D-Train

Late morning on the last day of the year. I jump on a Brooklyn bound D-train. I have a bad feeling in the back of my head concerning the amount of water I have drunk this morning. I have an hour-long trip on the subway I should have made sure to go to the bathroom before I left my apartment.

The train pulls into my stop just as I am walking down the stairs and onto the platform. Off to a good start. Not many people around either. It’s one of the trains that in the middle of the cars the seats are arranged three in a row against the wall with a set of two perpendicular to the aforementioned three. The set of two has another two connected behind them in tandem, which are again perpendicular to three and so on. I sit closest to the wall in one of the paired seats. I could have sat anywhere, as the car was fairly empty, but I felt like being in a corner where I can just immerse myself in the book, The Brooklyn Follies by Paul Auster that I am reading. Right when I sit down, I begin to question my judgment. The seat is terrible. There is hardly any legroom even with the train near empty. I glance around. I understand the purpose of mass transit but I now realize how completely utilitarian a subway car is. The only concern is carrying capacity and efficiency. I’d be surprised if comfort ever came up in the discussion. I feel contempt for the soulless engineer that designed it.

I make myself as comfortable as possible by stretching my legs to the side, placing my elbow over the top of the seat, and having my backpack on the seat next to me. I usually try to take up only one seat while riding the subway. I don’t worry about that now because I got on the train at the West 4th station, which can be busy, so if the car is empty now, it is not going to fill up. I begin reading, ignoring my bladder, and sure enough, within a few stops there is maybe three people in the entire car. I can now concentrate on my book rather than looking up every stop to see if I need to straighten up or move my backpack to the floor.

I continue reading and the train moves along making its regular stops. Suddenly my elbow is pushed off the top of the seat by another passenger’s back. Someone has just sat directly behind me. I look up from my book. There is no one else on this half of the train. Why in the world would someone sit right behind me? I am confounded. I turn around to get a look at this person. I don’t know if this is a universal feeling but whenever I am completely annoyed by a stranger I need to put a face to such annoyance. Whether it is talking loudly during a movie or bringing extra-large carry-on baggage onto an airplane I just need to see exactly what the offending person looks like. But this person is right behind me. I can’t make out specific features. I crane my neck to look and as I do I see their head turning as if they know I am trying to look at them. I don’t want to be rude about it but I am now determined to get a gander. Frustrated I look across the aisle, out of the far window, hoping the grimy tunnel wall passing by outside provides some insight. To my surprise, I realize that I could discern the features of this personal space intruder from the reflection in the glass as we travel through the darkness. I set a lingering gaze onto that window and become a subway peeping tom. I bypass rude and step squarely into creepy.

From the reflection I can tell that this passenger is a stocky, older woman of Eastern European or, perhaps, Russian descent. She wears an old, heavy wool coat and a kerchief wrapped around her head. She could have walked through Ellis Island eighty years ago dressed like that without raising eyebrows. None of this explains why she would sit where she did. Now, I could have gotten up and moved to another seat. But why should I have to move? A stubborn force deep inside me that I neither question nor contemplate makes me stay put. I try to make some sense of it. Maybe this was the first seat she spied upon entering the train, and used to rush hour traveling where seats can be a rare commodity, she just sat down. Now that she realizes the rest of the car is empty some stubborn force within her is holding her in that seat. We are the subway version of those Dr. Seuss characters – the North-Going Zax and South-Going Zax - steadfastly holding onto our seats, refusing to budge.

I try to concentrate on my book but to no avail. I am way to annoyed. In fact, I am doubly annoyed as I realize I really should have gone to the bathroom before I got on the subway. Every stop I look up from the same page and wonder if she will finally get off. I try to think of more reasons why she may have sat there. Perhaps, in her dotage, she feels vulnerable and sat close to me so I could act as her protector. I mull this over, almost coming to a point where I feel valuable, even proud that she would think so highly of me. I look again in the window, see her reflection, and realize the ridiculousness of this assertion. I assumed she is of Eastern European or Russian heritage due to her stout, earthy stature. She won’t need protection from me. If any interlopers did board the train, I imagine her reaching into the expansive handbag sitting on her lap under her folded arms, taking out a wooden rolling pin, brandishing it high over her kerchiefed head, yelling threats in a strange tongue, and chasing them away. On second thought, maybe I should be glad she sat near me.

I now notice she is sleeping. In the window, my seeing-glass to all that annoys me, I can see her head tilted forward, bobbing slightly up and down. My annoyance grows. She sits down, ruins my train ride and now has the temerity to sleep. I decide I need to make an extra effort to bury this annoyance and just read.

I am able to do so. Quite successfully. Pages turn and I become more engrossed in the story. A chapter ends as we roll into a station. I look up to see what stop it is and she’s gone. Sometime over the last few stops she exited the train without my noticing. I should be elated. I can now read unencumbered. But disappointment envelops me. I attempt to analyze this new feeling. Am I disappointed in myself? This whole time I never looked at her as a fellow human being. Her annoying me was the only reason I even noticed her. Have I become that type of city person who, walking around in a self-involved stupor, never acknowledges another's existence unless they cause affront?

These thoughts quickly dissipate as I pinpoint why I feel disappointed. I never got to recognize her leaving, as it happened. That’s why I’m disappointed. Her sneaking away didn’t allow me gloat about her not being around to annoy me anymore. Even in her absence she finds a way to annoy me. But, then again, maybe I’m annoyed because I really have to go to the bathroom now.