The Trouble With Public Transit

Regardless of your political affiliation, stance on global warming, or whether you're a social butterfly or hermit, I think there is something we can all agree on—public transportation is a good idea—but we never want to have to use it. In my eyes, the reason is very simple: public transportation is open to the public.

Years of working retail and food service have taught me to distrust and fear people. I think most teenagers and 20-somethings resort to working in these professions at some point before finding their niche, and the result is always the same: you discover that people suck. As a person, I am allowed to make this claim. I suck too. However, The difference between peoples who suck can be vast. Those who learn a modicum of social grace and how to behave in public at least don't give the outward appearance of sucking. It is the other narcissistic few, oblivious to the suffering of those around them, who really wreck havoc on public transit and make it near unbearable. Not to mention the crazies and the homeless who simply don't care if they make you uncomfortable or not. We encounter these people all the time, but being trapped on a train or a bus with them is undoubtedly the worst way to start your morning commute.

The man with mangled hands is one of the most memorable characters I've encountered on public transit. Every morning on the R-train from Astoria into Manhattan, I would see this poor man. In his 50's, a former high school basketball coach, toothless, homeless, and out-of-work, the man with mangled hands would walk up and down the subway cars announcing his trouble and asking for spare change. I heard his life story every morning, but the one thing I never heard about was what happened to his hands. Now that is a tale I'd be willing to pay for.

Because of his physical handicap, he couldn't work a normal job so he turned to panhandling. But because of his condition, panhandling was possibly the worst career move he could have made. He would approach strangers on the train, saying "If you can't spare some change, spare a smile." Then hold out his grotesque, 3 fingered lobster claw of a hand for people to put change into. It was so swollen, lumpy, and deformed that any coins or bills you placed into it would roll off onto the floor. Then you would feel even worse for making this poor man work for his money—trying to trap a quarter between what's left of a thumb and a pinky finger off the moving train's floor. The one time I did try to give him change, I held out my hand with coins in my palm. He tried plucking them off one by one and it seemed to take forever. The whole time I was staring at his puffy, swollen, twisted hands. I know it's wrong, but I couldn't look away. Then I started to see pus oozing out from behind a cracked fingernail. I threw up in my mouth instantly. I tried to cover my mouth with my free hand and make it seem like I was yawning, but he could tell my chipmunk cheeks were full of vomit. I then had to ride the rest of the way to work with a mouthful of vomit—I refused to swallow it or get off the train—silent tears rolling down my cheeks the whole way.

The Woman on Crack.  Taking different forms, but always behaving the same, the Woman on Crack is both amusing and terrifying. I've seen this woman on the train in broad daylight and at midnight. She knows not what time it is, nor does she care. She is typically younger-middle-aged but looks older for her facial scarring, missing teeth, and clothing meant for teenagers. Most train passengers will be reading a book, newspaper, or bobbing their heads along with an ipod. At first glance the Woman on Crack might appear normal, if slightly "enthusiastic" about the music she's listening to. Then, upon further inspection, you'll notice there are no earbuds or headphones, just the music from within her crazed little head. What was previously an over-exuberant head-bobbing and lip-syncing quickly becomes a full-on rave. Erupting into a chorus, the Woman on Crack will belt out the imaginary tune bouncing around in her empty head and dance explosively to the phantom music. You'll hear lyrics like:

"There's a PAHHHHTY going on over heahhhhhhhh...you bettah bring some fuckin' caaaaaaake. I ain't kiddin' Chris, bring some goddamn caaaaaaake...don't be bringin' that stupid girlfriend of yours neitheeeeeer...she fuuuuucked up in the heaaaaad...Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtleeeeeees...those fucks are greeeeen!"

The last Woman on Crack I saw then proceeded to grab onto a subway pole and spin around it, dancing and laughing to her own private joke. Once that got old, she started preaching to the passengers around her:

"I ain't got no job!"

*CLAP*

"I ain't got no money!"

*CLAP*

"Nobody cares about me!"

*CLAP*

Lady, all I care about is getting off this train without you spazzing out and sticking me with a shiv.

The Muttering Man. A common sight on public transit, the muttering man is clearly crazy, hasn't bathed in weeks, and is incredibly suspicious of you. To him, you are the crazy one. The last Muttering Man I saw was counting empty bottles of Tab and Dr. Pepper and arranging them just-so on the train platform. I was completely fascinated by this OCD behavior. He was spinning and twirling each 2-liter bottle around so that it matched up perfectly with the bottle behind it, label-to-label. It was like watching a lava lamp. I was mesmerized and staring at him unabashedly. That is, I stared at him until he snapped his head around, locked predatory eyes on me like some horror movie creature, and lept off the bench at me in a dead run, shrieking "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!"

"Nothing!" I cried, and ran out of the train station, walking to work that day.

The Bag Lady. While typically docile and nothing to be feared, the common Bag Lady keeps to herself and her bags. She carries at least five sackfuls of miscellaneous items—clothing, soda cans, shoes, bird food—sensible things. However, the last Bag Lady I encountered was anything but typical of her species. Past midnight on the subway train, I was riding home from a late night of restaurant work. I was the only person on my car and it was luxurious. Enter: Bag Lady.

Scuttling onto the train like a beetle, I could see her gray hair leaking out of her wrapped shawl, but it covered most of her face. Smelling the crazy from a mile away, I buried my face in my book and avoided eye-contact. It didn't help. She scurried over and took the seat right next to me—her puffy coat touching my arm. She then spread out her dozen paper bags on the floor in front of her. I could see labels printed on them like Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdale's, Sak's Fifth Avenue—places Bag Ladies never go but always end up with their memorabilia.

I should have moved away—taken one of the hundreds of other empty seats—but I was scared and stupid. I sat there hiding behind my book as she leaned down and started rummaging through her various department store bags. They were clanking and banging and ruffling—God only knows what gets stuffed into a Bag Lady's bag.

Unable to find what it is she's looking for, Bag Lady starts getting frantic. Knocking her bags over onto the floor, one-by-one, she rummages through the spilled contents. I peer over my book to see her rabidly searching for something. I see piles of random crap spilling out of toppled bags—Pez dispensers, Yo-yo's, kite string, pieces of Lego, fishing lures, soda cans, glass bottles, makeup kits, a sun-catcher, loose pages torn from books, kitty litter, bits of Barbie doll, a box of Farina, silverware, a dog collar, CDs, a broken tape recorder, a mangled cassette tape, 2 cans of Silly String, Rotten apples, an empty jar of peanut butter, and several candles. Suddenly she stops her frenzied search. She's found what she's been looking for. She cradles it in her hands and peers around suspiciously, making sure nobody is looking at her precious.

I'm certain something dreadful is about to happen. There's more crazy in the air than oxygen. My hands get clammy. I drop my book on the floor.

She whips around in her seat towards me,

I see something black and shiny in her hand.

I scream—certain it's a knife and that my life is going to end on the subway at the hands of a Bag Lady—I recoil in terror.

Something flashes. I'm temporarily blind.

The subway car stops, I hear the ding as the doors open, and I hear the Bag Lady jump out of her seat and scurry out the doors. As she's leaving I hear the distinctive whirring sound of her advancing the film on a disposable camera.

The crazy bitch took my picture. I imagine it looks something like this:

She left behind all of her bags as a memento. Anyone need some kitty litter and a kite string?