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 of the closing doors... |
A Golfer's Story
by Scott Larson
On many a dewy summer morning with the early morning light throwing long shadows
I would don my cap, grab my golf bag and head to the golf course on the subway.
Down the stairs of the "D" train, titanium and steel clanking incessantly on my
hip I pay
my fare, my large bag and oversize body thankful for 7th Avenue's low style
turnstile and not the iron maiden-esque spinning coffins still found in some
parts of the system.
As any long time rider of the trains knows you are likely to see and encounter
any number of sights and smell, sounds and people, all forced through the
democracy of mass transit to interact with one another. Caught somewhere between
the law of the
jungle and polite society it’s an environment with rules of its own. At its
worst its social contract is like a roaring, hellish elevator ride. The
desperate, defensive anonymity so much a part of New Yorkers psyche against a
soup of humanity wading in on us. Such anonymity is a difficult façade for me to
maintain on a weekday morning when bleary-eyed commuters are faced with a golf
bag rattling and banging against the aluminum skin inside a subway car, taking
up space where a paying passenger should be.
There is, in all such situations, a pecking order that people maintain for
themselves regarding the disdain one has for another rider’s insensitivity. The
omni-present beggars who work their pathos for a few dollars, the preachers
converting no one but
annoying most, the bicyclist poking ribs and scraping ankles and enduring the
looks of other passengers clearly conveying their opinions on the incongruity of
bringing personal transport on public transportation. As a golfer on the train I
fall somewhere above the bicyclist and somewhat below the mother inconveniently
with stroller. Usually, I try to find a corner seat to hide in away from the
main body, bag between my legs as the train rambles down the darkened tunnel so
at odds with my pastoral destination.
Furtive glances tell me whose attentions I’ve caught. There is the knowing but
envious stare from the suit and tie, the hardhat’s blue collar baleful gaze, the
middle aged mothers disapproving snort. Not all the looks are so negative. There
is the secretary’s hopeful hair flip that my Jaguar is in the shop, a few looks
from some German tourists curious about this slice of life they’re witnessing
and a few equally obvious natives wondering if I’m a tourist. The best
reactions, though, are from the urban youth that stare openly at my clubs and
me, clearly curious about a game that Tiger Woods made cool but which is alien
to them and their concrete playgrounds.
At Dekalb Avenue, I get off my Manhattan bound train and notice that once again
the escalator isn’t running. I generally eschew golf carts while playing except
on the hottest days preferring to play the game as it was played by my
ancestors, on foot, so my bag has a back pack type dual strap which holds it
horizontally against my back. On the golf course it’s much easier on my body to
carry it that way but on the narrow stairs of the subway it makes me twice as
wide like a dog carrying a branch in its mouth. I opt to sling it on my shoulder
instead for the climb up and then back down to my Brooklyn bound "R". Even at
7A.M. the station's a sauna. I wait on the platform while several "N" trains go
by each one both a blessing for the brief breeze it brings and a curse for the
extra time in the hot house I have to endure and for the aromas it stirs. This
particular morning it’s the pungent orange of the
MTA’s cleaning solvent. It’s overpowering and I wish for the train to come
quickly and long for the still revolting but less overwhelming stench of
stale urine as sweat begins to blot my shirt.
Finally the "R" train arrives and I can relax. Working against the flow of
commuters into the city I have no trouble finding a seat although the air
conditioning is freezing me in my now visibly damp shirt. There are few people
on the train and now it’s my turn to be the curious gawker as I ride to 86th
street. The lanky bearded man in the Jamaican headdress bearing a resemblance to
Famous Amos, the teen girl playing games on her cell phone, the three Asian
ladies laughing and chatting in their native tongue, the stuporous 20-something
reeking of beer trying to stay awake. Their stories are a mystery. Mine is not.
I am a golfer on the subway and this is my stop.
| Scott Larson resides in Manhattan and has worked at
many different positions in the IT industry. Only recently
has he begun writing for fun and profit. |
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