Undoubtedly, this is a bit boring. I admire the flair of London Transport for having named a subway line “Bakerloo” (from Baker Street to Waterloo Station). It’s silly, but descriptive. Instead, in New York, we adopted the current almost mathematical system a few decades ago. There was an older convention in naming, which is forgotten by all but the most elderly and bitter subway workers. This is why you will sometimes hear useless non-instructive announcements like “Transfer here for the IRT trains.”
The what you say?
Anyway, it can be rather dull to use just the letter for your train (I always seem to live on “letter” lines as opposed to “number” lines). Therefore, city dwellers have adopted names for the lines based on their letter designation, and their performance characteristics.
N – “The Never Train”
R – “The Rarely Train”
F – “The Forever Train”
G – “The Gross Train”
Those are all lines I have lived on. For the last year I have been living on the L train. The L train has a singularly apt designation:
L – “The HELL Train”
As you might suspect by my choice of subject matter today, it was a classic HELL train day this morning. Due to sheer incompetence, the trains were so delayed that the only way I would have made it to work on time this morning was to have left home an HOUR earlier. The desperation mounts as you head from my stop (Graham Avenue) toward Manhattan. It’s only two stops to Manhattan, but each stop is more crowded with ‘hipsters’ than the last, and it all boils over into full fashion horror at Bedford Avenue. By Bedford Avenue the train is so packed that all but the most tragically hip of the hipsters have trouble getting on the train. This morning they were blocking the doors in such a frantic and futile attempt to enter the train that the conductor had to order them, by clothing description, to get out of the doors and off the train.
The conductor wasn’t adequately descriptive. Here were some lines that were going through my head:
“Hey, anorexic unwashed hipster with the really tragic hat, drop the irony and get out of the door!”
“Would the terminally-hip Japanese girl with her business hanging out of her miniskirt please step out of the doors?”
“I’m sorry sir, but there is no more room on this train. Please release the doors and wait for one that can fit you and your arm bangles in without injuring others. Thank you.”
Yes, it was that sort of morning. I therefore chose to break my breakfast rules, and got myself an extra-über gooey cream cheese and sesame bagel. I wolfed it down with glee, enjoying the sensation of all the dancing fat cells around my midsection as they went into a breeding frenzy.
Maybe I’ll do some smack later, just to feel, ya know, better.
They are all lucky I left Stabby at home this morning.