The Long Way Home – New York

After nineteen years of living in suburban Chicago, my experiences with public transportation had been limited. My mass transit adventures were reduced to an annual Metra rail trip to Grant Park, a handful of bus trips to the mall, and one slightly creepy ride on the “El” train when I was eight.

However, nearly twenty years of public transportation inactivity came to an end while in New York City for a week during Spring Break. Tired of spending money and wasting time in cabs, my friend Nicole suggested that we take the subway from our room at the 42nd Street Y downtown to South Street Seaport. It didn’t seem to matter that we didn’t even know which line to take. Or that some unfortunate woman had gotten her throat slashed on a train earlier in the week. Or that we walked forty blocks in the wrong direction the only time we had ventured into downtown without taking a cab.

Despite that, with beginner’s luck (and a little help from a subway attendant), we got there. So when we lost track of time and the Seaport closed, leaving us stranded downtown with no cabs in sight, we figured we could rely on that luck one more time.

On the subway forty-five minutes later, we realized we hadn’t heard “42nd Street.” Nicole tried to look at the situation logically: “If we miss our stop, the train will probably just loop around to the beginning of the route.” I just nodded. Considering my history, maybe Nicole knew more than I did. Besides, we didn’t feel the need to worry just yet.

That didn’t happen until we hit the seventies. At the 100s there was some serious nail biting. “Remember how nice all the stops looked a little while ago?” Nicole asked desperately as the train whizzed through the graffiti-covered stations.

By the 200s we had reached full-scale panic. We were the only two on the train.

Suddenly it stopped. “This is the end of the line,” boomed the conductor, a burly middle-aged man wearing the requisite blue uniform. This couldn’t be. He skipped our stop!

“You never said 42nd Street!” we accused.

“I said Times Squa-ruh,” he said with what seemed to be a Brooklyn accent. “Times Squa-ruh is Fwourty-second Street is Pwo-rt Authority.”

“Ohh,” we said, exchanging raised eyebrows. He did say Times Square. Our mistake.

“Where are we now?” we asked innocently.

“The South Bronx.”

I had heard about the Bronx – usually on the six o’clock news, usually having to deal with violence. Not good.

“You’re kidding, right?” we asked.

No, he wasn’t. This was definitely the end of the line and we definitely were in the South Bronx. Our luck had run out.

“There’s another train coming through here soon,” the conductor barked. “Get off this train, and the next one will take you back.”

Oh, good. Relief.

“At least we aren’t the only ones on this one,” I thought as we boarded the next train.

A couple of stops later, three teenagers jumped the turnstile and ran laughing onto the train as a sexually unidentifiable human in dirty gray sweats loomed nearby.

Suddenly, the raggedy-looking human jumped on the train with them. “Get off the train!” it yelled.

He was a she! And toward the three boys she pointed – a gun!

I had never been that close to a gun before. All I could think about was that poor subway rider, probably lying unconscious in some hospital recovering with a huge gash on her neck. I didn’t want something similar to be my fate. “Please – we’re just two little black girls from the Midwest trying to have fun in New York City – don’t shoot!” I silently pleaded.

The three semi-delinquents followed the woman off the train. Next thing I saw, their hands were on the wall of the station. An undercover cop! Well, at least she didn’t shoot.

My eyes were bulging. I was drained. The people sitting around me, however, seemed unaffected. They must have been New Yorkers. “Those kids, jumping over the turnstile again. Why can’t they just pay the fare?” they muttered.

I’m happy to say that that was the last inconvenience Nicole and I had that night. We did get off at Times Square – we weren’t missing it this time.

We looked at our watches. Total time spent on the train: two hours. Two hours of pure, New York-style horror, simply because Times Square is Port Authority is 42nd Street.

Three years later, I moved to New York. I’m now a regular subway rider.

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