Four Generations Underground

by Alanna Schubach

My family has a rich history of subway altercations. Between four generations of New Yorkers, much of our lore derives from the mysteries and mishaps of travel in the city.

There's the story of my great-grandfather wrenching subway doors apart for my then eight-year-old father, so he wouldn't be left behind on the platform.

There was the time in 1943, when my grandmother was in the Navy and saw a man harassing a young girl in a crowded car. She hit him with her umbrella and chased him off the car at the next station, threatening to call security - at which point all the other riders burst into applause.

Perhaps most notable is the tale of a mentally ill aunt who jumped onto the train tracks. She was so thin that when she lay down between the tracks, three train cars passed by without so much as scraping her. I should mention that this was not the first time this happened. She made the cover of the New York Post the next day: "Miracle Woman Survives Second Leap."

My own story has its place in our canon, but in light of recent changes in mass transit, it also stands as a relic of a more innocent time. I recalled that night, as I was jolted along by the crush of grimly
determined rush hour commuters in Penn Station recently. I skirted the new security posts lined up in front of the turnstiles and thought of the subway as a paranoid microcosm of our world, a tangible symbol of what has changed.

I was a Long Island high school student, still thrilled by the novelty of visiting the City with friends. There were four of us: myself, Nicole, Scott, and a cute stranger whose name is lost in a sea of other
cute boys' names in my mind. We were leaving a Sunny Day Real Estate concert, and considering the recent Emo craze, I'd like to think of my teenage self as ahead of the curve. With the distant but nagging sense that parents were waiting up for us, we headed for the station.

It was as smutty and sinisterly vacant as we could hope for, but there was a problem - no one manning the tollbooth meant no way of getting through the turnstile.

"Just climb over," said Scott, with all the bravado of someone who had actually thought ahead and bought a token for the ride back. "No one's here, anyway."

Nicole and I looked at each other and giggled. We were saturated with cigarette smoke from the club; our eyeliner had melted and streaked rather artistically down our cheeks. A hipster college student had
smiled at me and another had spilled his beer on my skirt. We were rebels. And besides, there was no one there to tell on us. We hopped over the turnstile without a backward glance.

Immediately, two men materialized before us, brandishing badges. "Transit police," one said. He didn't look like the cops from TV. He was short and doughy, wearing a hockey jersey. The badge hung around his neck and had been tucked underneath his shirt. I wondered briefly why they were undercover, who they were really looking for.

Cop Number Two told us we had committed a transit violation; they had it on tape. They asked for ID and we fished out our learner's permits. Nicole immediately started crying. So much for being edgy. But she had unpleasant associations with policemen, due to a turbulent family life. Doughy Cop glanced at Number Two warily and then back at Nicole's red face.

"Hey, you're making us feel bad," he said. "We're not bad guys."

"I'm sorry," Nicole said.

"It's not a big deal," Doughy Cop insisted. "You just have to pay a fine."

With that, our free subway ride became a $65 subway ride. The cops saw us off with smiles and waves, apparently consumed with adjusting Nicole's perception of law enforcement. What we realized, though, was that we had just been playing at rebellion. Our lives were full of authority figures that would always be there to tell us to plan ahead, buy two tokens, stay together and next time, take a cab.

Years later, I was heading home from college for the first time. In the weight of the luggage I dragged, in the defiant posture I held while waiting for my Amtrak ticket, I felt I had changed. During my first
semester I had run up flight of stairs to the top floor of my dorm and watched black smoke rise from the Pentagon.

Just behind me, an argument erupted. I turned and saw that two policemen had stopped a man with several heavy suitcases and were interrogating him. The man didn't have a firm grasp of English and struggled to answer their questions, growing angrier and angrier before he was hustled off. Another man standing in front of me met my eyes. I felt the same thought pass between us - it's a different world - and in unison we shook our heads.

I wonder how my subway story would have played out today. Would we be strip-searched, considered threats to national security? Would there be any opportunity for those in charge to let us know that at the end of the day, they were really just trying to help? Or does the sight of cops underground now mean fear, a fear deeper than that of missing a train, of the man next to you copping a feel, of leaving your grandson behind on the platform?
 

Alanna Schubach is a candidate for an M.F.A. in fiction writing at Sarah Lawrence College. Her short stories and news articles have appeared in United Press International, College Prowler, American Literary, The American Observer, and somewhat amusingly, Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul. She currently lives in the East Village, in a perpetual state of fear that she will be evicted by the Hipster Police.