Nyc Transit[S]

By Robert Dumont

Uptown. Downtown. The city on the move. In ceaseless motion below the ground and on its streets. N.Y.C. Transit[s] is an assemblage of narratives and dramas, of rants, aperus, and New York moments that constitute the daily experience of voyaging from here to there amid the urban vortex. Step lively please. .At any given moment tragedy and farce can be observed riding the subway train together to different destinations; while the banal and the fantastic are experienced in equal measure onboard a city bus. Stand clear of the closing doors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 30, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462827763

Book preview

THE GAZE

The gaze. From the corner of an eye. From the center of the car. Searching out. The ear that strains to hear in the depths. Even when all sounds, all voices are muffled and distorted by the clamor of the train.

The discarded newspaper reports that the Tower of Babel has been toppled and laid out underground. Subterranean rhythms sway and sweep away everything, everyone in endless tidal processions. Uptown— Downtown. Manhattan-bound and Bronx/Brooklyn/Queens-bound. Step lively please getting on and off the train. Mind the closing doors. We apologize for any inconvenience. And always there is another train directly behind this one, not to mention the one leaving the station that you just missed.

But under dim fluorescent light with open book and sallow skin and language of garments and press of bodies in the confined space, the gaze remains. To be stoic witness to the incandescent dawn and dusk, endless comings and goings. To be able to see through flesh, past blood, beyond bone. To finally fathom that place where nothing more need be perceived, in order that spirit vibrate within its cage, or body urge spirit, or perhaps no body, no spirit. Only connection to the others, the Other—via the gaze. The gaze among the gazers. That searches out through the dim light. That merges with, perhaps becomes the light?

That hears clearly, even in the depths.

And speaks.

THE THIN MAN

The evening F. Brooklyn-bound. An older man and a woman get on at 34th Street. I had already grabbed a seat at 42nd. There was an empty one next to me. The man was talking the woman’s ear off as she sat down. I called them in Chicago and they said they could have the job done in two weeks but I said I needed it sooner and I’d have to find somebody in New York besides, somebody who knows me and knows exactly what I want. And then he said blah, blah, blah . . . and then I said blah, blah, blah . . . . The woman nodded absently and muttered uh-huh in reply. She went through her bag until she brought out a copy of this week’s New York Magazine, already opened to the crossword puzzle page and already half-completed.

The man finally stopped talking. He stood in front of the woman, holding onto the floor-to-ceiling stainless steel pole. His cheap-looking belted blue trench coat ballooned out in the middle as it fell over his wide girth. He had a pasty complexion, wispy gray hair, and ample flesh under his chin so that when he put his head down his large face sort of collapsed into the folds of his neck. The woman, in her late 40’s, had dark-painted brows, a sharp nose, luxuriant hair. She was wearing an incredible amount of jewelry—bracelets on either wrist, a silver necklace, and rings on nearly every finger. As the train pulled out of the 23rd Street station she indicated the several empty seats that were now scattered throughout the car. Speaking in a nasal New York accent, she suggested he take one of them but he refused. She bent over her crossword puzzle again as the train picked up speed. The man let his face fall and he became lost in thought.

At 14th Street there was all at once a commotion as a group of seven or eight Russian women got onboard and engaged in a loud and animated conversation. They broke off into to different groups, and three of them stood right beside me talking and chattering like school girls. But they weren’t school girls—they all appeared to be in their early to mid-30’s. One of the three standing beside me had pale blue yet lively eyes, a delicately perfect Slavic femme-fatale face, and the sensuous trace of a mustache above her upper lip. It was a thin little mustache, almost like a tiny shadow that did not disappear beneath the glow of the fluorescent light. The three women closest to me, as well as the rest of them, seemed to be totally taken up with whatever the topic was they were discussing in their rapid and slushy Russian. Occasionally an English word or phrase—Downtown or Village or Avenue of the Americas would be heard above the babble, sounding all the more strange and exotic when uttered by one of them. And then when the train stopped at West 4th they all got off together. The car was suddenly quiet. I saw them huddling together like a flock of magpies on the platform, planning their next move. Another train? Or were these Russian ladies preparing to hit the streets of Greenwich Village for a night on the town? I would never know.

The train pulled out. The text of the novel I was attempting to read swayed before my burning eyes.

"The dog in The Thin Man—what was his name?"

What? Huh? Didn’t hear you. The man cupped his hand to his ear.

"What was the name of the dog in The Thin Man? Remember? They had a dog."

The man shook his head. He was bewildered and also disappointed that the woman was so concerned with her crossword puzzle and oblivious to his problem with the guy in Chicago and the job and the two-week deadline.

Asta, a woman sitting on her other side said. The dog’s name was Asta.

Oh yeah, Asta. Did you hear that? Asta was the dog’s name.

The man seemed even more bewildered. It was obvious that he’d never known the dog’s name. Maybe he’d seen the TV show or the movie years ago, or even looked at the book, but he’d certainly never paid attention to the dog. Judging from the look on his face, he no doubt believed he was the only person in the world who didn’t know that the name of the dog was Asta.

Broadway-Lafayette. 2nd Avenue. Delancey Street. East Broadway. The train worked its way downtown.

Still more seats became vacant. He decided to sit. He slumped down into a seat across the way and his head sagged into his neck. He was suddenly very tired. The woman didn’t look up. She knit her brows and moved on to the next clue. Her pen was working rapidly. It looked like they were going to be on this train for a long time. She probably wouldn’t complete her crossword puzzle until somewhere in the middle of Brooklyn.

THE HOODLUM

The evening F. A Friday in late September.

Both women were dressed in black pants and dark sweatshirts. Upon the sweatshirt of the woman with long brown hair was the orange logo and lettering of some or another state university. She was wearing a beat-up suede leather jacket that was missing most of the buttons. The blonde woman was without a jacket of any sort, but had on a baseball cap that represented no particular team. It was she, the blonde woman, who spoke first.

I’ve got to go look at apartments tonight in Brooklyn.

Yeah? the other one said, That’s a coincidence because I was looking at apartments last night in Park Towers—that’s in Forest Hills you know.

Expensive there I bet.

Yeah but not too bad. It’s better than parts of Brooklyn. And parts of Jersey are really expensive.

How about Staten Island?

Staten Island is nice. It’s not expensive like parts of Jersey. Did I ever tell you I used to live in Pennsylvania for awhile?

In eastern Pennsylvania, sure I knew that. But how’d you get to work, that part I never heard.

I took a train to Hoboken and then changed to the PATH. But it got to be too much. It cost over $300 a month. I figured I’d keep the 300 and spend it on an apartment in the city. Did I ever tell you that my brother Lennie lives in Pennsylvania?

Yeah you told me but this I never understood. I mean he lives what—about 20 miles from Philadelphia and commutes to New York. And Philadelphia! I mean that’s the worst town there is.

Both of them spoke with heavy New York accents. They were sitting in the middle of the car, occupying two seats of the row of three that faced the center aisle. The woman with long brown hair and the orange lettering on her sweatshirt had a shopping bag on the floor in front of her.

Hey Philadelphia isn’t so bad, she replied. It’s got some really nice parts, some quiet parts, some decent parts. Where my brother lives he’s happy and it’s comfortable for his children. And look at those children. What great kids. They don’t talk back. Don’t give anybody any trouble. And you should hear them talk. No accent or nothing. And their vocabulary. Not like me. Not like Lennie. Let’s face it—he talks like a hoodlum. But those kids, the way they talk, it just shows who they associate with. I mean you show me who you associate with and I’ll show you who you are. Only problem with those kids is that they’re fine down there but when they get up to the city everyone will take advantage of them. Just eat them alive."

Yeah that’s too bad. I guess I never considered that.

But Lennie’s happy. What can I say? It’s just too bad the way he talks. He could’ve gone to Stuyvesant too. He was going to take the tests. I said I’d help him study. He was tired of Catholic school. Nine years of Catholic school and he told me he didn’t want no more. I said okay how about public school. He had the grades. They check your record all the way back to 7th grade you know. And he could’ve passed the tests. I told him I’d help him.

So what happened? How come he didn’t go to Stuyvesant?

It was my mother. She called me one day. Said no son of hers was going to Stuyvesant. She made me so mad. I just hung up on her. I told her to let him try it for six months and if it don’t work out he can quit. I told her he needs a different atmosphere, new friends, a better vocabulary. Vocabulary is everything I told her. I know it’s an uptight, snobby, Yuppie school. But let him try it for six months. What’s six months? I told her.

What’d she say?

She said no way. No way her kid was going to Stuyvesant. What could I say? I just hung up the phone on her. It was no use trying to talk her out of it. And that was it. That’s why Lennie went to Queens Vocational and that’s why he talks like a hoodlum. I figured if he’d gone to Stuyvesant he could’ve decided after six months whether he wanted to go back to being a hoodlum—it’s easy to go back. What’s not easy is to try and go the other way, especially at a place like Queens Vocational. I tried to tell her. But she wouldn’t listen. Said her son wasn’t going to Stuyvesant and that was that. And then she hung up on me.

But your brother turned out okay, right?

My brother? He’s a goddamned hoodlum! Always was. Always will be. It was that high school. I’m not saying it’s all hoodlums there. But most of them, including Lennie, are nothing but a bunch of thugs. You should hear them talk. And just think—

Yeah?

If it wasn’t for my mother—

Yeah?

He could’ve gone to Stuyvesant. My brother—

Yeah?

The goddamned hoodlum!

The train slowed and then halted abruptly, halfway into the W. 4th street station. After a few moments it started up again and crawled the rest of the way to the front of the platform.

Oh here we are already. West 4th. My stop. I gotta go. The woman with brown hair picked up her shopping bag and made for the door. She looked back at the blonde woman who was headed for Brooklyn and still in her seat. As she stood beside the door waiting for it to open she said, "I’m off Monday and Tuesday too. I’ll be thinking of all of you. Ciao." She pursed her lips and gave a kiss and blew it towards her friend across the distance through the stale air of the subway car.

The blonde