Just Another New York Minute

Your feet are tired from walking so far already today, and you’re looking forward to freshening up with a hot, sudsy shower before meeting up later with friends you haven’t seen in a while. The automated subway announcer’s chipper voice has made it known that your stop is next, less than a minute away and your body tenses as you prepare to prepare to rise without disturbing the sleeping woman in scrubs to the left of you. Her deep respirations speak of exhaustion and you will do your best to obey that unspoken rule of New York City, “Infringe on no other, or at least try not to.”

You are excited to disembark, as someone, somewhere on the full, but not sardine-packed, subway car is eating something fishy accompanied by the acrid tang of charred garlic. Additionally, a madman in a fedora at the far end of the car has been slowly making his way towards you. He is dressed like a normal businessman, and upon first sight, one would not likely identify him as disturbed, but he has been aggressively ranting about how when you’re dead other people will wear your clothes. Upon further, discrete, peripheral inspection you detect a franticness to his motions and a countenance that fluctuates between deep-thought and wildness.

It is tempting to look at the raving man, at least to judge his proximity, but you are aware of the danger in making eye contact with certain denizens of the city. Attracting their attention comes with a mixed bag of unpredictable results. It is equally tempting to look at the woman sitting across from you, visible in snatched glances when the straphanger in headphones and a leather Mets jacket blocking your view sways to the side. She is among the most beautiful humans you have ever seen, with exotic features hinting at an origin in some far-off, foreign land, or maybe even a distant planet. With high-set, razor-sharp cheekbones and long, spidery legs held tight together, you imagine she must be a runway model or maybe an angel.

To your right, a young man is rapping, not along to music, but rather spitting a few bars, then furrowing his brow and making notes on his phone. The creative process fills every crack of the city as dreams struggle to birth themselves into reality in sky-kissed penthouses, deep underground, and on every stratus in between. BA-DA-BUM-BUM-BUM. A few extremely loud notes clang out from the far end of the car, announcing the arrival of a mariachi band. In your attempts to avoid the deranged man’s notice, you didn’t see them arrive at the last stop. The woman in scrubs wakes with a start and shoots a withering glance towards the musicians before leaning her head back against the wall.

The man in the fedora scurries down the car, jostling people aside, and is now shouting to be heard over the music. “You, Mr. Met!” he yells, brandishing a finger at the man standing in front of the otherworldly woman. “If you think no one’s gonna wear that jacket when you’re dead, you’re plumb crazy.” Clearly a local, the headphone-ensconced Mets fan does not respond, merely continuing to stare out the window over the model’s head at the passing tunnel walls.

You’ve spent enough time in the city to know that you can learn a lot about a person by looking at their shoes. The model’s Uggs appear to have seen at least one winter. It is easy to be jealous of the extremely comely, but there are reminders that even they are subject to the harshness of reality, which exacts its toll from beggar and beauty alike. Mr. Met, with his huge headphones sitting atop a backwards commemorative World Series cap exudes sneakerhead vibes, and is, unsurprisingly shod in gleaming white, unsullied, virgin high-top Nikes, which contrast starkly with the madman’s shabby wingtips. Tooling on the leather suggests that the dress-shoes were originally expensive, but, too-long-walked in, they now feature scuff-marks, worn-out soles, and frayed, aglet-free laces. The context of the experience you’re having forces you to wonder if the shoes’ previous owner is deceased.

The train slows as it maneuvers a curve and with relief you realize that in twenty seconds or so, you’ll be arriving at your destination station. The garlic stink has been a lot to bear and the mariachi music is deafening in the confines of the car. When the Mets fan doesn’t take his bait, fedora man sets his sights on the beautiful woman. “Hey, pretty lady,” he practically screams over the band, “Those shoes look warm! I wouldn’t mind wearing them tonight.”

The woman had been looking down at her lap, but upon hearing the vaguely threatening statement, looks up and fixes your eyes with her gaze. You wonder if this is one of those Kitty Genovese moments or if his words, despite their tone and content, are as meaningless as millions of others that float away on the air each and every New York minute.

The city forces its denizens into inactivity merely by virtue of the sheer volume of things to react to. Gawking at the architecture pegs one as a tourist, and so the locals must find it within to steel themselves away from staring, in wonder, at the marvels that surround them on all sides. By the same token, there is so much ambient desperation that they must learn to ignore the constant pleas for help from those in need, which are everywhere. “Someone else will help,” becomes the de-facto state-of-mind when faced with all but the most magnitudinous of crises.

Kitty Genovese is one of many ghosts, victims and perpetrators alike, who haunt the city. She is the specter of accountability, which, in a city teeming with millions, can be passed along as easily as dirty money, corrupting individuals just as graft does institutions. Her murder, all those decades ago, is the result of responsibility for the greater good being spread too thin, evidence of deep fault and failure in the cultural system as a whole. Yet, her death need not be in vain if, not just New Yorkers, but people everywhere, during times when voices raise or weapons appear, evoke her memory and act, despite being programmed to let that responsibility fall on another. If just one cry for help goes answered, we can wring some meaning from her senseless death.

Assistance comes in many forms, and you get a quick lesson in this as the madman follows the path of the angel’s gaze across the car to your face. The staccato strumming of five guitars pounds in your ears as you look up and see the disturbed man staring at you. “Well, what have we here?” he scream/sings, almost in tune with the cacophony, crossing the car to loom over you.

Again, you are struck by his outward normalcy. Yes, his clothes are a bit worn, but he lacks the features of a drinker or drug-user. He is clear-eyed and does not slur his words, only his speech and mannerisms differentiate him from any number of other similarly attired members of his demographic on this very car. Every fiber of your being demands that you look away and not engage, but instead you look him in the face. “I’ll tell you what!” he yells at you, “I’ll wear your clothes right freaking now!” The woman in scrubs does not open her eyes.

The screech of the subway’s brakes squeezes its wail between his words and the music as the train enters the station. The young rapper rises and begins making his way through the crowd to the door. Quickly sliding into the seat he vacated, you stand and follow, maintaining eye-contact with the wild man, who gnashes his teeth at you. As the car lurches to a stop you grab the pole overhead to prevent yourself from falling over. At this moment the music ceases and you look away from the man in the fedora to the beautiful woman. She rises, and you are wondering whether she has taken your glance as an invitation when the doors open with a hiss. You turn and step onto the platform, sidling up to the wall, telling yourself that you’re not waiting for her, though you could always add a new friend to your plans, but to make sure the maniac is safely behind you.

The model, alien, or angel emerges from the train and does not look at you as she hurries toward the station exit. “Hey, Mr. Met!” you hear from within the car before the doors close. Later you will recount the experience to your friends, telling your tale of just another New York minute.