Rage Rage (Against the Dying of the M)

Well, after a relaxing long weekend full of highlighting the glories of NYC (I took Friday off to show my older sister & brother-in-law around town), yesterday underlined the pitfalls of city dwelling with a big fat jumbo-sized Sharpie.

That's right, I'm talking about the massive MTA service cuts that went into effect yesterday. I knew they were coming. On Sunday, I noticed the new subway maps everywhere. But I did not look at them closely until last night, when I was trying to figure out how you would distinguish between a Williamsburg-bound M train and a Bay Ridge-bound M train if the M is now going to Queens. It was then that I discovered that there is no more Bay Ridge-bound M train. They gave my train to Queens.

I know what you're thinking. I still have the R train, don't I? The M was infrequent and didn't run on the weekends, but now that it's gone, I realize how handy it was in bringing me to my transfer stop every morning. I start work at 9:30, a bit of an odd hour, so there usually aren't many other people at my subway platform when I arrive in the mornings; maybe twenty tops. The past two mornings, the platform was crowded with people, and there were no seats on a train which was usually half empty at that time of morning. And when I got to Atlantic Ave/Pacific Street, the crowds on the platform were also much thicker than usual. This morning, as I got off of the R train, I observed a stuffed-to-the-gills D across the platform. Ordinarily it would have been letting on transferring passengers like myself, but this train was ordered to wait with its doors closed until it could move again. I had to wait for a not-quite-as-stuffed N. The train crept the whole way over the bridge due to congestion, and meanwhile, I was struggling not to make physical contact with other passengers. It wasn't exactly on the level of the 4-5-6 at 8:30 am, but it was still twice as crowded as I am accustomed to. Typically I am never forced to stand so close to another passenger on my morning commute that I am in danger of brushing up against him or her when the train jostles me. It was tolerable. But it's not going to be that way anymore.

I marvel at how I could have been unprepared for this. It was in the news, but somehow I did not understand that my train was being taken away. Could the MTA not have spared a little extra cash to post some signs to the effect of "Hey people who ride this train, just a heads up that on Monday, you won't be able to anymore?" (Judging from the MTA's unbelievable pile of debt, I guess not.) Maybe they should have thought of that before carving up a huge chunk of 2nd Ave with those incredibly expensive machines that bore tunnels through bedrock.

Some made merry by holding funerals for the fallen subway lines and getting drunk illegally on the last ride of the W train, but yesterday, no one was celebrating, except maybe MTA execs who have pulled another fast one on us. No public forums, protests, or political action could have held this back any longer. Why? Because we're all at their mercy when we want to get to work.

This would be a good time to consider taking up alternative forms of transportation, except that I am still traumatized by the terrible bike accident I witnessed. (By the way, earlier this week, my husband came home with a mountain bike. I am still insisting that he buy a helmet.) But when you live in the outer boroughs, your choices are pretty limited. The kicker is that we will all be paying at least 7.5% more for our decreased level of service by next year. I was so mad this morning, I actually took down the addresses of my local representatives. I may even do some angry-letter-writing, if I get around to it.

Because that's going to have a huuuuge effect, I know. Still, I need some avenue for this seething rage. I think it would be really great if we designated one day as a mass transit boycott (preferably on the day my monthly pass expires). What would it be like if the trains and buses were running around town totally empty of passengers? Would that drive the point home?

No, it wouldn't, and do you know why? Because New Yorkers don't care enough about transit cuts to miss a day of work or maybe walk. We just accept our fate with a shrug and bitterly complain the whole way to and from work. Personally, every time I walk onto a crowded train, I contemplate moving somewhere, anywhere else, but the world of driving just doesn't appeal to me. I like to look up from my book and peer out over the East River every morning as I cross the Manhattan Bridge. It's just that the trains are too crowded to see out the windows now.

911 Call

This post will be a serious one, because sometimes, in a few seconds, life gets really serious. I was at my computer editing a project this evening when I heard the squeal of brakes and a crash out on the street. My kitchen windows face busy 4th avenue, so I have heard my share of fender benders happen out there. "Should I go look?" I wondered briefly, before jumping up to go to the window. I was expecting a minor scrape, both drivers pulling over to the side of the street, getting out of the car, exchanging insurance information... I witnessed this kind of seen no more than two weeks ago. But what I saw chilled my blood. I looked out the window and right below me on the street, there was a man laying face-down in the middle of the road, limbs bent out at odd angles. A small SUV was parked about six feet from the man, and the driver was getting out of the car. People swarmed into the street to help. My brain froze. Should I call 9-1-1? I had never done it before, but as I was inside my apartment on the second floor, it seemed like the best thing I could do to help. I sprang into the living room and grabbed my phone. I tapped the numbers deliberately. It all felt like it was an eternity. There was no ring. A man immediately answered and I started spewing out details frantically.

"A man was hit. He's lying in the middle of the road!"
"What borough are you in, ma'am? The Bronx, Manhattan--"
"Brooklyn! It's on 4th avenue right outside of my building. (Here I gave the cross streets). A man was hit by a car and he's not moving."
"He's in the street?"
"Yes, in middle of the street."
"And he's not moving."
"No, I don't think so."
"Okay, is the vehicle still there?"
"Yes, the vehicle is stopped in the street."
"Can you describe the vehicle."
"Uh-- red-- uh-- what do you call it? SUV. A small SUV."
"Can you see any license plate number on the vehicle?"
"No, I'm too far away."
"Okay, please stay on the line while I contact the dispatcher."

As cars moved out of the way, I noticed the crumpled bicycle in the median. My brain was trying to put together a picture of what must have happened. The dispatcher, a woman, was soon on the other end. The operator gave a brief description of the incident and the dispatcher said, "Yes, caller?"
I paused. Is she talking to me? Oh right, I'm the caller.
"Yes?"
I confirmed the incident location and she replied, "Yes, we've received multiple calls about a bicyclist struck by a red SUV at that location. We're sending an emergency response team."
"Thank you," I said, and I hung up.

It was so fast, but at the same time it seemed to take forever. I watched as people went into the street to help and dozens more congregated on the sidewalk to watch. Within a few minutes, an ambulance and a fire truck pulled up. EMTs rushed out of the ambulance and began touching the man in various areas to feel for fractures, while others gathered around his head. Some of the firefighters went to talk to the driver of the SUV. The EMS team brought out several plastic splints and appeared to be securing them around the man, while simultaneously loading out a stretcher, and that rolling thing that supports it. About four of them moved the man's body onto the stretcher, and as they began to move him, a woman cried out, "Oh my God, his he's bleeding all over the place! His head is bleeding!" The team lifted him and set him upon the stretcher, covering him up halfway with a sheet, and slowly moved him into the ambulance. I saw a round pool of blood on the ground where the man's head had been. He hadn't been wearing a helmet that I could see. The driver and the woman who had been in his passenger seat were on the sidewalk, watching. The man seemed calm and eager to cooperate, but I couldn't help but wonder what was going through his mind. What it his fault? Would he face charges? I wondered this at the same time that I found myself praying fervently for the bicyclist in the ambulance. It seemed like they were taking far too long in there. I knew theoretically that emergency response was supposed to try to stabilize the patient before moving him or her to the hospital, but in reality, it seemed too slow. This guy must be fighting for his life, I thought, or worse. Were they not driving away because he was already dead? The ambulance stayed where it was. At one point, an EMT got out and seemed to take down the license plate number on the red SUV. The firefighters grabbed a hose and sprayed down the street, yelling at the people standing on the sidewalk to move out of the way. Away went the blood and discarded packaging and tools left by the EMS. An EMT had thrown a bottle of something into the street, and I heard the glass shattering. The whole time, cars continued to squeeze through in the far right lane. The firefighters directed the driver of the red SUV to move his car to the side of the street. I had thought the car was undamaged but then I noticed that the entire windshield was smashed. The cyclist had to have hit it before landing face down in the street. It looked like it had been a head-on collision. Though I couldn't be sure what happened, I thought perhaps the cyclist had crossed while the vehicle was making a left turn.

I almost got run over at the opposite corner of 4th avenue a couple of years ago, so I could easily picture it happening. I was crossing the street (with a white light, not a flashing orange one), and I saw a car coming to make a left turn. Since I had the light, I kept walking. I saw that the car was going fast, but I thought that it would surely stop. It was broad daylight and I was walking on a crosswalk, after all. But the driver, in his impatience, thought that he could avoid me if he made a really quick, sharp turn and cut in front of me before I reached the median. I don't know why people do that, but I definitely wasn't expecting it. All of a sudden, the car looked like it was going to hit me. It was a few months before my wedding, and an image flashed before me of going down the aisle in a wheelchair, because I felt like this guy was going to take my legs out of commission. The driver slammed on the brakes and I jumped out of the way, avoiding his bumper by perhaps a foot, as I let out a terrified scream. I've got a loud scream. The driver paused, probably assuming he had grazed me, but when I took a stunned step back, he peeled off as I yelled at him. I don't know what I said, but it probably wasn't my usual sort of language, and that driver definitely didn't stick around long enough to hear it. I went back to my apartment, angry, a bit embarrassed, and very shaken by the close call. Had I been one step closer, I could have been one of the over 100 annual pedestrian traffic fatalities in New York City. Over a thousand are injured each year, just crossing the street. Cyclists actually seem to be much safer statistically, but I'm absolutely terrified to ride a bike on a busy city street. I just don't trust myself to pay careful enough attention.

After about fifteen to twenty minutes, the ambulance finally pulled away, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Where were the cops? I wondered. It seemed like they should be talking to the driver and witnesses. The firetruck moved to allow for traffic. Finally, forty minutes after I made my 911 call, the police arrived. Two officers got out, with the firefighters quickly filling them in on what had happened. One cop lit a cigarette while the other went to talk to the driver. He got his license and registration and went back into the cruiser to run it. The smoking cop started talking to witnesses, still smoking. It made me mad to see him looking so nonchalant. I could hear the driver's voice but not well enough to distinguish what he was saying. I followed his hand gestures, which conveyed, "I was coming this way, and he was going that way." The cop asked the driver another question, and he shook his head vehemently. Perhaps it was "Have you been drinking tonight, sir?" But as much as I tried to fill in the script, I wasn't getting any closer to learning what had happened. I was shaking and I wanted to talk to somebody, but my husband was at work and his phone was off. So I decided to get all my thoughts out in writing.

Three hours later, the crumpled bike is still in the median. About a half hour ago, I looked out the window and saw a young guy walk up to the bike and stare at it. "Somebody had an accident!" he shouted to a man across the street. Five minutes ago, I saw a car backing up slowly in the right lane. The driver got out and inspected the bike. I thought maybe he was a detective or something, and the police were going to take the bike as evidence. But evidently it was just some schmuck who thought he'd found a free bike. It is the only thing reminding me that all of this really happened. I just keep thinking of the bicyclist and praying that he's still alive. I'll probably never know.

By the Sea (of People)

So I decided to spend my Memorial Day at the Rockaways this year. Normally I hate going to beach when I think other people might be there to observe my vampirically pale flesh exposed to sunlight (people tend to watch to see if I'll suddenly turn to ash), but I was listening to the Ramones, and they made it seem so inviting.

I wanted to look like a much-less-sexy Brigitte Bardot, so I donned the swimsuit and beaded linen beach dress my husband bought for me on the isle of Capri. I topped it off with the floppy white straw hat I bought in Bermuda last year. It sounds posh, but it wasn't really. I guess I was a little bit out of touch with what Americans typically wear to the beach, considering I've observed The Real Housewives going there more often then I've been myself. My get-up made me look like one of the less-hot, less-tanned Housewives amidst a sea of cut-off shorts.

The hubs and I usually go out to Rockaway Beach a couple of times every summer, but this is the first summer in a few years that finds me employed full-time, during the day, so I wasn't quite prepared for the scene on Monday. Going to the Rockaways in the middle of the day on a summer weekday is pretty zen-like. Seth usually drives there, but because of holiday traffic, we opted to take the subway. It took only forty-five minutes going, but with all of the transfers, it was a hellish hour-and-a-half back, caked in sand and sweat.

But the sand and sweat weren't the only annoying thing about the day. There seemed to be teenagers screaming everywhere non-stop from the time we boarded the A to the time we got home. I played a lot of angry songs and used a lot of distortion pedals on my guitar back in those days, but I don't remember ever being loud. Annoying in appearance, perhaps, but not in an audible way, unless you count the aforementioned angsty musical performances in my parents' basement.

Do you ever wish the world had a volume knob? Or perhaps just your neighbors? The only thing I miss about the country of my youth is its lack of noise. And also having a pool. But mainly the quiet and ease of sleep. There are cicadas, frogs, and peafowl making noise at night, but no neighborly voices, or their music, or their TV, or their two stupid yappy little dogs. I'm aware that I sound like a crotchety old man, but well, I think that one half of me could be very happy as a hermit at the top of a mountain somewhere. But of course the thing about being a sourpuss is that I could manage to find something to complain about something regardless of my surroundings, so don't presume that any place would ever really bring me contentment.

Anyway, back to the beach. When I am going a long distance, my bladder tends to get what I like to call "nervous" about its ability to hold it in, so I had to pee again fifteen minutes after leaving the house. I know I was only going to Queens, but it gets just as nervous any time I'm going above 14th St. By the time I left the train, I had to urinate very urgently. Lo and behold, there were actually bathrooms in the subway station. But it was a one-holer, so I had to wait behind a few other women. While we were in the bathroom, a pack of three drunk/high teenage girls cut to the front of the line, apologizing by way of a "She pregnant." "Yeah, so are we," quipped a sour lady on line behind me. Yet two of them went into the bathroom, and they were so slight that I seriously doubted any of them were pregnant. They began to chant raucously while they were going about their business, so I decided to bust into the mens' room. (Don't worry, no one was in there.)

We finally got to the beach, and it was packed. We walked for about ten minutes toward where the beach was less crowded. "Oh look," I said. There was a big open space due south of a group of aging hippies. When we walked by, we realized why. It smelled like someone had lit the MotherJoint. Or like my college dorm. We trudged on past blaring boomboxes and groups of kids with projectiles, till we found a spot that was reasonably far away from either. It was alright.

Then the wind really kicked up, and blew sand all over my body constantly. I had gooseflesh, so I reinstated my cover-up dress, but my legs were still cold. A group of louder, younger teenagers joined the group of youth behind us. When I went to put on my suntan lotion, the bottle oozed all over my dress. My hat kept threatening to blow away. "Argh, I hate the beach!" I moaned.

Two hours later, I had to go to the bathroom, so we decided to pack up and go home. The line at the nearest public restroom was phenomenal. "We're going to be in this line for half an hour," said Seth. "It would make more sense to spend ten minutes looking for another place." So we reasoned it out and I left, grumbling. Eventually we found a bar.

Here's where the day turned around. We had escaped into the Rogers Irish Tavern, apparently virtually unchanged since it opened in 1919. The ladies room is actually outside of the place down a hallway because the place originally didn't serve women, and they haven't modernized much. It's a small place with a vintage jukebox and original wood paneled refrigerators behind the bar. I had a beer and let go of my disdain for the day. It had been alright after all.

We headed home, back to the crowded subway platform, where we finished a tub of my not-yet-famous Egyptian potato salad. We observed hipster interpretations of beach attire. All was divine.

I got home and took a gloriously long shower, washing the sand of disappointment from my skin. Never again will I punish myself by going to the beach on a holiday weekend, I resolved. But the thing is, eventually, I probably will.

-B.S.