Cold City, Warm Passengers

By: Matteo López


Prelude

I used to feel a distinct harshness in New York City’s subway stations.

I believe it was partly due to the architectural choices: each and every light fell short of radiant and, in turn, accentuated each and every blemish on the tiled walls; the floors carried the memories of hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers, and reflected those woes through cracks and uneven ground; and every station, whether or not their ceilings were low or high, elicited a desperate feeling of claustrophobia deep inside of me. I felt as if each station was a living, breathing labyrinth that would one day close in on me and send me down a train far, far away from my destination. Navigating the trains with the archaic maps posted around the station was much too daunting for me, so I put my faith in google maps.

I’m also certain that smell has something to do with the feeling as well. I’ve determined that the root behind each station’s distinct odor is the accumulated stench of every MTA traveler. Animals and humans alike evoke the memories (and scents) of caveman days long past through their sheer volume. And the stench doesn’t stop there. In fact, there are two more factors that amplify the repulsive subway aroma: stormy weather and summer heat. Heavy downpours flood the subway, not only rendering the station unusable but also leaving an air of dampness after the water subsides. The intolerable humidity of summer clings to each passerby, drenching them in sweat. As a result, each factor plays upon the other, resulting in a symphony of stink.

What lowered that sharp, rigid curtain of callousness was none other than my fellow passengers.

New Yorkers are often painted as self-absorbed and too focused on their destinations to care about any distractions. ‘Mind your own business’ is favored over the motto ‘If you see something, say something’, and suits New Yorkers inside and outside the subway. The bystander effect dictates that the larger a crowd, the less likely is an individual stepping out of their way to assist another in distress. Self-absorption can thus be seen as a natural symptom of living in a bustling city. With this in mind, we must assume that each subway rider is simply another reflection of the subway’s harshness.

In doing so, however, we contribute to the further alienation of the individual from the collective. Harshness doesn’t really suit me, so I was forced to shift my perspective.

Over the summer, I attended a program in Long Island City. I took the F-train to Union Turnpike to transfer to the E. I took the E to Court Square and simply reversed the steps in order to return home. When I had the chance to sit, I sat. Each time I sat down, I droned out my surroundings by reading. This became a weekly routine until it seemed that each train ride became more and more packed. Forced to stand and ‘ride the waves’ of the swaying train compartment, I shifted my eyes to those around me. I’ve always had a vivid imagination, and loved constructing backstories for each passenger I found interesting; I asked myself what jobs these people may have based on their appearance, where everyone was going, what might their pasts be like, what would we have in common? With this simple exercise, I became aware of my own position in life alongside my peers. By recognizing that each individual I pass has their own intricate life, I began to unveil the cold exterior of the New York City Subway system.

I took this exercise to the next step by finally interacting with those around me.


    The Mustached Man

    If there’s anything I’ve mastered, it’s catching the train by the skin of my teeth. Countless days I’d oversleep and wake in a panic, frantically rushing through my morning routine, running down the many stairs of my apartment complex, bolting down the hill past sluggish pedestrians, fumbling down the many stairs of the subway station, (legally) passing the turnstiles with metrocard in hand, fumbling down even more stairs, sliding between the closing doors of the train, and finally greeted with the relief of cool air. There’d almost always be a train at the station, the universe’s kindness allowing me to reach my classes on time.

    Yet one day, that kindness ran out. It was bound to happen, and yet it still stunned me. I’d even skipped down the final stairs two steps at a time! The ‘dee doop’ jingle cemented the finality of the closed doors and the train hurried past.

    I regained my bearings, took a big swig of water, and looked around. Another unlucky passenger had missed the same train and now stood back against the left-most wall. He donned a white button-down shirt beneath a denim jacket; his leather boots color-matched with his snakeskin belt; and to top off the whole ensemble, he had a well-groomed chevron mustache. Immediately I told myself that I must learn from this man. The next train arrived in twenty minutes or so, what better way to pass the time?

    “Hey…nice mustache!”, I noted.

    He grunted, “ ‘preciate it, kid.” He gave me a gap-toothed smile. In a swift motion of the arm, he checked his watch and engaged in eye contact. “What’s your name?”

    It’s as if this man had jumped out of the television screen, the main character of a highly-received show. He had a deep Southern accent and a weathered, yet kind look in his eyes. I told him my name, and shortly after learned that he’d traveled to New York City from New Orleans in search of a job in acting.

    “Even if you’re truly set on your goals,” I asked, “isn’t it difficult leaving home?” I found it difficult to imagine leaving the city, even if it meant I’d find my dream career elsewhere.

    “Listen,” he started, “anywhere is home if you stay true to yourself. You think I’d ditch the mustache back home?” He sighed, “if you want to follow your wildest dreams, then you must leave your comfort zone. If you want to succeed in following those dreams, then you need to remember that comfort through routine. I don’t keep groomin’ my ‘stache for nothing.” The train finally pulled into the station. “And on that final note, a good mustache requires patience.”

    His name was Smith. From that day on, I decided to try something new. Something that I’ve always wanted in the back of my head. I started to grow a mustache that would make hair stylists around the world ogle in awe.

    All I needed to do was slow down.


    The Spanish Troubadour

    There’s an unmistakeable lethargy after finishing a busy day. Since I had to take the train home, that sluggishness was almost amplified. I became more irritable, more anxious, and impatient. Those days of heavy work sealed me off from the outside world, and all I heard was the soft siren’s song calling me back to my plush bed and a wealth of comforts back home.

    One day, however, a sweet serenade disrupted my sulking. I turned to face the gentle strumming and set out to find the source of the melody. The musician played through a flamenco piece; each note conveyed pure, unadulterated feeling. It was a level of artistry I’d only ever dreamed of obtaining. As the song progressed, so did its intensity. A flurry of chords and notes expressed a story reaching its climax and descent, a hiker reaching the peak of a mountain only to tumble down once more.

    As the song came to a sudden halt, I took a turn down the twisting terminal and spotted her right next to an advertisement for an injury law firm; she wore a sky-blue blouse and faded-gray jeans, and appeared to be in her mid-fourties; a couple of bucks laid in a cardboard box by her foot; and she was tuning a timeworn acoustic guitar by ear.

    I approached her and smiled. “Hey, can you teach me a few tricks?”

    She returned the smile and nodded. She handed me the nylon-stringed guitar, and despite its shabby appearance, the guitar was well maintained. The body had a distinctive sheen, the strings were supple and fresh, and the neck felt slick with polish. She adjusted the way I held the guitar and mimed a strumming motion: up, down, hit, up, down, hit, up, down. Once I got the hang of that, she gave me two chords to alternate between.

    Immediately I felt the weight of my stress dissipate into thin air. Rhythm overpowered irritability, cadence over callousness. There’s a certain smile that sticks in the mind; one that telegraphs satisfaction and content with one’s surroundings. In that moment, I shared that woman’s radiant grin.

    She hadn’t spoken a word, and she didn’t have to. The gift of music simply let us be.


    Epilogue

    It’s difficult living in an urban environment. Sometimes, your surroundings may feel unwelcoming and harsh. The sheer multitude of buildings may evoke stress and anxiety. Sometimes, it feels as if the people are the same: unwelcoming and alien. But they’re not. Everyone is just as complex as you. These two tales, alongside countless others I didn’t get the chance to recount, taught me to welcome others with open arms.

    The city is daunting. The people do not have to be. Our skyscrapers are overwhelming. Our people are not. Our subways are cold. We have the opportunity to make them warm.

    Take the time to say hello to others. Take the time to say ‘good morning’, ‘how are you’, and ‘have a good day’. It may seem trivial now, but take the time to reflect on your days. The days when we are most welcoming are the days we are the most warm.

    I used to feel a distinct harshness in New York City’s subway stations. Now I only feel peace.