Three More Moments in NYC

On the subway

There are unspoken rules for riding the subway in NYC. I do not know if they are the same for every city—as I imagine they are probably very different in Tokyo, where everyone is herded on like cattle, and at least slightly different in London, where people must go up the left side of the stairs, rather than the right—but there are some basic tenets by which, if you do not abide, you are labelled either a tourist or an asshole.

The first is that when waiting to board the train, you should stand on either side of the opening subway doors and let those coming out get off of the train before you try to board. Don’t stand directly in front of the doors, or no one will be able to get past you. If no one gets off, there will never be space for you (or any of us behind you) to get on.

The second is that if there is an open seat and you want it, you sit in it. There is no polite, proper, “You first,” “On no, please, you first.” There is no such thing as calling “fives” if you have to get up and check the map farther down the car. If you didn’t find one upon entering the car, it’s one mad dash to be the first to squeeze your behind into any newly vacated seats at each stop. If you’re not quick, a woman with a shopping bag and a whiny kid will most likely beat you.

So I was riding the subway home from work, standing of course (since there seems to be a rush hour” from 4:45 until somewhere around 8pm), and we arrived at one of the many stops between 50th and 116th street. I was wrapped up in David Sedaris, so I wasn’t hunting for a free seat, nor was I paying much attention to the passengers standing around me. When the train started again, I happened to look up from my book. There was an black gentleman standing beside me, probably about 70 or so, with soft cheerful wrinkles beneath his eyes and taut grey curls around his ears. He caught my eye, and motioned to the empty seat that was in front of both of us.

“Would you…?” he inquired, asking the question more with his eyes than with his barely audible voice. I realized that he was offering me the seat.

“Oh, no.” I raised my book as if that was a sufficient explanation, and smiled grandly. “I’m fine.”

That elderly gentleman offered me a seat on the New York subway. That small action puts a smiling feeling in my chest every time I think of it.

Shame on women who do not appreciate chivalry.

Moreover, shame on anyone who does not appreciate small, kind gestures.

In the rain

I was walking back from Rite Aid, at 96th street. Having taken the subway, I discovered it was raining when I emerged and immediately put up my umbrella. It wasn’t raining very heavily, and I couldn’t help thinking that perhaps if I wasn’t carrying a bag that had bled black ink onto my pale blue tank top the last time I wore it outside (it was a hot day, and I sweat so much that both my shirt and the bag got wet), I might not even have bothered. It has been oppressively hot recently, and the rain spattering up against my legs was actually a cool relief.

As I entered Columbia’s campus through the black iron gates at Broadway and climbed the steps toward the library—and, consequently, my residence hall—I saw a guy sitting by himself on one of the stone benches partway up the steps. He had a bicycle propped up next to him and a brown paper bag was partially crumpled on the seat beside him. Right there in the rain, his head was thrown back, and he was gulping chocolate milk from a quart-sized carton. He wasn’t hurrying to finish his milk so he could hop on his bike and hurry away, out of the rain; he was just sitting there, enjoying the thick, sweet flavor of chocolate milk in the rain.

Then he sat up, and as I passed, our eyes met. I wished in that moment I could stop and redirect my steps in order to go over and express how contended he looked, how pleased it made me feel to see someone just sitting there in circumstances that happened to occur, enjoying them for what they were. Rain and chocolate milk—no reason to hurry, to run away. Instead I just smiled at him, and he smiled back. I like to imagine he interpreted my appreciation in that smile.

As I passed, he stood and lifted his arms in a V over his head. It was as though he was inviting the rain. Perhaps he was doing it for me, for his audience, for anyone watching, to give them a better spectacle. I prefer to think he was doing it for him. I prefer to believe he then sat down and finished his chocolate milk.

Back from the park

It is my understanding that most people in wheelchairs do not choose to be in them. I, for one, cannot imagine the awfulness of being confined to a sitting position twenty-four hours a day. I can’t even sit for two hours without squirming and stretching and wanting to run around the block once or twice. Therefore, when I see someone in a wheelchair, I immediately wonder if they were born with leg defects or if they were in an accident. If they are elderly, I also consider whether osteoporosis can deteriorate your bones to the point of being unable to support your bodyweight, and I immediately feel guilty about not drinking more milk. I certainly never question if people in wheelchairs need the devices or not.

A recent encounter may have changed my mind, however.

I was on my way back from Central Park, walking up the hill beside Morningside Park at 110th Street. My MP3 player was crooning Mariah Carey, and I was feeling very accomplished for having run all the way around the reservoir without feeling tired and—perhaps more importantly—without getting lost.

Suddenly, I heard the rickety sound of metal clattering against wheels. Looking up, I saw a unkempt, trampy-looking man careening down the sidewalk in a wheelchair. Ordinarily, this would seem very dangerous, as he would have little more than his hands clutching at the wheels to stop himself at the bottom. However, this particular man was making his way down the hill with his very health-looking legs spidering out in front of him, feet on the ground both propelling him forward and preventing the chair from speeding out of control.

What a scam! I could just imagine this man, seated in his chair along 6th Avenue, a scribbled cardboard sign asking for money for this unfortunate crippled war veteran. It made me want to go over and dump him out of his chair.

Of course, I didn’t. I am so heartless that I never put my change in those beggar’s cups, anyway.