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Take the A Train

Debra J. White

    Growing up with the New York City subway was an adventure. I rode the subway from my Astoria neighborhood to Mater Christi High School (now known as St. John’s Prep) near Ditmars Boulevard, to my first job at the now defunct Alexander’s Department Store on East 59^th Street and to listen to Bob Dylan sing about revolution in Greenwich Village cafes. The subway became part of my cultural heritage.
    My dad introduced me to the subway in the late 1950s. The cars looked like cast iron, black and ugly. Seats were made of rattan coated with shellac. When the seats frayed, bits of rattan poked you in the butt or scratched your legs. No doubt women had snags in their panty hose, compliments of unruly subway seats.
    Air-conditioned cars didn’t exist. Overhead fans swirled stale, stuffy air around. Summertime in the underground tunnels was hot and steamy, like riding in a sauna. There were no broadcast systems so you had to be prepared. Otherwise, you’d miss your stop. Emergencies or other timely transit information could not be announced. Conductors waited for the train to stop at the station, hopped in between the cars, and clicked the doors open. The big black rolling giants roared through the tunnels, screeching as they soared around curves. The noise was intolerable but what could we do? That was part of the subway’s charm.
    When I was a kid, platform vending machines sold Chiclets. For a penny, two pieces of gum popped out in a tiny yellow box. What a bargain. I’m not sure what other cavity-causing goodies were sold but there likely was an assortment of candy available as well. Bathroom fixtures were often old and decrepit but the stalls were somewhat clean and almost always safe. Yes, people used them without catching disease or being assaulted.
    My Dad rode the trains to work every day. He never talked about muggings, murder or mayhem but maybe it happened. I don’t remember. An affable, easygoing man who wore a gray Fedora, jacket and tie even though he worked in a factory, Dad was only irked by late trains, cars stuck in tunnels, and passengers who passed gas on crowded cars.
    I rode the subway to high school nearly every day. In those days, students had free passes compliments of the transit system, a bargain for struggling families. I lived near an elevated station then called the RR and hiked up several flights of stairs to reach the platform. In winter, waiting for a train stretched my tolerance. Slacks were not permitted at my Catholic school. A pair of thin panty hose didn’t shield my legs or my fanny from the blustery cold. Unlike the commuter railroads that had waiting rooms albeit unheated, there was no way to escape the frigid winds on the elevated train platforms. When it snowed, the New York City Transit Authority wasn’t always timely in shoveling snow off the platform. Riders without lined boots had cold toes by the time they reached their destinations.
    Inevitably, large groups of us teenage girls bunched together to goof off after school. Not all my classmates were destined for college or the convent. There was no supervision on the subway so passengers had to put up with our harmless ruckus, which mostly involved giggling, singing, blowing bubbles from wads of gum and bragging about boyfriends. In the afternoon, a few girls were intoxicated, most were silly, but no one held hostages at knifepoint. Guns? Unheard of back then. Only my friend Pat’s father had a gun. That’s because Petey was a NYC detective. As city folks, hunting was beyond our interests.

    Scuzzballs and withered little prunes have always ridden the subway to prowl for women to molest. I had my first encounter with a sex-starved mole one morning when I was stuffed into an impossibly crowded train on my way to school. A grungy looking man, sweating like it 100 degrees even though it was two above zero, rubbed his pelvis against me. As soon as I caught wind of his lewd and lascivious behavior, I elbowed him below the belt and shouted for help. The surrounding crowd pounced on the swine and he bolted out the door at the next stop. Women never acted so crude around boys by bobbing their boobs.
    By the 1970s, times changed. Young graffiti artists scrawled their anger and boredom across much of the ghetto due to unemployment and lack of youth programs. They branched out to the Transit System. Ugly rants about who knows what covered the windows and doors were scrawled on nearly every subway car making it nearly impossible for passengers to read the names at each stop. Riders were furious. As soon as maintenance workers scrubbed off the spray paint, the gangs invaded the train yards and struck again. New York City was on a downward spiral.
    
The city fought back, ordering new cars made with resistant coating. Spray paint was easily washed off. In addition to rounding up the graffiti artists and throwing them in jail, educational campaigns encouraged young people to direct their artistic talents and misguided rage elsewhere and to leave the trains alone.
    Violence slowly swept through New York and naturally the subways weren’t left out. After a day of shopping with friends ending at Macy’s on W. 34^th Street, we rode the subway home to Queens. As the train chugged into the 74^th Street Station in Jackson Heights, we heard a loud pop followed by frightful screams. A thief tried to rob a passenger who resisted. That act of defiance cost the man his life. A middle-aged man slumped over, his arms dangling by his side with blood gushing from a hole in his head. As soon as the door opened the murderer blended in with the crowds. Shivering, my friends and I stared at the dead man. His wallet sat by his feet. The senseless carnage on the subway continued for years.
    Speeding trains also attracted desperate souls. Over the years, I was occasionally late for work because someone ended it all as the train bounded into the station. Sometimes, riders were pushed into the oncoming train’s path by the mentally deranged or a person overflowing with anger. Police and emergency crews were called. Transit officials emptied out the train. Rather than feel sympathy for the anguished rider who took his life on the tracks, some people were irked by the inconvenience. I felt sorry for the riders who saw no other way out other than to jump in front of speeding trains. Their lives must’ve been agonizing.
    The Transit Authority added new lines, upgraded others, and ripped down aging elevated lines that posed safety issues. The remains of an icon of the subway system, the Third Avenue El, that snaked from lower Manhattan into the Bronx was finally demolished in 1973. At the time, I worked as a part-time waitress in the long-gone restaurant called the Dutch Treat that once made its home in Macy’s basement. I struck up a friendship with Rose, another waitress, who lived near a stop on the Third Avenue El in the Bronx. On the night before the last of the elevated train was to be razed, Rose and I shared a six-pack. Yes, we were under-aged drinkers. We sat on a park bench, belted down a few beers, and Rose poured out memories of her youth riding the Third Avenue El.
    Nine to five riders, including me, relished the chance to grab a seat during rush hour after a long day at the office. Selfish bankers in three-piece suits reading the Wall Street Journal often spread their legs so wide they hogged space. I tapped one scholarly looking man’s paper and said, “Are your privates made of glass? If you close your legs I can sit down.” Maybe his red cheeks were a sign of contrition. At least I got my seat.
    For those without cars, the subway delivered us city folks to soak up the sun in places like Coney Island, Brighton Beach and Rockaway. We’d wear out swimwear under shorts and t-shirts, pack a towel, sunscreen, and head to the subway for a trip to the shore. I loved how waves tossed me around as I swam in the water. What a treat to walk along the boardwalk, stuff our faces with Nathan’s hot dogs slathered with onions, mustard and relish and then wash them down with sugary sodas. I came home with a tan, sand in my shoes, sea shells, and memories of fun in the sun.
    The subway made a lasting contribution to my literacy. I devoured books, magazines and the New York Times instead of staring at grumpy passengers or the overhead placards. When I was a kid, I was entertained by the smiling winners of the Miss Subway beauty contest, a prize of questionable value. Vermin skittering across the platforms sometimes scared me, especially when smoky gray rats raced across my feet.

    The boom-box era of the 1970s got on my nerves but hundreds of riders put up with the crass music. I wanted to suggest something soothing like a violin concerto or a piano sonata but I didn’t think that’d go over well. The
boomers ignored posted signs that said no radio playing. If we were lucky a Transit Authority police officer passed through the car and asked them to turn off the music. I hated riding in a subway car with passengers carrying suitcase size boxes of misery.
    I can’t ride the subway anymore due to a disabling car accident in 1994 that limited my mobility. Some people would rejoice at leaving the New York Transit system behind. Not me. I long to hop on the subway and head to Brighton Beach. I miss the endless waits for the IRT Broadway local late at night when I couldn’t afford a cab. I’d give anything to hustle down the stairs at Grand Central and squeeze through the doors on the #6 ready to pull out of the station. Maybe one day when the system becomes accessible I can roll onto the IRT train and ride to Prospect Park. The subway always kept me connected to the city I loved.
    Addendum: I moved out of New York City in 1989 but I would love to ride the subway at least one more time, for old time’s sake.

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