Cheers for Cheek to Cheek Transport

5:45pm. Uptown D train.

We are uncomfortably close - faces in armpits, gym bags in crotches - and the train is not moving. The doors just keep opening and shutting, trying to disembowel the woman whose purse is keeping the monstrous metal teeth from closing. But instead, another body manages to squeeze into the train, further jostling the mass of breasts and arms and fat feet. More limbs and bags keep the doors from closing. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

I can block out most every subway situation. That is, until I no longer have enough personal space to even lift my book in front of my own face. With no mental escape, I suddenly notice how close we are and how silent it is. Besides the chomping of the doors and the rustling of winter coats, there were no human voices in a subway car jammed full of human beings.

Until a young man, who must have had his reading material pinned against his torso also, began to sing. Mournful and clear, he filled the car:

"Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got..."

It took a moment for the group to pinpoint the reference.

"Wouldn't you like to get away?
Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name
And they're always glad you came
You wanna be where you can see
Our troubles are all the same
You wanna be where everybody knows
Your name...."

A burst of laughter from all sides. Which led to eye contact, nods, smiles, and more laughing. Incredibly, the door finally clanged shut and we began to move, as if the gods of public transportation were waiting for us to be worthy of heart before allowing us the gift of motion.

That little ditty reminded us that making our way in the world IS fucking hard, especially in the soulless wasteland of the American rat race. Even though we are constantly surrounded by other people, what we likely want more than anything is to be somewhere with people who actually know us. Who we really are, that is, and not just the contours of our ass after we ride perfectly butt to butt from Herald Square all the way to the Harlem.

Although to be fair, isn't a little nameless butt smushing why our ancestors came to this country in the first place? I am pretty sure that is in the Federalist Papers somewhere.

Community Service

On the mornings when I'm not running late, I hit up a small coffee shop around the corner from my job. I think this is the first time that I've stayed in one place long enough for employees to know what my "regular" is (coffee with soy milk and sugar, raisin bagel with butter). My sociological experiment in how diverse communities of people interact with one another, one might call it the ability to have normal human relationships, has been at once joyful and terrifying. Emboldened by a new sense of belonging, feeling like it might be okay that strangers know my innermost earthly desires/breakfast preferences, I find myself suddenly more likely to reach out to fellow new yorkers in their times of need.

Last week I was waiting for my butter vessel to toast when in walks a slim, well-dressed but not overly fashionable man in his late twenties/early thirties. He orders a coffee with skim milk and half a packet of splenda. Half? she asks from across the counter, looking perplexed. Yes, HALF a packet. Of SPLENDA. I exchanged worried glances with the other regulars, knowing instantly that one of our own was in trouble. I leaned over and patted his cardigan clad arm. Sweetie, indulge yourself. All that work you've been doing selling advertisements for some obscure trendy magazine and/or turning closetlike downtown apartments into dream homes, you've earned one full packet of carcinogenic confection. Go for it dear! You only live once!