A New York City Commuter's Diary

“We are being held momentarily by the train’s dispatcher. We should be moving shortly. We apologize for any inconvenience. Thank you for your patience.” Okay, mysterious voice over the loudspeaker...why do you assume you have our patience? We are in a crowded train. In the middle of a dark tunnel. With the doors shut. And no way out. This is not patience. This is a hostage situation.

I turn to my left and find a large greasy-haired, mildewy-odored man with his eyes shut and arms folded across his flabby chest, exhaling a roaring snore. With every snore comes a blaring grunt. With every grunt comes a screeching shriek. I turn to my right and find a small child with tears streaming down her face. After every shriek, I hear a scratchy strum. A stranger with a guitar is pacing the aisle, harshly strumming and croakily singing, subjecting MTA’s captives to an unsolicited, ear-piercing concert with nowhere to run. You want money for your noise? I’ll give you money to stop!

Seconds pass by. Seconds turn into minutes. Many many minutes. At last, the train starts crawling again, slowly but unsurely passing by each stop. I could have pogo sticked to work faster than this.

When the subway finally creeps up to my stop, a sea of people smother me as they pile up at the exit. Time stands still as we wait for the momentous instant the doors pop open and passengers pour out.

As the greasy-haired, mildewy-odored man with the flabby chest pushes by me, my mask brushes down my face right below my nose. Seconds later, the tear-faced shrieking child runs into my thighs, causing me to thrust into the crowd. My mask is completely yanked off my face, and I gasp.

“Nice job wearing a mask!” I hear from my left.

“Don’t you dare breathe on me!” I hear from my right.

I hear angry shouts and profanity all around me. I throw my elbow up and cover my nose and mouth with my forearm as I continue to sprint through the crowd. Once the stampede of angry New Yorkers is behind me, I bring my arm down to my side. Suddenly, I felt a strong tug on my ears as my earphones were snatched out of them. I looked down. I looked to my left. I looked to my right. I pivoted my heels as I looked in every direction before seeing a man in a thick, dark-colored coat running across the streets. I could see white headphones dangling from in between his fingers and a phone strangled in the grip of his black leather gloves.

Finally, I get to my work building. I look at my wristwatch to find I was late exactly 53 minutes and 39 seconds ago. Here I am with no mask, no phone to email or call my boss, and no energy left in me to start the day. I pull at the door handle. And pull. And pull. It will not open. And that’s when I remembered. It’s Saturday.

If you have not been exceedingly late to work because of a sluggish subway, have not had your peace abruptly interrupted by an unrequested recital in the middle of the train, have not experienced smells and sounds you thought only exist in horror films, have not had your mask pulled down in a crowd and then got yelled at because of you supposedly was trying to infect everyone around you, and even forgot what day it is, can you really consider yourself a New Yorker in a pandemic?