The Rhythm of the L Train

by Tim Connors 

     The L train, winding its way through Brooklyn and cutting a swath across the lower abdomen of Manhattan, is a typically inconspicuous ride, never fraught with the drama  the midtown trains that are caught up in, the hustle of Times Square and the glut of traffic. The L, like her color, is rather dreary and gray. But every once in a great while, a moment catches the light and shines like a snowflake, stamping the L with a brilliant richness that is never forgotten.  One late September night, that moment struck. 

     I had spent the day moving quickly all over Manhattan, making use of the sidewalks instead of the subways to insure my friends, who were in the city for the first time, saw every skyscraper, dirty water dog vendor, corner drunk and pigeon that New York had on display that morning. They lagged behind frequently, eyes caught up in the squall of sights and sounds that make up a day in the life of New York City. After six hours of walking a frantic pace, slowing only for a fast beer or three at a small Irish pub downtown and stopping briefly to eat in a rundown, but utterly delicious Chinese restaurant, where dog and cat jokes may have originated, we reached Union Square, home of the L. Bounding down the stairs, with the only thoughts getting under the East River and home to Williamsburg in my head, I didn’t quite hear the chest pounding thumps issuing up from the stairs ahead. My friends waited patiently as I swiped my Metrocard and caught up with them and started down the steps. Finally, the thumps and fiery beats would be ignored no longer.  

    The bottom of the stairs to the L train were jammed with a tight throng of people watching mesmerized as a group of seven young men, squatting or seated on milk crates, pounded and violently beat on cracked pickle buckets, boxes and battered old drums Hands flailed wildly in a savage synchronicity, feet kicked in a frantic tempo, all funneled into a brilliantly woven percussion that hooked into even the most subway-hardened New Yorkers. The drummers seemed taken by an atavistic ferocity, gutting themselves of every last drop of passion, sweat beading on deeply furrowed brows.

     Their trance went unbroken as several trains came and went in both directions, pounding even harder as if to silence the L and be the only dealers in sound that evening. We stood engrossed, time screeching by, marked only by the dim red lights on the last train as it pulled away. Finally, the deep pulse of music slowed and came to an end. The drummers' eyes looked as though they had just woken, squinting up at the crowd as though they had never known them to be watching. Grins and smiles came quickly to their faces, and a furious applause erupted from the crowd. Our trance was soon broken by a squeal of brakes, a familiar chime and the hiss of doors opening. Tossing a $10 bill into the bucket being passed around, I brushed by one of the drummers as I led my group into the train. Thank you was all I could say. He looked up and smiled. He understood. That was the night that the L found her rhythm and gray became a brighter color in the rainbow of the subway.

Bronx native Tim Connors is a former chef in NYC and is now an airline pilot. He is currently based in Florida.