, the first two cars creep into the station and agonizingly, the train stops again. A minute goes by…then two…then five…the people outside stare in at us and we stare out at them, imprisoned. Desperation begins to kick in.

     I become acutely aware of my proximity to these people, and suddenly we are not 50-odd strangers on a train. We have a relationship to one another. We are all sharing an experience. The shift on the train is palpable. People begin to look one another in the eye with that "what's going look" and smile sympathetically at those most desperately huffing at their watches. Some people even begin to (blech) talk. I find this shift to be a most distasteful turn of events. After all, one of the things I love most about New York is the anonymity amongst strangers. I hate talking to people on buses, planes or trains.  I don't like being required to smile at passers-by. In short, I don't like to have to interact with the masses as we trudge along in sheep-like uniformity. And now these people, these good people of New York who are supposed to love their social solitude just as much as me, are looking at each other, talking to each other. The sweating under my sweatshirt, scarf and pea coat is reaching the level of Unbearable.  Please God, don't talk to me, just let me be. Look at the advertisements Montana, just look at the advertisements. Está usted ridículo grasa?  Am I? Dude I really should go to the gym. Oh my God, I have to take this coat off, my scarf is strangling me, and I can't take this anymore. But there's no room, oh my God open the doors.  Why can't I get this scarf off, oh Jesus I'm having a panic attack...

     And then suddenly it's happening. Events begin to run in slow motion. I can see the man next to me begin to turn towards me and yet I am powerless to look away. Look at the ad, look at the ad. Está usted ridículo grasa? Está usted ridículo grasa? But no, it's too late, I'm not turning quickly enough.  We've made eye contact and now he's opening his mouth and…

     "Open up the fucking doors! What the fuck? Let's gooooo!" The battle cry comes from behind me.  I turn to see my savior from inevitably awkward conversation. He's a large (and by large, I mean fat) white dude with a two-day scruff of beard, decked out in a ski cap and Timberlands, and he is, to say, disgruntled. All attention is now on him. "We're half-way in the fucking station already. Let's just open up the Goddamn doors!"

     A riddle: What is the one thing that can make being trapped in a smelly, packed, 95-degree subway car even less enjoyable? An unkempt fat man with an unnaturally loud voice screaming profanities!  That's right! Oh ho, it is obnoxious all right.  And yet a tiny (tiny) part of me thinks, "In a way, he's doing this for all of us."  He's giving voice to all of our frustration, our collective desire to scream our way out of this situation. Right on, fat boy! But that part of me is quickly overtaken by logic. Being that we're in the first car I suppose the conductors can hear Loudy's profanity-laced suggestions, and yet I sincerely doubt it would affect their decision-making process on whether or not to let us out of this sweaty hellhole. And what is certain is that his crusade is making an already terrible situation even worse.
But our newfound little car community is divided. Should they stand by Loudy? Is he a leader? A sort of subway version of Malcolm X, who would lead us out of the oppression of this underground terminal by any means necessary? Or is he just a rabble-rouser? A loud, rude presence that was destroying the temporary peace we'd managed to establish in these difficult times. Dissention begins to build as some tenuously join in with Loudy's verbal assault and others quietly begin their own against him. This is not good.  

     But then! The fuzz of the intercom coming on and all ears come to attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, this train will be conducting an emergency evacuation. All passengers must exit out the first two cars.  Again, this train is conducting an emergency evacuation. We had a jumper. We need to recover the body from under the train."

     The train falls into total silence. Are they supposed to announce that sort of thing? Aren't they supposed to just say there is something wrong with the train? But then, I've had train conductors instruct the passengers to "get your asses all the way inside the doors or we are turning this train around" so why should this surprise me?  This is New York; it is a not a city of illusions. And yet it does surprise me, and I am shocked at the depth with which it shakes me.  I am suddenly, intensely glad for the people around me, glad to be sharing this experience. Right here, right underneath us, someone's life – and pain and hurt and misery – has ended. Right here, where we sit listening to our iPods, reading our books, and studiously avoiding eye contact with one another. We'd lost one of our own – a fellow New Yorker. A fellow (former) survivor of these dirty subways, these overcrowded streets. And for a split second, I feel a pure, deep, honest love for the people on this subway car with me, as pure as any love I've ever felt. "This," I think, "is as close as I will ever feel to patriotism. The way I love New York and New Yorkers."

     The train stays in silence for another minute, two minutes. And though the lot of us are, again, no longer on speaking terms, we are together in a way now that we hadn't been before. I am not sweating, I am not panicking. I am sad, and I feel comforted by the shoulders I can't help rubbing up against on either side. Another minute slips by and then, Loudy McLouderson's shout violently rips through the silence: "Well, let us off this piece of shit train!"

    BING BONG! The doors slide open, cutting off Loudy's rant. Everyone stays still for a moment looking at him, embarrassed for him, before shuffling out the doors. And suddenly I understand. This is why someone would choose to off themselves by leaping in front of a subway: To screw over the Loudy McLouderson's of the world. One last hurrah. One last little act to make others' days a little less pleasant as they had done for him time and time again. How utterly New York.

Montana Whiteley is a radio producer and freelance writer living in New York City.