The Myth of Mass Transit in New York

A neighbor once told me that a couple she knew, who came to the city from elsewhere and moved to the suburbs, never belonged in New York because they drove everywhere and hated the subways.

"Doesn't everybody hate the subway?" I asked. Her immediate reaction was a look of such profound disgust that I believed I had done something to merit it. I immediately allayed the affront with earnest rationales. "I mean, what is there to like?"

I pointed out that the subways were often crowded, hot, smelly, and unreliable. Of course, they had improved over time.

Several years ago, most subway cars were filthier, without temperature control or shock absorbers. The daily commute had an amusement park sensation, without the fun or safety straps. Trains rocked sideways, banging along. Lights were sporadic, miscreants smoked, and turds melted on floors, as if by some perverse miracle that made you shake your head and wonder how someone had been relaxed enough to do their business and then to do it without intervention.

Now, subway cars are generally clean, consistently lit, and air conditioned more often than not. But subway system has retained its dehumanizing qualities. During rush hour trains are packed and you are forced to thrust your body against other passengers to board. The oxygen content of underground air is hypoxic. You find yourself yawning and so exhausted that it is hard to resist the yearning for immediate sleep. At first you may interpret this fatigue as the normal effect of a long day, perfectly normal. But as soon as you climb above ground your exhaustion leaves you.

The trains also never run as often as they should. You're always looking at your watch, cursing yourself for not giving yourself an extra half hour you don't have to get where you need to be.

But the trains themselves are only part of what is wrong with the system. In most places, people dress for work and New York is no exception to this behavior. But New York may be the only place where people dress for transit. In the summer you cannot wear anything crisp and light in color because the heat of the subway platform will turn your sharp garment into a wet mess. And because trains rarely run as often as they should, the ordinary commuter spends a lot of time on platforms.

Before dressing for the day, you must account for the subway heat or face the consequences of passing through a sauna and looking a sweaty, bedraggled mess when you arrive at your destination. I was never a junior Kowalski but the subways have made the t-shirt my preferred torso covering. In my adaptation to the harsh climate of the subways, I always choose jeans over dress pants, cotton over wool or silk, and crew neck over collars. I also carry a small towel to dry off my face, shoulders and any other body part I can reach without untucking shirt-tails or ripping buttons.

The train also influences people's work habits. How many times have I and colleagues stayed an extra hour in the office just to wait out the rush hour?

My resentment and outrage against the congestion pricing scheme proposed in New York is due to my subway experience. Taxing drivers in this way imposes the greatest burden on people with the longest subway rides. Worse, the proposal has been sold to New Yorkers on a false premise: that there is room on the subway for commuters driven off the roads into Manhattan by the prohibitive expense of driving there. This is either a wishful delusion or an unforgiveable lie because the mass transit I know is squashing room only, so stuffed with humanity that it often violates safety codes for occupancy. The rush-hour subway is more than dangerous to health--it is dangerous to life because the air is in such short supply that if the train pauses for any length of time in a tunnel, people gasp desperately for breath, competing for oxygen.

Last week I found myself on the steaming platform with that same woman who years before had made subway usage and acceptance a qualification for living in New York. She was shvitzing and shpritzing with perspiration. For years I had ruminated angrily on her strange snobbery and rehearsed in my mind what I would say in the sequel.

"So, you like this?"
"What?" She looked at me like a rude stranger.
"We once had a conversation about Susan and John. You said that they didn't like the subway so they really didn't belong here. Do you like the subway?"
"It meets my needs," she said as she shook her head and showered me with her sweat.
"You need to sweat? To turn your clothes into wet rags?"
"Sweat is good. It's how we get rid of toxins and wastes. I'd rather sweat a little now than be the cause of global warning," she said.
"You're not going to tell me this hot, fetid air is good. That it's healthy to go from 110 degrees to 75 degrees in seconds."
"I'm not going to tell you anything."

Her tone of voice said I had transgressed, that it was time to retreat. I realised how far I would go to prove a point; I had made an extravagant effort to aggravate someone as uncomfortable as I was, who carried the extra baggage of pretending she was not. And why was I so intent on changing her mind? What difference could it make? If she wanted to believe this was the way life had to be, why should I interfere with her?

I guess I cannot reconcile myself to the reality that in order to get anywhere you must suffer. Because this seems to be the subway system's underlying message. I want to believe that the journey is as good as the destination. And I need to believe that I am not just a petulant child for believing this. If the subway system could not provide a fast, comfortable, reliable ride, what made me think it would give me affirmation?

I didn't get any affirmation on the subway that evening. But I got a seat.