SUBWAY TALES

Part 4

I love living in New York; more than that, I actually belong to the school of New York snobs that considers our fair city the center of the world. As such, I felt it was my moral obligation to introduce my niece to all the wonders of the city a baby, and then a toddler, can appreciate.

This past summer, after the appearance of her baby brother, I tried to take her mind off the fact that she is not the only one in Mama's world; as a result, we have spent a most memorable week doing "touristy" things. There was only one thing that marred our total bliss: we had to return home on the subway.

So, one pleasant sunny afternoon Golden Delicious, her trusty Maclaren Techno, and yours truly boarded the subway at Columbus Circle. Up to a point, it was OK, mainly because I had to share an elevator with a young father, whose charge was around the same age as mine and also in a stroller (to be fair to him, he looked like a decent person who was probably courteous to women with children before he got his own). Anyway, we maneuvered the elevator and turnstiles, helping each other, wished each other a pleasant day, and then I proceed to my platform; and the fun began.

First of all, some gentlemen mascarading as construction workers decided to block us on the platform, so they will be able to get into the car first. Being a veteran of long lines for watermelons and fresh fish, I prevented the said maneuver. Then the train came, we successfully boarded, continuing to exhibit the rude tendency of refusing to be pushed and shoved, and I surveyed the situation. Of course, there were no seats available; more than that, apparently women with strollers are subjected to the same treatment as do pregnant women: everyone seated lifts their eyes, pretends they do not see you, looks around furtively, or even gives you a dirty stare.

Now, if you ever traveled on the subway with a stroller, you will know that it's impossible, even with breaks, to keep it still; moreover, the only way you yourself will be able to keep your balance is to lean against the door. Basically, in this situation a seat is very desirable. So, I decided to wait two stops to 42nd Street, where lots of people would probably get off, and if that did not work, just ask anybody looking half human to remain that way. Plus, just to make me smile more, there was a dude and his girlfriend directly in front of us, who kept giving us very dirty stares. They themselves looked like what is knows is Russia as bedbugged intelligencia (yes, I know it looses something in the translation), and the dude was clutching a copy of a book on art history.

Anyway, the 42nd Street came, lots of people disembarked, and we got the seat (again, after some really crafty maneuvers on my side). During this lively process, one of Maclaren's wheels went over the above-mentioned gentleman's Duck Martin's, for which I was gifted with a stare that basically meant "off with her head". My only regret was that I was unable to re-direct those wheels for at least five more times, but, on the balance, I decided that obtaining a seat carried a bit more importance and urgency.

After that epic victory, Curly Head decided that she was a big girl and requested to be seated next to me; I complied with her request. Now, that train had bench seats, and there was literally a tiny spot next to me for her tiny behind; not even a older child would have been able to squeeze there. Never the less, my seating her on the bench earned me a disapproving stare from the woman on the left. That, I think, was the proverbial cherry. I am afraid that at that point I expressed myself pretty loudly: "Bastards! Blind mutant bastards!" That earned me the shocked stairs from most of the car, and some of them followed me for most of the road. Needless to say, I also had to apologize to my sister for using profanities in front of her young impressionable child.