Stories, told in New York...

Bedford Ave, L Train to Manhattan

L Train = BAD.

There were massive delays.Disgruntled commuters formed packs, sprawling the length of the platform.

I noticed her, or her unfortunate choice of (excessive CZ) ear jewellery, amongst the sea of heads. She has slicked back bleached hair, a faded black shirt and black legging.

The surge of passengers trying to board an already overcrowded train, forced us together; in unfortunate close proximity.

She was unsteady. Rocking back and forth, side to side.

“Stop leaning on me!

You’re going to push me onto the tracks!”

Her breath smelt of liquor. It was 10am.

I assured he i was not touching her, but drew her attention to the lack of available space around us on the platform.

This was not a successful attempt at diffusing the situation.

however, it was my last verbal exchange with “wet head”.

she however, proceeded to invade my limited personal space…

October 2nd 2008

October 1

103rd st, C Downtown.

We sat at opposite ends of the bench, but were clearly aware of one another.

I think i can recognise Europeans.

She was certainly not American, and it wasn’t just the great interest she took in her pocket map, that gave it away.

When the old man sitting next to me left, she looked over, and i asked her if she was alright.

She was at the end of a year travelling around America. 13 months to be exact. She had just arrived in New York from Chicago.

“How do i get to Penn Station?

I have been told i should shop there…”

She was German, and i disagreed, she should not shop there.

i took her map and as she told me the ins and outs of the past 13 months and coming 10 days, i marked her map with points of interest and suggestions.

Silvia, was 22.

She came from a small town in Germany.

She was moving home to start a BA in Media Studies, beginning in 10days.

She was excited.

Apparently she had been in New York three times before. This time she wanted to go to Soho, Little Italy and China Town (for handbags), walk the Brooklyn Bridge, and take the ferry to Statin Island. For whatever reason, she was extremely discombobulated by her day. Lack of sleep. A bad hostel. The impending comfort of home. Her family. Her boyfriend.

I empathised.

By 14th street, she seemed better. I told her my name and wished her luck.

October 1st 2008

+

1st Ave, and the L to Bedford Ave

I would of probably expected he was a failed model or struggling actor.

He was attractive. Broad and muscular. But Short.

There was something about him.

Something ‘not quite right’.

He sat next to me on the metal bunker, near the bottom of the stairs to the 1st ave platform, and commented on calling this spot as he saw it.

His voice was muffled by my ipod and passing trains. I glanced up and nodded, replacing my headphones.

Unperturbed, he asked me about my day.

This, i have come to realize, is more often than not, a filler question. A way of getting to talking about their day, and the reason the individual is so eager to talk to someone on the subway this particular day.

As it turned out, he was on a job hunt. I was at least partially right. after pursuing a career in film in California for most of his life, he had moved to New York, and was working a children’s swimming instructor.

or rather was looking for work as a children swimming instructor.

That day he had had two interviews.

He was hopeful for both.

That said, he was worried about the stress and strain he knew would come with his chosen career. I was shocked the children (which for me would be the main cause for alarm) were the one aspect he was confident, would not be a problem. however, long periods submerged in his new watery habitat, was not such a welcome proposition. I managed to conceal my amusement at his suggestions to prevent hypothermia and pneumonia; side effects to his new job.

A full wet suit.

Heat packs under his suit.

I hope he got a job.

September 27th 2008

+

1 Train, Uptown

A Regular.

We didn’t start speaking until we became well accustomed with sharing the 6pm 1, Uptown. For me, it was always the end of a long day, for him, the beginning of a longer night.

It started with a comment about my tattoos.

Neither positive or negative, it set the ground work for everything else he had to tell me.

He was/is the father of 6 daughters. Despite his mothers insistence he needed a son, he felt completely fulfilled by his offspring. He never mentioned his wife, or the mother of his children.

I always found that strange, but never felt it was a subject to be pushed.

I never doubted anything he told me, but marvelled at his resilience as he recounted tales of teen pregnancy, crime, assault, imprisonment, drugs… his daughters had certainly tested his devotion, and means (financial as well and mental), as a parent.

Most surprising to me, was that he openly accepted his responsibility in the unconventional paths each of his children had taken.

He’d brought them up in a tough Puerterican neighbourhood. He’d worked nights as a ganitor for 35 years. They’d been left (alot of the time) to bring themselves up.

My one question was regardless of the intricasies of their upbringing, if i was in awe of his devotion and love for them, how had that not been enough to encourage them seek to better themselves for both his and their own benefit?

His response, was that their unquestioning prioritising of family, failing all else, was all he could ever ask or hope for, and he was assured of that everyday.

July 25th 2007

+

1 Train, Uptown

Sometimes, people on the subway just want to talk.

to anyone.

I’m not sure why so often I seem to be the one the talk to, but i can always spot them.

He made a beeline for me, before we even got on the train. predictably, the coversation started on common ground; tattoos. He was shorter than me, his build was slight, he wore a vest, a cap and low slung jeans… his skin was a patchwork of DIY artwork. he has two tears, camoflaged against his dark skin. He was enigmatic. It would be fair to say i was enthralled immidiately.

Quickly, he began asking me how i was finding living in the city, and imparting his experiences… he told me contrary to what the press and goverment said, Manhattan was more dangerous now than it ever had been. He told me he’d run the streets for over 20 years. He’d lost family (both biological and social) to what he saw as the “scum” of the city. We talked about his attempts to change his way of life, and his dreams to live a simply life on a beach in Mexico…

…and at 82nd street he was gone.