TooMuchInformation

The woman sitting next to me smelled like Pond’s Cold Cream.

Due to construction, the MTA has Manhattan-bound L trains stopping at Bedford Ave where passengers must cross the platform and wait for another train to run shuttle to Union Square.  Today I was one of hundreds of aggravated passengers waiting not so patiently.  From the middle of the platform I could hear someone methodically striking cords on a violin.  The sound drew me in and I maneuvered through the crowd to get a view.  There was a young man with wild hair, his eyes closed, hitting the strings with his bow.  Then he stopped and began humming a warm and sad “Ooooooooh  ooooooooh ooooooooh” and then launched into a powerful verse from a song I don’t know.  The words were sad and desperate, about someone struggling against a current and praying for help in letting go.  I stood rapt; most on the platform did the same.  When his verse was done he bagan striking the cords again, followed by another round of humming, and another sad verse.  His voice grew in strength and filled the tunnel.  Too soon, he finished, opened his eyes and smiled bashfully as everyone applauded.  

I saw more than a few men in really ill-fitting suits.  Like sleeves too long, falling off the shoulders, baggy pants.  Just not right.  Guys, take advantage of the Mens Wearhouse’s free tailoring offer.  Please.  You’re welcome.

After watching the election results in a bar in Murray Hill, and a mad jaunt uptown to be part of the celebration in Times Square, I headed home on the L train.  It was after midnight and my voice was raspy from cheering and eyes red from the occassional emotional overwhelming.  Although it was late, the platform at Union Square was crowded and the arriving train full. 

Four years ago, I was up in the middle of the night watching the results online from my apartment in France.  I felt like I was the only one awake that night, desperately hitting refresh on the NYTimes website every few minutes to see changes in the Bush-Kerry contest.

Last night I was one of many.  Happy, hoarse, and tired, it was a rambunctions train ride.  A woman with a drum stood at the end of the car hitting a beat that kept the crowd chanting along.  At each stop along the way, when the doors opened and passengers departed for their beds, a loud whoop went up the stairs and turnstiles.  I was tempted to stay on till the last stop to see if the good spirits remained until the cars were empty.  But my bed was calling and I wanted to check on Indiana.

At the start of the night, in the bar, a couple visting from Germany sat at a table behind me, asking for details on the entire process.  They seemed to get the idea of the Electoral College, but the notion that some states had longer voting hours and different methods for counting wasn’t sinking in for them.  Also perplexing was the fact that with only 1% of precincts counted the newscasters were certain that Kentucky was going for McCain.

I can’t say how many people on the train had a grasp of our process, but the mood was high, proud, satisfied, jubilant, energized, relief.

Heading home after work Monday, I was standing in a crowded train, staring vaguely out the window.  Shortly into the ride a raspy voice began singing the Carpenter’s “We’ve Only Just Begun”.  It was a sorrowful version of the song.  Sort of a Little Jimmy Scott/Amy Winehouse hybrid re-mix.  It was beautiful.

And then came the smell. 

Moving through the car was a homeless man - emaciated, blind, dirty, in need of a fix.  His voice much larger than himself.  He was collecting donations, and doing considerably well, for his song.  Halfway through the car he switched music and belted Rod Stewart’s “If You Think I’m Sexy”.

I think it’s fair to say no one did.

Great day for people watching.  Rush hour this morning I had three people keeping me occupied. 

Across from me, standing in the doorway, was a tall guy with 5 days of beard growth, tight jeans, salt and pepper hair gelled forward and up, with mirrored sunglasses.  He was something to behold.  Like a rock-god daring everyone to try not to notice him.  He didn’t move much, just basked in his own glory.

Seated next to me was a large woman in a faux-fur coat.  It was maybe supposed to be snow leopard, but it looked more like dalmatian.  As if Cruella DeVille sat down next to me after skinning and eating the 101.  The coat was floor length with a hood.  When she sat down she grew in size.  Her bosom lifted and her thighs spread.  I wanted to reach out a finger and stroke the coat.  I sat with my arms crossed, trying to get the courage to poke it just once.  To feel it.  To confirm it was fake and not a litter of unfortunate puppies.   But I refrained.

The most interesting passenger was a frog-faced man standing in front of me.  He was listening to music through his headphones but the volume was turned high enough that anyone could hear it.  The music was familiar.  It started with a disco beat and then a blast of synthesized trumpets.  In between noticing the rock-god and fighting the urge to pet the dalmatians, I pulled up the song in my memory.  It was the theme song to CHiPs!  This guy was psyching up his day with the music that serenaded Erik Estrada down the highways of Los Angeles. 

Which set my mind wandering.  What should my Friday theme song be?  If I was taking the Staten Island Ferry into Manhattan it would definitely be Carly Simon’s Let the River Run (theme from Working Girl).  Arriving on a train in a tunnel under the East River calls up something less spectacular, something moody.  Something.. …  I don’t know.

Eventually, we arrived at Union Square, where I transfered trains and began thinking about other things.

I found myself taking an unplanned trip into the office on a Sunday.  It’s interesting to see the train when it’s not crowded with rush hour commuters and late night drinkers.  More than a handful of Orthodox Jewish women, heads shaved  and wigged, in smart shoes and accompanied by their progeny.  Their blatino counterparts pushing SUV sized strollers.  A few women coming home from church in their crowns. 

At one stop I was able to maneuver into a seat situated next to a sharply dressed woman - houndstooth wool coat, black tights, low heels, conservative makeup.   She sat upright with a gymnast’s posture.  Two minutes into our neighborhood, she extended her left arm straight out, made a fist, pointed her index finger back at herself and brought it to her nose, then extended her arm again, then brought it back to her nose, and extended, nose, extended, nose.  She did this about 6 times. 

I’ve noticed over the last month that I stare.  Sometimes I point, but today I was travelling alone.  I turned my head and looked right at her face and arm.  Shoulder to shoulder, we were about 6 inches apart.  She ignored me. 

Arriving at my stop, I exited and walked to work.

It’s Halloween, and that means the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade.  I didn’t make it to the Village, but I did get an eyeful of what was heading that way on the train.

My favorite by far was the group of four young women dressed as a mariachi band.  They were hilarious, working the train with their guitar, accordian, tamborine, sombreros, and huge mustaches.  One of them solicited donations from the other passengers.  

The icing on the cake came as I was about to exit.  I witnessed an Orthodox Jewish man taking a picture of them with his cell phone.  Three of NY’s icons intersecting: subway performers, Halloween, and Judaism. 

Lord, I love this town.

Friday morning, on my way into work, I found myself standing in front of a woman who was applying her makeup on the train.  She started with her eyes.  Shadow, more shadow, another color of shadow.  The entire eyelid, from the lashes up to the brows. 

I’ve never watched this happen before.  She was seated, but three feet away was a standing woman applying mascara with one hand, the other doubly gripping a compact mirror and the metal pole to balance herself.  I looked up and down the train car to see if anyone else was changing their appearance. 

The woman in front of me finished her eyes and moved on to the dark circles beneath.  She dabbed some flesh toned cream under each eye then rubbed it in.  Dropping that bottle into her purse she pulled out another cream to rub into her forehead and cheeks and chin.  A brush was produced from her bag to powder on some blush to each cheekbone.

The woman holding onto the bar was applying lipstick now.  She wasn’t using the compact mirror anymore, but looking at her reflection in the train window.  The people standing next to her didn’t seem to notice.

I looked back to the woman in front of me.  She was combing her eyelashes, seperating any tangles or clumping.   Then she plunged the brush into her bottle of mascara and meticulously applied the black ink to every lash.  She looked up at me watching her between working on eyes.  I smiled meekly.  I was caught staring. 

She finished both eyes, then whipped out a bottle of lip gloss.  It was red.  She brushed that onto her lips, very carefully.  And finally a compact to cover the entire face with a layer of flesh toned powder. 

What a process.  She looked good. 

Last Friday I went to a movie with two friends (Stardust – I enjoyed it, Yusef slept through it, and Billy left an hour in to check his cell phone;  he came back with a bucket of popcorn.) in Union Square.  The movie was preceded by a cup of coffee at a restaurant across the street where I had been one week prior and resolved to never return when a roach walked across  my apple crumble and became stuck in the caramel syrup.

On the way home after the movie, I noticed a half dressed man on the platform at 1st Avenue.  He got into our car, his blue jeans hanging low and revealing his BVDs.  He was clearly drunk or high or both, very agitated, and bleeding from his elbow.  He sat down diagonally opposite from me.  He noticed his blood and then made a face.  He was either about to cry or was trying to hold in a desperate need for a toilet.  Possibly both.

Fidgeting like any addict, he stood up and opened the door at the end of the car.  However, instead of passing through to the next car he stood between them, desperately trying to maintain his balance.  I became nauseous watching him.  As the train rocked images of him losing his balance and falling under the car entered my mind.  Another passenger tried repeatedly to talk the man into re-entering the car.

Every MTA car has a red call button that passengers can push to communicate with train personnel “in the event of an emergency”.  Yusef hit the button and we waited for the conductor’s voice to ask what was wrong.  But nothing  happened.  He hit the button again.  Still nothing.  The train rocked, the addict perched, a woman across from me pulled a rosary from her purse.

Between the 1st Avenue and Bedford Avenue stops the train enters a tunnel and goes under the East River.  Typically I can feel my ears pop as the train climbs down and then back up.  Friday night though the train was moving very slowly.  We were crawling towards Bedford Avenue.  Maybe no one was responding to Yusef’s repeated button pushing because they were already aware of the situation and everyone was busy applying the brakes.

Eventually we pulled up to the Bedford platform where a duo of police officers were waiting.  And then we were on our way again.