Train Talk
F train at 23rd Street. I select a seat in a row of three. Two seats down from me, a youngish guy reads a green paper-bound booklet that looks like a screenplay. At the next stop, a wiry little man gets on and wedges himself between us. “Excuse me.”
Screenplay dude relinquishes an inch. The newcomer settles in and repeats himself: “Excuse me.”
Is he looking at me? He is. He’s going to talk to me. Wait for it…
“You live in Park Slope. I’ve seen you a lot.”
That’s a nice one. Great opener, guy. Way to sound like a total stalker.
“I’ve seen you on this train. You usually get off at 7th Avenue.”
Really, that’s excellent. Keep going. “Yes, sometimes I do.” Screenplay dude raises his head and sneaks a sideways glance at us.
“I’ve been riding the F train for fourteen years, so I see a lot of the same people.”
I turn to face him. “Do I know you?”
I don’t say it unkindly. Still, a response like that would silence 90 percent of the population. But after nearly four years’ worth of subway riding, I’ve discovered that the leftover ten percent, that small minority, contains all of the world’s subway talkers.
“Are you an American?” Are you still talking?
“Yes, I’m from America.”
Pause. “I’m from India. I moved to New York fifteen years ago.” Smile. Nod.
“What do you do?”
Jesus. “I’m an editor.”
“Edit…?”
“An editor. I edit things.”
“Oh, an editor.” Pause. “I do photography. For advertisements and billboards.” He gestures across the car to an ad featuring Derek Jeter. “Like that. We just did an Estee Lauder. I’ve been doing it for fourteen years.”
“You must enjoy it, then.” And here’s where I start thinking, why won’t I talk to this guy? Is he being creepy -- or am I just being rude? I’m coming from the International Center, where I just spent the past two hours as an English conversation partner – in essence, I volunteer my time each week to talk to complete strangers. And yet, I can’t spare more than a few words for Mr. Creepy here. What’s wrong with me? He’s probably just a lonely, friendly guy.
Whatever. He’s lived here for fifteen years. He must have some friends above ground.
He’s silent for a while, and I think he’s gotten the picture. Then he leans over. “Can I ask you just one question?”
Oh shit. Here it comes.
“Are you single?”
“Yes.” Wait! He didn’t say Are you seeing anyone; he said Are you single! “No, I’m not. No. I’m not.” Now I sound like a big liar. Again, something that would discourage 90 percent of the population. Mr. Creepy nods with an odd smile on his face, then falls silent.
Jay Street. Screenplay dude gets up and moves across the car, but Mr. Creepy stays the course in the middle seat, right next to me. Are you kidding? Everyone knows you’re supposed to move over and vacate the middle seat when the person on the end gets up. It’s an unwritten yet universally known law of subway riding.
Screenplay dude gets off at Bergen Street. After Carroll, Mr. Creepy turns to me again. “Can we be friends?”
“Yes.” Thin-lipped smile.
Pause. “Can I call you sometime?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“I could give you my number, and you could call me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Creepy falls silent again. Now we’re approaching 7th Avenue. Should I get off, or wait til 15th Street? What is he going to do?
The train stops at 7th, and Creepy doesn’t move a muscle. Perfect. I employ the age-old method for escaping subway creeps, whether they be talkers, leerers, drunken name-callers or otherwise: Act nonchalant before your stop, and don’t make any motions indicating your departure – no closing of books, no zipping of bags, no putting on of hats or gloves. You wait until the train stops and the doors open. Sit there for a couple seconds, then, right before the doors start to close, get up and make a calm exit. Your subway creep will be caught off guard and won’t be able to follow – or else hurry after you and risk looking like the creep he quite possibly is (I’ve never seen a subway creep do this).
When I’m halfway down the platform, I glance over my shoulder. No Mr. Creepy. He’s riding off into the tunnel, en route to who knows what, looking for someone else to talk to on the long ride home.
Screenplay dude relinquishes an inch. The newcomer settles in and repeats himself: “Excuse me.”
Is he looking at me? He is. He’s going to talk to me. Wait for it…
“You live in Park Slope. I’ve seen you a lot.”
That’s a nice one. Great opener, guy. Way to sound like a total stalker.
“I’ve seen you on this train. You usually get off at 7th Avenue.”
Really, that’s excellent. Keep going. “Yes, sometimes I do.” Screenplay dude raises his head and sneaks a sideways glance at us.
“I’ve been riding the F train for fourteen years, so I see a lot of the same people.”
I turn to face him. “Do I know you?”
I don’t say it unkindly. Still, a response like that would silence 90 percent of the population. But after nearly four years’ worth of subway riding, I’ve discovered that the leftover ten percent, that small minority, contains all of the world’s subway talkers.
“Are you an American?” Are you still talking?
“Yes, I’m from America.”
Pause. “I’m from India. I moved to New York fifteen years ago.” Smile. Nod.
“What do you do?”
Jesus. “I’m an editor.”
“Edit…?”
“An editor. I edit things.”
“Oh, an editor.” Pause. “I do photography. For advertisements and billboards.” He gestures across the car to an ad featuring Derek Jeter. “Like that. We just did an Estee Lauder. I’ve been doing it for fourteen years.”
“You must enjoy it, then.” And here’s where I start thinking, why won’t I talk to this guy? Is he being creepy -- or am I just being rude? I’m coming from the International Center, where I just spent the past two hours as an English conversation partner – in essence, I volunteer my time each week to talk to complete strangers. And yet, I can’t spare more than a few words for Mr. Creepy here. What’s wrong with me? He’s probably just a lonely, friendly guy.
Whatever. He’s lived here for fifteen years. He must have some friends above ground.
He’s silent for a while, and I think he’s gotten the picture. Then he leans over. “Can I ask you just one question?”
Oh shit. Here it comes.
“Are you single?”
“Yes.” Wait! He didn’t say Are you seeing anyone; he said Are you single! “No, I’m not. No. I’m not.” Now I sound like a big liar. Again, something that would discourage 90 percent of the population. Mr. Creepy nods with an odd smile on his face, then falls silent.
Jay Street. Screenplay dude gets up and moves across the car, but Mr. Creepy stays the course in the middle seat, right next to me. Are you kidding? Everyone knows you’re supposed to move over and vacate the middle seat when the person on the end gets up. It’s an unwritten yet universally known law of subway riding.
Screenplay dude gets off at Bergen Street. After Carroll, Mr. Creepy turns to me again. “Can we be friends?”
“Yes.” Thin-lipped smile.
Pause. “Can I call you sometime?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“I could give you my number, and you could call me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Creepy falls silent again. Now we’re approaching 7th Avenue. Should I get off, or wait til 15th Street? What is he going to do?
The train stops at 7th, and Creepy doesn’t move a muscle. Perfect. I employ the age-old method for escaping subway creeps, whether they be talkers, leerers, drunken name-callers or otherwise: Act nonchalant before your stop, and don’t make any motions indicating your departure – no closing of books, no zipping of bags, no putting on of hats or gloves. You wait until the train stops and the doors open. Sit there for a couple seconds, then, right before the doors start to close, get up and make a calm exit. Your subway creep will be caught off guard and won’t be able to follow – or else hurry after you and risk looking like the creep he quite possibly is (I’ve never seen a subway creep do this).
When I’m halfway down the platform, I glance over my shoulder. No Mr. Creepy. He’s riding off into the tunnel, en route to who knows what, looking for someone else to talk to on the long ride home.
posted by MTL at 9:48 PM
2 Comments:
OMG Tracy, the same thing happened to me during my first year of grad school when I used the local bus route. Apparently, sitting there minding your own business, and NOT telling someone to fuck off, gives the creepy, smelly, stalkerish old Scary-No-Teeths (at least in my experience)free license to put you in this incredibly awkward situations. Bah.
Scary-No-Teeth! I totally remember your stories about that dude!
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