The Stakes

Risk vs Reward

I wish I could fly, like the microfiber-clad Olympic ski jumpers, arms spread wide, frozen Kate Winslets on the bow of the Titanic. The airstreams want to lift them aloft while gravity fights to bring them back to the snow-blanketed runway. Or maybe teleport, like Captain Kirk: “Beam me down, Scotty! Beam me up, Scotty!” Anything to avoid Metro North and the six train, but alas, earthbound, the combative commute is the price I willingly pay for brunch at Lafayette Grand Cafe and Ulysses at The Public Theatre with my firstborn.

The days of pleasant - even just civilized - travel in public have gone the way of the answering machine and the iPod. Clearly Westport has drifted further from the city, because when I moved here 29 years ago, the trip took one hour. Now, with stars fully aligned, 80 minutes elapse.

To ride or not to ride? That is the question. On this particular President’s Day weekend, I suffered numerous slings and arrows: The lying liar Metro North app claimed the 9:59 am train would be virtually empty. Boldfaced lie. I faced a packed rail car, barely nabbing the last seat on the first car next to a sleeping, sweats-clad man who grunted and shifted only slightly when I invaded his space.

I armored up against the potential impediments to a serene and healthy journey: an N94 mask, earbuds streaming Neon Chill Radio, scarf wrapped around my neck, and book in front of my face. I’d have preferred a Star Trek-like forcefield to protect me from people thoughtlessly sharing their noise and germs, but this was the best I could do.

The grey-bunned woman in front of me opened and closed and folded and refolded the Financial Times of London so many times that I expected a pale peach origami crane to emerge above her head. The couple across the aisle who caught the same bug intended generously to share it with the rest of us. They sneezed and coughed with nary a tissue nor a mask in sight. The gaggle of gal pals in the seats facing one another screeched and cackled as they shared volume-turned-up videos and spilled the tea. One of the standers in the vibrating and quaking vestibule spent the entirety of the journey applying a full face of makeup, using her iPhone as a mirror, adeptly juggling compacts, pencils, and brushes. I don’t spend that much time on my eyebrows in a week. The semiconscious man next to me snorted and snored, and I just hoped he wouldn’t shift and deposit his head on my right shoulder.

The subway gods deposited the six at the station just as my sneakers touched the platform. It, too, was filled to capacity. I found myself in closer proximity to a cohort of strangers, inhaling details about them that I did not need to know. What they had for breakfast (I could practically taste the garlic); whether or not they used deodorant (alas, not enough); their favorite tunes (the headphones might have cancelled noise for them, but not their for us).

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Brunch was brilliant

Joyce was jubilant

I hugged my boy goodbye

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And the dreaded journey rewound. The unmasked masses, fresh from their outings, flooded the subway heading uptown to Grand Central and points beyond. Where were all these people going and why did they have to be on my train?

The just-in-time-theory and long line at Zabar’s prevented me from procuring my favorite and nutritionally void post NYC outbound treat: a hot pretzel and refreshing Diet Coke. I had eight minutes to make the 5:35, or I’d have to languish in the terminal until 6:02. My achy new hip and I hobbled to the front of the train, bedraggled and dehydrated, with blood sugar dipping. At least I’d not need to pee on the way home in the stomach-churningly gross on board facilities.

History repeated itself by again granting me the last open seat in the first group of seating for six. I squished in with and apologized to the family of six who had just seen & Juliet for usurping the legroom of their posse members opposite me. The no-nonsense conductor patrolled the aisles, admonishing selfish riders for plonking pets, parkas, and other paraphernalia on the seats meant for people. The suburban family reflected loudly, albeit inoffensively, about their day. The conspirators across from and behind us, however, made up for their courtesy. Two moms dressed in pajamas, fluffy housecoats, and hairclips spent the bulk of the trip handing out copious amounts of sugary candy and loud admonishments to their similarly-clad but notably louder brood of what seemed like dozens of children.

Dubai chocolate, Sour Patch Kids, and myriad beverages passed back and forth and over and around us. The kids, perhaps in preparation for their upcoming Cirque du Soleil auditions, practiced gymnastics in the aisles. The mom across from me balanced a rectangular pizza box on her overstuffed canvas tote bag on her lap and overstuffed her face with hot, gooey, dripping tomato sauce and cheese on wilting dough. Steam and aromas rose every time she cracked the lid to extract another slice. Grease found its way onto her fluffy coat and cottony pants in the absence of napkins. The least she could have done was to offer me a piece; she polished off the remains of the pie herself, and then plowed through a plastic bin of peanut butter-filled pretzel nuggets. I wanted to puke.

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I had to pee

I was famished

I placed an order for takeaway

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This game’s stakes are high: Either I stand up to my mild dislike of other people and general dread of noise, crowds, germs, and odors (especially when amassed together for extended periods of time) in order to participate in joy, or sit down in my home, the illusory defense of isolation heading only toward sterile and lonely agoraphobia. I will choose to put my money on managing my discomfort every time for the potential payout of enjoying life.