I leave the house at 7:23 every morning. Well, not exactly 7:23—I wish I were that anal—more like 7:25 or :26. I take fifteen minutes (even if I run) to reach the subway. I spend two or three more minutes waiting on the platform. When the train comes, I run to the front car and try to beat out an adult for a seat. I usually fail. Then, I’m faced with the day’s first problem: what to do on the way to school. I have fifteen minutes to kill.
Let’s start with the obvious: I could read. At 7:45 A.M., a New York subway car is a remarkably literate place. The Daily News, the Bible, Waiting to Exhale,* R. L. Stine, a chemistry textbook—half the straphangers are reading. But I can’t read on the train. Invariably, I get caught up in a chapter and lose my balance, falling into the businesswoman next to me, who’s also reading. She closes her thick, important-looking book and glares at me. I cringe, shuffle away, and look at the floor. Bumping into men isn’t so bad; they just harrumph and turn back to the sports section. Still, reading’s out.
I could always fantasize, but come on. Cramped by some overweight banker, smelling b.o. that’s just starting to stale, wearing a fifteen-pound backpack, and clutching my math notebook in my teeth, I’m going to think about the woman next to me?
I could scan the passengers, like Dad does. He’s always analyzing strangers on the train, building stories around their imagined lives. “See those two? He’s an architect, and he loves her, but he can’t stand her cats.” Never a dull moment for Dad. But I’m no good at crafting urban tales.
I could hum, but this causes problems, too. My humming inevitably leads to openmouthed mumbling, which becomes these horrible “Dun, dun, dada, dun, da” noises, which lead to full-blown, off-key singing in my corner of the subway car. Sometimes I belt out the entire “Spider-Man” theme song (“Is he tough? Listen, bud / He’s got radioactive blood”) before shutting myself up.
I experimented with a Walkman. I’d put on the headphones, hunch over, and wear a jaded, sullen-teen face as I brooded in the back of the car. But I’m not sullen, and I can’t fake it; the Walkman was eventually crushed by an unruly businessman.
Often, the idea of talking with my fellow straphangers has crossed my mind. There are two I recognize—the annoying woman with the sunglasses who never gets a seat, and the cute green-haired girl who actually seems intimidated by me. Many times, I’ve been ready to address them, but I always reconsider and pull out my global notes to study.
I could sleep, but how? A typical subway rider sleeps standing up, chin dropped to the chest, or sitting, head tilted back. These positions never work for me. The only way I can rest is by sitting with my backpack on my lap, and my head on my backpack. Bent forward, covered in my coat and sweatshirt, I look like a twisted midget escaped from rehab. My back gets bent up, and then hurts all day. I never actually fall asleep.
Sometimes, though, I fall half asleep. Being half asleep is terrific; my sense of time slows down, and I picture weird things. Sometimes I press my palms against my eyes on the subway to see whirling tunnels or flashing squares. Once, firmly planted in this zone, I saw a gray machine extruding strawberries through a little nozzle.*
But I can’t be half asleep all the time, and I’m running out of options. I could stare and think about mysteries of the cosmos. Let’s see … Is there a God? Please. How can the universe be older than some of its stars? Somebody screwed up. Will we ever conquer disease? No. Will the universe expand forever, or will it stop at a point and implode? Right then, when I’m on implosions, the train hits Park Place. One more stop before school.
My brain shifts modes. I do the mental homework checklist: math, global, English. Either I’ve done them, or I’ll do them at lunch. The train pulls into Chambers Street.
It’s 7:58, most likely—I’ll know by sneaking a glance at someone’s watch.* My back is aching; lint has already sneaked into my interstices. I’m tired and I’m headed off to Sequential Math, where I understand roughly 50 percent of the curriculum. But at least there I’ve got something to do. These subway trips are going to kill me fifteen minutes at a time.
*A book about women waiting to get into a committed relationship so they can exhale. Very similar to my desires at the time.
*The strawberry image was crystal clear to me. If only I could draw, I’d draw it for you.
*I never wear a watch. They always chafe my wrists. Also, I chew on them and lose them.