Unsolved Mysteries: 179th Street

by Michael McCarthy   

You know it’s been an interesting night when you wake up at 179th Street. 

Contacts dry, neck sore and somewhat delusional, my first instinct was to reach for my wallet. The wallet freak-out is a nothing new for me. Five minutes after buying groceries I’ll usually experience an involuntary “did I put it back in my pocket?” seizure. Sometimes I wonder if it’s easier for a female: my guess is a five-pound bag of crap hanging from your shoulder is somewhat harder to lose. With a wallet, guys tend to get distracted. The half-second interval between your brain saying, “I hope you have it,” and your hand swinging towards your back pocket is quite terrifying. Having this feeling when you wake up at 7 a.m. in an empty subway car parked at the last possible stop is especially terrifying. 

To my relief, my wallet was still there. I pulled it out of my pocket to verify its contents, and my heart sank…the cash was gone. “I can’t believe it. I did get mugged,” I thought, until I asked myself two key questions: 

1. What kind of mugger lifts a wallet off of a passed-out drunk, steals just cash, ignores credit cards, and gently places the wallet back from whence it came?  

2. Didn’t you spend your last $15 on a double jack and ginger about three hours ago?  

After reaching the obvious answers to these questions, I executed several less-utilized, but nonetheless important freak-outs including: the “have I been stabbed with a syringe?” the “are my pants still zipped?” and the ever scary, “am I sitting in a tub of ice with a kidney missing?” 

Having (thankfully) passed these tests, the situation began to dawn on me. I had fallen asleep on the F train. I was now at 179th St station, Jamaica, Queens. End of the line. Goddamnit, I did it again. This was not the first time I’d awoken here. One night before Halloween, I went to a particularly fun costume party and wound up in the same predicament. At least this time I wasn’t dressed as the Avian Bird Flu.  

I collected myself, de-trained, and stared blankly at the nearest subway map. The little red “You Are Here” circle only mocked my situation. Such a reminder might be helpful to tourists visiting Midtown or Brooklyn, but it is completely unnecessary at 179th St. It was like rubbing salt in my wounds; “You are here, you drunk idiot. Nice job.” Skull and crossbones would have been more appropriate. 

Still wobbly, I shuffled up the stairs, crossed to the other platform, and walked towards the idling Manhattan-bound train. This being the first/last stop, the train was sitting with the doors open. The station’s platform vibe was somewhat surreal. There were all the shady lurkers and questionable characters you’d expect to see late night at a stop like this. But it was also 7 a.m. and there were some scattered early risers on their way to work. On a Saturday, no less.  I couldn’t help but admire these people as I searched for a discreet spot to urinate. 

With nary a comfortable whiz situation in sight, I continued power walking towards the finish line. I passed a woman wearing a parka over her nurse’s uniform, and our eyes met. I gave her a wry smile, as if to say, “Please don’t judge me by my disheveled hair and last night’s smoky clothes. I am a decent person.” She did not reciprocate my gesture and continued walking in the opposite direction. I felt ashamed for a moment until, given my surroundings, my mindset quickly reverted back to survival. My only comforting thought was that if someone were to shank me, at least there was a trained medical professional on hand. 

I boarded the train and by 7:30 the doors closed and we were moving. I still had about a half-hour ride ahead of me, but I was starting to feel much safer. There were only a few fellow passengers in the car and they were preoccupied with newspapers and headphones. “I’m so f-ing lucky,” I thought to myself, “this could have been a lot worse. Sixteen stops away from bed.” My adrenaline started to recede as the speeding train hummed and rocked. My tension eased and I began to feel relaxed. So relaxed, in fact, that I decided to relieve my dry contacts by resting my heavy eyelids…. 

Next thing I know, I jolt awake and find myself on a stationary train with the doors wide open. “Oh dear God, I did it again!” I thought in disbelief. I went through the standard motions (see paragraphs 1 & 2) and thought, “Ok I must be at the other end of the line… I’m somewhere in Brooklyn, I’m getting out, finding an ATM and taking a cab.” As I walk onto the platform I was struck with an eerie sense of familiarity, but my contacts were so blurry I couldn’t see anything past 10 feet. As I walked to a map, I flipped open my cell phone to discover it was 9:15 a.m. I put the phone back in my pocket, looked at the map, and a little red “You Are Here” circle informed me that I was at 179th St. 

“This is impossible,” I thought, “how in the hell did I wind up back here?!? I should be in Brooklyn right now!!” As I tried to make sense of it all, there were several explanations flying through my head: 

1. Did I sleep through an entire loop of the New York City subway system? Did I go from 179th St, to Coney Island, then BACK to 179th St? No, this was not possible. Such a loop would take much longer than 1 hour and 45 minutes.

2. Did I sleepwalk out of the train, switch platforms, and hop on a train headed BACK to Queens? No, no, no. I don’t think I’ve ever sleepwalked. Plus the odds of pulling that off without dying? Not so good.

3. Did my previous 179th St episode really happen? Was that a dream? Is this a real life version of Total Recall? Since there were neither futuristic aliens nor three-tittied women in sight, I dismissed this theory.

4. Did I pass through a subway-wormhole? Was this particular F train equipped with a flux capacitor? Do I now have to ensure that my parents get together, lest my siblings start to disappear from a photograph as I strum “Earth Angel” at the Enchantment Under the Sea dance? Probably not. 

My head swimming, the only reaction I could muster was detached laughter. I once again switched platforms and got on the Manhattan bound train. This time there were many more commuters, and I was feeling much more alert (thanks to all the sleep). I stayed nervously awake, and by 10 a.m. I was lying restless in my bed, contemplating the mysteries of 179th Street.

Michael McCarthy is a freelance writer who lives in Astoria. A recent transplant from New England, Michael writes about his New New Yorker experiences at: http://www.phetasy.com/categories/The-New-New-Yorker