There is no subway line dearer to my heart than the number 1 train. East Siders may kvell (Yiddish for "I like it a lot") or curse over the Lexington Avenue line. Outer borough folks may love their BMT and IND trains. (Raise your hand if you remember the individual lines.) But to my way of thinking, Manhattan means the West Side. And no other line traverses all the quirkiness of the big city like the 1.

     My very first New York apartment was in the West Village. The Sheridan Square stop became my best friend, connecting the trendy craziness of lower Seventh Avenue to the heady delights of Harlem. Near the Sheridan Square station were all manner of delicious iniquities, from The Dutchess (old-school lesbian bar) to The Pleasure Chest (early sex shop – I got my tattoo in their back room, before there were tat parlors in every suburban mall).

     As my age advanced, so did my home stop on the 1 train. Morningside Heights (realtor’s term for West Harlem) became my new neighborhood – and with it, a whole new variety of subway encounters. We need to pause here and observe a moment of silence for the dear, departed 9 train. One of my apartments was on West 148^th Street, between Broadway and Amsterdam. The 145^th Street stop was served by the 9 in its skip-stop mode. The 1 and the 9 ran on exactly the same tracks, at the same times. But north of City College, the 1 and the 9 alternated service by only stopping at every other station. This meant standing on the crowded early-morning platform and watching 1 trains crawl right by you – but not stop. In the evenings, the process was reversed, as endless unintelligible announcements at 96^th Street explained the daily service adjustments to the skip-stop routine. Skip stopping never made any sense to me. At some point (May 30, 2005), the MTA agreed and discontinued the 9 train. There were no announcements, no memorial services. A few errant posters on the trains and platforms simply declared the line’s demise. Nowadays, the 1 train makes ALL stops, including the previous 9 skip stops.

     Recently at the Times Square station, a tourist with an Eastern European accent asked me for directions. She was clutching a handwritten piece of paper, whose scribblings included "Take the 9 train.” I explained that the 9 train no longer existed. She looked unconvinced. “But my friend…” she kept repeating, pointing to the piece of paper. How could I persuade her that I knew what I was talking about and her friend, the author of the directions, was seriously behind the times? I couldn’t. I suspect the poor woman is still haunting the 42^nd Street station, looking for the mysterious 9.    

     Back to the wonders of the No. 1. Its riders vary as the clock moves around the dial. Rush hour means earnest-looking yuppies in business dress, clutching Starbucks containers and reading financial news. This time slot is shared with students from the Upper West Side’s myriad of institutions of higher learning: Columbia, Barnard, Jewish Theological, Union Seminary, City College. As gentrification moves north, so do all its trappings. West 125^th Street now houses all manner of national chain stores. Gone are the uniquely-Harlem storefronts that boasted tax service, travel agency and palm reading all in the same location. You have to travel to 181^st Street to experience that kind of local flavor now.

     To me, the most interesting riders are the late-night weekend crowd. And I do mean crowd. At 2:30 a.m. on a Friday or Saturday, the 1 train is packed. Many of the passengers are the bar and kitchen staff from UWS food and drink establishments. You are very likely to share a seat with your busboy from dinner. The remainder of the late-night riders are party-goers like myself. And the musical gentleman I recently shared a car with. Every time the subway car door opened, the familiar bing-bong two-note phrase was played. And every time those two notes rang out, my fellow rider stood up and sang “Dey-oh, oh dey-y-y- oh…” which in fact does mimic the door chimes in pitch. After delivering the song’s first stanza, the subway singer would look confused – as if waiting for more musical cues to continue. When they didn’t come, he sat down, only to be drawn to his feet again the next time the doors opened.

     When my friend and I disembarked at 157^th Street, the man was standing in the doorway. “Crackers?” he asked with disdain, to no one in particular.“Crackers getting’ off in Harlem now?"

     The wise New Yorker would not have responded. But it had been a long drinking night. As we squeezed ourselves past him, my companion felt compelled to respond. “Crackers,” he informed the singer, “are Southerners. I am not now nor have I ever been a Southerner.”

     “Who you be, then?” demanded the impromptu performer. The rest of the riders were suddenly quiet. A confrontation! Oh goodie. Something to make the long ride interesting.

     My friend paused, then tentatively suggested “Honkies?”

     We slid out just as the doors were closing, to the muffled guffaws of the remaining passengers. And another chorus of Dey-oh! from the singing philosopher. Just another night on the 1 train – thank you, Jesus.  

 

Paula Damiano is a lifelong lover of New York. Her articles have appeared in The New York Law Journal, Screw Magazine, and many periodicals in between. After a long stint at Working Mother Media, she’s now Senior Editor for TechWeb’s Bank Systems & Technology.