Bus People

I realize that my last post may have led you to believe that I’m one of those rude New Yorkers (i.e. train people) who shamelessly stare at strangers on public transportation.

Let me assure you that this is not the case. In fact, I pride myself on being a bus person. You might be asking yourself, “What is a bus person?” Why, I’d be more than happy to answer that question.

As I see it, there are two types of people in this world: bus people and train people. Bus people are typically people who ride the bus. Wait, wait, wait, there’s more, I promise.

If you get on a bus, a bus person will look at you, check out how you’re wearing your hair, glance at your shoes, peek at your outfit, and then they politely loose interest and return to staring out the window.

A train person [gags a little]; these wretched people are the type of people who will stare at you from the second you enter the train until the moment you depart. These people stare at you until you start to feel uncomfortable. Oh, and don’t think that just because you’ve caught them staring that they’ll stop. Oh no, train people have no shame – they’ll stare at you until you timidly look away (the bastards)!



As you can tell, I feel very strongly about this. I had a terrifying experience once that still shakes me to the core whenever I think about it. But since we’re so close, I’ll share. I was on the train one evening. I was minding my own business (as any good bus person would do) when the conductor announced that the station we were in was the last stop. He informed us that there was a shuttle bus waiting upstairs to take us the rest of the way. Instantly, I panicked. I was going to be on a bus with train people!!!!! As you might have guessed, there is a lot less room on a bus, which meant that I would be standing, in a very tight space, next to…. dun, dun, dun…. TRAIN PEOPLE!!!!!!

I know you’re probably thinking that I’m being a little dramatic here, but let me tell you friends, I’m not. By the time I got on the shuttle bus, all the seats were taken. So, I ended up standing in front of a guy who kept staring up at me. I could feel his bulging eyes burning a hole right through me. He stared up at me for over 15 minutes! I kept wishing that he would get a neck cramp, but sadly, he didn’t. My palms started sweating and my face got really hot. I felt helpless. When I finally reached my stop, I ran off that bus so fast that I nearly knocked someone down.

So friends, the next time you have to take a train, be sure to check the advisories on the MTA website, and if you see the word “shuttle” anywhere on the page, take my advice, and just stay home. Please don’t let this happen to you.

Take Me Higher

What the…?” I mumbled to myself. My eyes were transfixed on the man riding between the subway cars. Not only is riding between subway cars illegal, it is also really, really stupid. Many people (I don’t know exactly how many, but many people…) have slipped and been pulled under the train. So, I watched in wide-eyed amazement as this moron stood between the cars rummaging through his backpack, adjusting his clothes, and… rolling a joint. “What the…?” I asked again. I looked around the train to see if anyone else was witnessing this craziness (it’s always nice to share a look with a stranger when you’ve both seen something mind-boggling – sometimes both of you even break into that slow headshake, which of course, only makes the two of you feel closer). I digress; I looked around expecting to see another “what the” expression plastered on someone else’s face, but found none.

Disappointed, I turned back to the man to see if he had completed his little… um… project. I really don’t know what I expected, but my jaw fell to the floor when I saw a puff of smoke emerge from between his lips. “This crazy man is smoking a joint,” I whispered, and then quickly looked around to see if anyone noticed that I was talking to myself. I was in the clear. Whew!

My eyes were locked in position as I nervously felt the train slow to a stop. Once we were in the station, surely he’d put out his joint and come back inside the train. No, the crazy man stayed between the cars casually smoking his joint as people exited and boarded the train. Was no one else really seeing this!!???

After five minutes of non-blinking staring, the man tossed his joint onto the tracks, entered the next car, and trotted off the train. I rubbed my itchy eyes (as the apparently I’m allergic to smell of marijuana - damn).

The whole thing kind of reminded me of that segment in Twilight Zone: The Movie when the guy sees the monster on the wing of the plane. He tries to let everybody know, but no one else can see it besides him, and in the end, the plane crashes. Ok, well, it’s not exactly the same situation, but I do wish that other people had seen that guy. At least then I wouldn’t feel like the girl who cried pothead.

Visitors

So, I found myself in Times Square on Friday having dinner with a friend who - get this - shamelessly asked me to plug him on my blog [shakes head]! And for that reason, he will forever be known on this blog as Anonymous (queue evil laugh).

Now, there are two places in this city that I am rarely brave enough to visit: 1. Times Square 2. Herald Square (where the miracle happened, and for those who never saw the movie, I’m talking about 34th Street where Macys has its Thanksgiving Day Parade).

I stay away from these areas because of, well, to be completely honest, I stay away because of the tourists. Now, I understand that tourists are good for the city, but gosh darnit can they be annoying. So, today, friends, I would like to introduce a series I have so cleverly titled “The Many Things Tourists Should Never Do”:



1. Do not stand in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures or stare slack-jawed at a subway map
2. When asking for directions to The World Trade Center, do not call it “Ground Zero”
3. Do not stare up at tall buildings when walking down the street and then look at me like I’m the rude one when you walk into me
4. Do not walk in a horizontal line with your ten family members down any street
5. Do not stand in front of the turnstile while deciding whether or not this is indeed the train you need to take
6. Do not stand in front of the escalator in Macys while trying to decide where you want to go (or anywhere else for that matter)
7. Do not approach the turnstile until you have your metro card in hand

Now, I promise that if you follow these seven simple, foolproof rules, you won’t have to worry about all those nasty, mean New Yorkas [shivers]. In fact, you can expect to receive a friendly smile, a point in the right direction, and an eager wave telling you, “Ya’ll come back now ya hear!”

Meeting New People

As I rode home on the train last night, counting how many times the woman next to me said “like” (56 times in under 10 minutes), slightly inebriated from having one too many glasses of wine at dinner, I remembered an encounter I had on the train a few months ago.

So the story goes: One night, I was on the train headed back home to you know where. This guy got on at the next station and sat one seat away from me, which I truly appreciated. I have to say, I hate it when people unnecessarily invade my personal space. For instance, when I’m in a public restroom and a woman enters the stall right next to mine even though every other stall is empty!

Sorry. I digress, so this guy sat and slowly began to sink. He sank so far down, in fact, that half of his back was occupying the space that was meant for his... err.. posterior (still keeping it PG people).

After about a minute, he turned to me and asked if it was a long ride to Coney Island. Being the helpful New Yorker that I am, I informed him that it was indeed a very long ride. He sighed and shook his head, “Do I look high or drunk to you?”

I wanted to give him an accurate answer, so I turned my entire upper body towards him and stared with wide-eyed conviction. After my thorough examination, I wrinkled my forehead (to look thoughtful) and said, “Honestly… yes.” I gave myself a mental pat on the back for doing my good deed for the day.

“That’s because I am,” he mused and broke into a slow, kind of creepy laugh. Ah, ha……ha……ha…..ha…..hum. What followed was a second by second replay the events that had led him to this high/drunken state. I listened attentively adding in wows and reallys. Once his story was finished, I nodded to signify that yes, that could happen to anyone, and then happily retuned to my daydreaming.

“Have you ever read that book?” My inebriated friend asked pointing to one of the advertisements in the train.

“Can’t say that I have,” I answered honestly. For another five minutes, my newly acquired friend detailed this author’s previous works of fiction in astounding detail (if any of it was true). Again, I queued up the fervent nodding, and added my reallys and interestings (as I think it's very important to do your fair share in a conversation).

“I’m sorry but this is my stop,” I said regrettably.

“Oh okay. You have a good night... man… I hope I don’t fall asleep.” He was practically on the floor at this point. I smiled a genuine smile and exited the train whishing I had taken the time to write down that author's name.

Bad Boroughs

Reflecting on my last post, which incidentally also happens to be my first post, I realized that I might have given you the wrong impression of my beloved city. How horrible can this New York be when you have to dodge little old ladies trying to clobber you with their purses? I promise it really isn’t that bad.

Sure New York has crime, which city doesn’t? Personally, I tend to think of my city as that guy who sat at the back of the class in high school. You know, the guy that looked mean, wore a leather jacket, never talked to anyone, and rode a really cool motorcycle. Here everyone was thinking he was headed for a life of crime, when in reality, the guy wrote poetry and volunteered at animal shelters. That’s kind of what New York is like.

Let me give you an example. In New York we have boroughs (they’re how some old guys back in the day decided to split up the city). Anyway, I live in Brooklyn. Now, you may have heard some things about Brooklyn, but I assure you that none of it is true. In Brooklyn, I live in an area called Bedford Stuyvesant. I’m cautious about whom I share this information with, but since you guys are my friends, I feel safe sharing.

Why would divulging where I live cause a lump to appear in my throat? Well, Bedford Stuyvesant is also known as “Do or Die Bed Stuy”. I don’t even know what that means. But a couple of months ago, for my birthday, my sister and I went to a comedy club. When the struggling comedian on stage asked me where I was from, I could swear I saw a twinkle appear in his eye. I had provided him with the material he needed to save his disastrous show. “You’re from Bed Stuy and you haven’t been shot yet?” Hardy, har, har! What a expletive ending in “ing” jerk (keeping it PG for the kids). I’ve lived in Bedford Stuyvesant for most of my life, and I can form complete sentences, walk in a straight line, pat my head and rub my belly at the same time, and oh yeah –I’VE NEVER BEEN SHOT!

So, you see my point. New York and its various boroughs may have bad reputations, but in the end, they’re really not so bad. That Bronx, however, is another story.

Hello New York

New York City - known for its bright lights, sky scrapers, and crappy public transportation, just like, well... every other big city out there. Go ahead, take a nice big breath! Breathe in all that fresh air mixed with the scent of roasted peanuts, bus exhaust, chicken grilling on Gyro carts, and let’s not forget the sewage. Ah, smells like… home.

But seriously, I love this city. I find it hard to envision myself living anywhere else. I’m a born and raised New Yorker, or as a bad actor would say, “I’m ah New Yorka,” [hawk – spit].

Since I’m being honest here, I have to admit that there are times I just want to pack my bags and hitchhike my way to the Amish Nation (not that there is such a thing) where I can ride around in buggies, churn milk, and run around in the grass all day long. Sigh…. Wouldn’t that be nice? I would never have to worry about a bad hair day again. Static making my hair look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket? No problem – tie a scarf around my head. What’s that you say – I’ve gained a few pounds? No problem – this very roomy dress I’m wearing will camouflage those rolls nicely.

Maybe someday, but today, I live in New York City where elderly women ask me if I’m stupid because I dared to walk in front of them on the subway platform. Really lady, it’s barley 8:15 in the morning and you want to pick a fight with me? Sure, I’ve muttered a “dumb-ass” under my breath a few times when people annoyed me on the train, but at least I had the decency to keep the comment to myself. Who goes around picking fights that early in the morning? And here’s the thing about getting into an argument with the elderly – even if they are clearly in the wrong, you still come out looking like the jerk simply because they’re old. So for now, my brilliant plan is to just duck behind a much larger person whenever I see grandmas casting evil stares in my direction.