Portraits of a City: 24hrs with the MTA
“I’m tryin’ to be nice, but don’t make me come after y’neck”
I remember once sitting on the S79 bus en-route to Staten Island. I was close to the front, and a middle-aged man spoke at the bus driver loudly enough for me to hear. He asked, “If you were the only man on an island surrounded by 100 women, would you ever shave? Of course you wouldn’t, because they have to keep coming back to you. Well that’s what the MTA is like.”
And so with a vulgar metaphor began an almost decade long, deep-set hatred for the MTA, the organization responsible for maintaining and operating NYC’s massive and labyrinthine network of subways, buses, and ferries.
Whether it’s the Authority’s lack of transparency on issues large or small (e.g. There’s a train delay and the only thing a person hears over the intercom is the same monotone gendered voice going on about nonexistent train traffic, or the lack of updates on train track repair schedules), or the obvious disproportionate allotment of funds (i.e., Some train lines are clearly better maintained than others) very few other institutions burn my innards and induce the same ulcer-like, stress-filled heart burns.
Unfortunately the MTA just so happens to handle the thing which represents for me the absolute apex of all things New York. Only by traveling through the filthy subterranean tunnels and standing on the graying platforms can the tumult of all that is New York be made truly visible. It’s easy to forget how incredible the system is — to collapse the experience into the self and to make it an everyday thing around which complaints and lives swirl. But tis not so. Watching unbelievable crowds of people move about their days in metal tubes wooshing inside constructed underground passageways through five historic boroughs is as surreal as the myth of New York City: the place where anything can and everything does happen.
On a Friday afternoon in September I chose to ride the subway for 24 hours straight.
My motivation wasn’t clear at the time, and if I’m to be completely honest I’m still unsure why I did it. What could 24hrs on the trains yield? Was this some amateurish, undergraduate-level attempt at capturing the Dickensian levels of inequality plaguing New York? Was it a stunt? I didn’t and still don’t know. Mostly I just wanted to watch NYC happen. To watch constant and unrelenting motion. And I figured maybe, hopefully, I’d see and experience something strange or interesting.
So I boarded the Manhattan bound L train at 4:30 pm on Friday September 18th, unsure of what exactly it was I was doing.
Rules: One swipe. No exiting the subway at any point before the 24hrs were up.
4:30–5:30 pm
I’d just avoided the deluge of people that is the L during rush hour. All of the seats were taken but I managed a lean-on spot by the door.
A common grievance made about the MTA is the seeming mis-construction of train stations and stops. Why are there two stops along the L only one avenue apart? To avoid over-crowdedness? What’re the rules followed when building these stations? For anyone who has ever walked the narrow path between the stairs and the Union Square tracks to get to the L from the N/R/Q platform, not much thought seems to have been paid to any of it. Too many times I’ve had to watch a stranger traverse the path between those stairs and those tracks, putting one foot in front of the other and using his or her arms to balance, trapeze-like. Too many times I’ve had to walk that path. Why was the station built that way to begin with? It seems absolutely ridiculous to risk any number of lives for the sake of efficiency.
- Got off on 6th ave and walked to the 1/2/3’s platform
- Took the Bronx bound 2 headed for 96th street
The 2/3 are noticeably smaller trains (in that there’s literally less space to sit or stand) than the L. The reason being the tunnels through which certain lines travel are physically narrower than others. Why? Again I have no idea. And I doubt more than only a handful of people in this city truly know the answer.
- Got off on 96th street and hopped on to a waiting 1 train
A crying baby... I don’t hate children. Age notwithstanding, feeling trapped several yards underground in a massive cylinder with an uncontrollable human being wailing at the top of its lungs turns me into a hateful person. I tried my best to ignore it.
- Stepped off on to 116th Street Columbia University to finish up my work for the day by handing a package of merchandise to a colleague over the turnstiles
- Returned to the platform and got on a 1 train cart whose A/C had been shut off, which prompted switching carts
The train stopped unexpectedly, and the phrase I’ve been conditioned to dread more than a crying baby sounded over the intercom: “We are being held momentarily by the train’s dispatcher. We will be moving shortly. Thank you for your patience.” It never seems intended to answer a question or a concern does it? It just fills the dead air created in and by an unmoving train. Pacifying the masses and all that. People whispered and checked their phones — doing anything to keep the frustration in check. I just wanted to smash the windows.
The train started up again, and a musclebound giant of a human being got on at 133rd Street and stood to my right. He wore a cut off hoody, a dark beard, and worn out Js. At 145th Street, a beautiful young woman sporting an afro and a blazer over a white tee go t on and stood to my left. The two of them then proceeded to trade glances for the next few stops, likely imagining romantic scenarios that would evaporate the minute they reached their respective stops and exited the train, which is exactly what happened one stop later when the big man left and the young woman’s eyes followed him out.
5:30–6:30 pm
I was experiencing what I imagined most everyone else on the train was experiencing: that utter dissatisfaction with the malfunctioning subways at the end of a Friday work day. Except of course it was Friday, and most if not everyone surrounding me was at some point going to exit the subway and get on with the weekend. Positive anticipation was in the air.
As we approached the Bronx I overheard a young man speaking over the phone. He said, “Hey Grandpa. Yeah sorry I didn’t pick up I was underground and I didn’t have service. Maddy’s with me and we we’re thinking of maybe dropping by for some tea if you’re free… yeah… ok no it’s fine… ok bye.”
A child going absolutely berserk boarded with her mother, and the moment a random stranger saw this he gave up his seat and helped the mother with her baby.
The train crawled along as it approached its last stop.
- Got off on Van Cortlandt Park, 242nd street, in the Southwest Bronx
- Got on the train heading back downtown
An older gentleman and a young woman, maybe related maybe not, boarded. She said, “My therapist suggested to contact child protective services if she’s not taking care of Andrea.”
A small family boarded. The father or uncle sat down next to me and took up two seats, at which point one of the little girls pointed and yelled, “You take up all the space!” A little boy got on at 157th street with what seemed to be a relative and sat down next to the young girl, chatting away with her and the rest of her family.
The shade of the people is different. I grew up in Bensonhurst before moving to Dyker Heights and then Bay Ridge. It’s no secret the further away from the cultural and economic center the trains move, the darker the skin tones and the bluer the collars. The newer immigrant groups just making it to the city tend to live further out on the periphery. Old wisdom teaches us the more engaged these groups become in the American project, the more likely they are to be found closer to the center, but that doesn’t seem to be the case today. Manhattan belongs to the wealthy exclusively, regardless of how long ago they or their peoples came to this country. This is such a truism that pointing it out has become a literary banality. I don’t ever envision my fellow Arabs in Bay Ridge or Astoria moving to the East Village. I could be wrong.
6:30–7:30 pm
The 1 grew more colorful as we approached midtown, which was to be expected. That neighborhood is globally the most recognizable in all of New York: Time Square, Penn Station, Madison Square Garden, etcetera. A dense pocket of monuments and buildings which the now-proverbial zombies’ll overrun or the aliens’ll destroy.
The conversations were livelier. Salsa music blared in the background and I had no idea where it came from. An electromagnetic spectrum of languages flowed into and out of the carts and people from all classes and backgrounds crowded and filled the train.
By the time we reached 42nd Street there was a massive subway exit.
There’s something incredible about a massive subway exit.
When a cart packed to ⅔’s its total volume is emptied of at least ⅓ of its passengers, leaving the cart with so much room… air rushes into the lungs, seats are made vacant, and the stress of being so close to so many total strangers is all gone.
By Christopher-Sheridan Street the 1 had effectively emptied out — bright and dark orange seats were more than available to anyone interested in sitting. The 1’s terminal point, South Ferry, is in Manhattan. Anyone still on board by the last stop either lives downtown or is on his or her way to the ferry.
- Got on the 3 headed to New Lots Avenue
The ride was more muted. I was on a cart full of people almost entirely going home. There were the elderly and the obese, grad student-looking people with viola cases dressed in well fitted jeans and glasses. There were immigrants and children of immigrants and the inevitable couple composed of one white person and one not-white person whose love was made painfully evident to everyone on board.
The train crept along slowly, stopping and starting, jerking forwards and backwards, the lights turning on and off. I was exhausted, and at that exact moment I realized I had 21 hours left on the clock.
I also smelled weed, and yes it was pungent.
7:30–8:30 pm
- Got off on New Lots Avenue, hopped back on the 3 and got off on Junius Street
I had my first cigarette of the night on the above ground Junius Street station. I exited the train and walked to the end of the platform. I remembered some friends having their first taste of tobacco in the R’s 25th street station during middle school. A memorable subway platform experience during that period of my life involved a BB gun and the police. No one was killed. A friend was arrested. Did we come close to a tragedy that day? Thoughts swirled as I barely enjoyed the nicotine, the rush from realizing I’d essentially crossed three boroughs from end-to-end keeping me too 7-year-old-excited.
- Got back on the 3
It was on Nostrand Avenue that the first two white people hopped on the train. I wondered if they were ever self-conscious, moving into visibly black and brown neighborhoods. I took a break at this point to have one of four sandwiches I packed for the night and morning.
As a result of all the political and politically motivated thoughts swirling around my super-ego I felt compelled to interview a cop. The one proximous train station I figured would definitely have some fine boys in blue was Atlantic Ave.
- Got off on Atlantic Avenue
I walked over to the staircases leading to the N/R/Q platforms, which are adjacent to the turnstiles. Police generally congregate next to turnstiles — easier to catch people attempting to rob the MTA of $2.75 that way. Sure enough I found two leaning on the wall. One was obviously a senior, and white, while the other was his junior, and not white. The junior didn’t say a word — literally the guy didn’t say a single thing, intuitively differing to his senior. The moment I mentioned I was writing a story the senior officer waved me off with a smile. I asked, “How long have you been taking the trains?” To which he replied, “You gotta ask, ‘Where’s this station? Where’s that?’ No other questions.” I wished them a good night and went on my way.
8:30–9:30 pm
- Got on the N back to Coney Island Ave.
At this point I witnessed the first real transition of the night: those returning home were for the first time outnumbered by those on the move. Because I was moving towards the periphery, the train carts were close to completely drained by the time the N arrived at Coney Island. Part of the reason I chose to ride all the way down there after having just left New Lots, besides having absolutely nothing else to do, was to scope out a possible restroom. Bowel movements weren’t at the forefront of my mind when I thought of this little pseudo-journey. I discovered that, indeed, there’s a bathroom in the Coney Island Avenue train station. What would I do if I was on some platform or riding some train hours away? I had no clue, but I figured the solution would have something to do with a water bottle or two, preferably empty.
Coney Island Ave is an above ground platform, and the sudden inhalation of fresh air made me realize that I would periodically have to hop on trains with above ground stops for a quick breather. Stale, underground subway air that’s been recycled for hours is most definitely unhealthy in massive, 24 hour doses.
I decided to head to Union Square. Earlier in the day I created a Facebook event announcing my trip, invited all of my friends, and made sure to highlight that I’d wait for an hour in the Union Square station for anyone en route to some Friday destination who wanted to say hi — my uninspired attempt at filling the 24 hours with something to look forward to.
- Got on the D headed for W4th
Though the N would’ve taken me directly to Union, I wanted to vary the subway selection to keep things somewhat interesting (like one would do at Subway). Sharing my train cart was an eccentric looking man who used the empty benches for drums. At one point a group of teenagers complimented his musicality, and he proceeded to impart some percussive wisdom unto his new fans.
I sat next to him and told him about my little trip, wondering if I could interview him. He said yes.
A 53-year-old who moved to New York 38 years ago, Angelo was at the time of my trip a supervisor at Nathan’s on Coney Island. He didn’t look a day over 30, and when I mentioned this he pontificated, “What you put in your system is what you get out. If you put the proper nutritions in your body and the right spirituality, then your attitude and your physicalness will show.” On the subject of the MTA, he said, “It’s getting better. You have your mishaps. It takes a while to get things done. They have to do things in sections in order to get it.” We exchanged names, and he asked me if I was a Muslim. After I answered in the affirmative he proceeded to recite the traditional Islamic greeting, and then dove head first into his understanding of God, the Qur’an, and Islam. We shared a hug before my stop.
9:30–10:30 pm
- Got off on W4th Street
- Got on the F heading to 14th Street
After six hours in I began to feel borderline delirious. I’d been moving, constantly, for six hours, effectively crossed Brooklyn twice and Manhattan once. Nothing about what I was doing seemed healthy.
- Got off on 14th
- Got on the Brooklyn bound L
- Got off on Union
I exited the train as everyone for whom Brooklyn is the L boarded.
Subway performers are sometimes among the most talented artists living and working in this city, but at that particular moment I was so exhausted only a truly gifted individual or group would’ve captured my attention. And that’s exactly what happened.
A guitarist and a bassist playing easily some of the most impressive funk I’d heard in a long time occupied a nook by the staircase leading out of the L’s platform and into the Brooklyn bound N/Q/R’s. Energized by my encounter with Angelo I waited for the duo to finish a song before asking them for an interview.
Alfonso the guitarist, 60, did most of the speaking, while Chris the bassist, 56, nodded in agreement. I asked them what it was like to play the subway. Alfonso answered, “If you’re a performer on a regular gig, you might have weak songs. You can’t afford to do that out here. You have to give 150% from the time you start till the time you stop, otherwise the cops will harass you and everything.” I was surprised at his mentioning the police, so Alfonso added, “Are you kidding me? If you’re good they come, ‘Excuse me can you turn it down a little bit?’ If you suck then it’s, ‘Can I see some identification?’ Central booking and all that.” But most of his criticism was saved for the MTA. On subway workers, Alfonso said, “There’s a lot of bad rep about cops, but I think the MTA workers are worse. If they had guns we’d all be dead.” And on the subject of the MTA in general he added, “All I know is this: every time there’s a surplus it disappears. And the reason why we have all the trains messed up on the weekends and nights is because, and here’s where it gets political, every administration wants the next guy to fix it. But at a certain point, this thing can stand on three legs but not one. And that’s what you have, bridges get ready to fall down…” He ended the interview on a positive note, saying, “I’ve been to one other continent, and there’s nothing like this in the world.” This of course being New York City. Once we exchanged names Alfonso, exactly like Angelo, asked me if I was a Muslim. I once again said yes, and once again a total stranger greeted me with my faith’s peace and blessings.
I thanked the duo for the interview, shook their hands, stepped back, and listened to them play.
While they jammed I watched young men and women in all sorts of dresses, trousers, shirts, and all permutations and combinations of those things, file and flock through Union to some destination or another, thirsting for a Friday they’d been waiting for all week. There were the girls in tribal prints and boys in dresses and gender queer pansexuals in pants and skirts. I then ran up and sat down on one of the benches adjacent to the N/R/Q’s stairs.
10:30–11:30 pm
The snacks and going home early began. Two men who found themselves on the wrong side of middle age on a Friday night were eating half-melted chocolate ice creams while a group of (relatively) young women said goodbye by one of Union’s exits.
I always believed the subway wasn’t just transportation, but every time I tried to elucidate exactly what it was I found myself trapped by a heady intellectualism. Is it where potentialities reach their speedy apex before falling headlong into a transformative kineticism? Is that meaningful to anyone but me? Does that matter?
I checked the time.
I was meant to wait in Union between 10 and 11.
I got up to leave, and at that moment my friend Kassem caught me. “I’m on my way to see my girlfriend and hoped I’d catch you!” We laughed and I thanked him for the bit of company. I asked where he would recommend I go. He said, “You should go to Woodlawn. It’s the last all-Irish neighborhood in NYC.” Though we both knew I wasn’t exiting the train, I was curious as to what NYC’s last all-Irish neighborhood’s train station looked like. Also, Kassem mentioned a massive cemetery, and I thought it would make for a great photo if I could see it from the platform. We walked to the Bronx bound 4 platform and parted ways.
11:30–12:30 am
- Got on the Bronx bound 4
- Got off on Woodlawn Ave
I walked over to the end of the platform and realized to my slight dismay the cemetery wasn’t visible.
- Got on the Brooklyn bound 4
I had 16 hours left. That was all I could think of as four incredibly drunk and/or high young women boarded the train and sat next to and across from me.
Selena, Jada, Milan, and Justine had all apparently just left a party. I learned this before we’d interacted in any way because Selena loudly shared the details of their night with everyone on board our train cart. At one point she yelled, “I’d rather pass through a cemetery than fuckin’ deal with thugs, drug addicts, and fuckin dick suckers.” I laughed so hard she asked me for my name. I introduced myself and before I could decide what to do Selena launched into a rant. The highlights include:
On her friend Jada: “Not gonna lie Jada, I see you naked a lot.” To which Jada replied, “I like being naked.” Cheers Jada.
On what was either an entry stamp or a henna tattoo on her hand: “It looks like a stamp so it’s good for now, but I look like a dick.”
On a man named Roberto whom she met at the party: “Que Roberto? There were seven girls. Is that a threesome? No that’s a sevensome.” Indeed it is.
On the aforementioned seven girls: “I’m trying to be nice, but don’t make me come after your neck, then your life, then your civilization.”
- Got off on 149th street
I walked the girls to their train. Selena said something ridiculous and Milan, calmly and without any exaggeration, said, “I’m done. I’m off. I’m going to get KFC.” Hope you found the breasts and thighs of your dreams Milan.
- Got on the Brooklyn bound 2, which was running local
12:30–1:30 am
Time to find a place to piss.
While considering the different locations in which public urination wouldn’t be treated as such a terrible, indecent thing I remembered Williamsburg, and the L, and how much I wanted to piss on the L in some pseudo-rebellious expression of anti-yuppism… so I figured I’d get to the train and improvise.
- Got off on Times Square
- Got on the Brooklyn bound Q to Union Square
1:30–2:30 am
- Got off on Union
- Got on the Brooklyn bound L
Everyone was far more fashion conscious, which was to be expected. I discovered two of the four sandwiches I brought with me were inedible after nine hours in a bag that’s crossed the island of Manhattan twice. I had half a sandwich left, a few nuts and raisins, and less than half a bottle of water. This was Survivor-lite and I was barely holding on. I started thinking about a boy scouts of America for non-Christian adults centered on teaching basic urban survival skills. I didn’t expect to be as exhausted as I was.
Things are actually the worst on the L. While other trains are filled with exhausted travelers leaving parties for other parties or for home, the L is exclusively reserved for discontented commuters whose expectations for the night were completely unmet — unfucked, unloved, unfunned young men and women listening to iPhones and dreaming of experiences that don’t exist anywhere outside of a writer’s head.
- Got off on Montrose Ave
I felt proud of myself.
Again I was exhausted.
Really what spending that much time on the train and that much time awake leads to is the onset of an amnesia à la “Memento” — permanence was non-existent. Faces blended into one another. I was hungry and tired and as a result I thought I felt physically colder than most. I remember thinking the train’s A/C was ludicrous, but most everyone else was wearing t-shirts and not minding it. I realized I didn’t even know what the weather was like.
2:30–8:00 am
For the eight hour bloc between 2:30 am and 8:00 am I was absolutely delirious. All I could remember to record were the stops on which I got off and the train lines I took.
- Got on the N to 30th Ave-Grand, 2:50 am
- Got on the L back to Union, 2:20 am
- Got off and boarded the N to Astoria, 3 am
- Got off and hopped back on the N to Coney Island, 4:30–4:45 am
I have a few, unclear memories. I distinctly remember going to Queens on the N and then figuring out, through the haze and the glaze, that the A could take me to Far Rockaway. It was Richard Feynman’s neighborhood and I’d never been.
I was propelled by nothing other than my own ego and desire to see the trip through. At no point did I expect something ludicrous and story worthy to happen. I didn’t even care. To me it was just a mental endurance test, and I didn’t want to break.
I realized I was in desperate need of an energy drink. I prayed the little stand at Atlantic Avenue was open.
- Got off on Atlantic Ave, 5:20 am
The stand was indeed open. I purchased two Red Bulls and some Sour Patch kids. I could barely keep my eyes open.
- Got on the Q to Union, 5:50 am
- Got off and boarded the L to 8th ave, 5:55 am
- Got on the A to Euclid ave, 7 am
Once on the A I periodically passed out and awoke to find the same couple sitting across from me and to my left pointing at me and giggling. Once we made it to 8th Avenue I was about to nod out when the couple exited, one of them tapped me on my shoulder and told me we reached the last stop, that the A wasn’t going to Far Rockaway. I wasn’t going to feel some much needed pseudo-catharsis by the sea. I felt this was appropriate.
- Got on the A back to 8th Ave, 7:50 am
- Got on the L to Lorimer Street, 8:15 am
- Got off and got on the G to 7th Ave, 8:50 am
- Got on the F back to Smith and 9th Street, 9:00 am
I didn’t have a thought. Not a single one. Some demon ghost took over the gears.
8:15–9:15 am
At 9 o’clock I got off on Smith-and-9th Street. I went to the edge of the platform and peed. In the process I decided I was in desperate need of some human contact, so I called my friend Franco. Speaking through his grogginess and my exhaustion, we decided that in exchange for my visiting the newly christened station at Hudson Yards to prove/disprove a claim regarding the MTA padding/dampening the tracks, Franco would buy me a sandwich and meet me along the S shuttle. The trip would take an hour or two, which on a regular day would’ve seemed like an incredibly long time spent on the subway. I laughed at my past self.
9:15–12:00 pm
- Got on the G back to 9th and 4th Ave
- Transferred to the N headed for Times Square
- Got on the 7 to Hudson Yards
- Got off on Hudson Yards
As it turned out, the MTA didn’t do anything to the train tracks in order to silence an incoming train.
Hudson Yards is the newest train station built in NYC in decades. It was very difficult to feel in any way as though this symbol of progress meant anything to Angelo, Chris, Alfonso, Selena, Milan, Justine, or Jada. A tiny little island of wealth and proper 21st-century-subway-station-design in an ocean of crumbling infrastructure and outmoded technologies.
I left as broken spiritually as my conscious was debilitated.
- Got on the 7 back to Times Square
- Got off and took the N to Jay Street-Metro Tech
- Took the A to Nostrand Ave
- Transferred to the C to Utica and then back to Franklin Ave
- Got on the S to Park Place
I spent 30 minutes waiting for Franco. We ate, smoked, and had a wonderful conversation. I thanked him profusely and melodramatically for saving my life. I had a few hours left so I decided to make it to the top of Manhattan one final time before heading home.
- Got on the S back to Franklin Ave
- Got on the C to 168th, but accidentally took the A all the way up to 207th
- Got off and got on the downtown A to 59th Street
- Transferred to the D to Atlantic Avenue
- Finally took the R to 86th Street
Exiting the train station I felt not unlike what I imagine marathon runners must feel after completing a race. I’d conquered something, but what that something was I couldn’t immediately tell. There was the obvious endurance test which spending 24 hours doing anything amounts to being, and I suppose that’s the only thing from which to derive a sense of completion. I really didn’t accomplish much else. I didn’t make anyone’s life better and I didn’t even answer any of the questions I wrote at the very top of this piece. I instead spent a very long time with a crumbling system, held up by nothing more than NYC’s constant Top Gun-like need and desire for speed. Adding anything more would feel disingenous.
