Muddled Messages

As corrupt, confused and simply incompetent as the MTA continues to be, I still love the subways. The system as a whole remains one of the most intriguing and unfailingly entertaining elements of life in New York. After all these years, whenever I hear the rattle of an oncoming train or catch a glint of light in the distant tunnel darkness, I still get a little excited.

Sometimes, though, I have to wonder when the MTA will finally kill it for me. They seem to be trying awfully hard.

It was a Tuesday, and the F train was pulling away as I was walking down the many stairs that led to Broadway Lafayette's downtown tunnel. From the looks of the last car, there wouldn't have been room for me anyway, and as it stood now, the platform was empty. That was good.

It was a tricky time of day to be riding the trains-the beginning of the tail end of rush hour. It was all a matter of timing. If there was another train directly behind this one-as there so often was-I'd be able to ride in peace and comfort in a near-empty car. Another two or three minutes, though, and I didn't have a chance.

Those two or three minutes passed, and the downtown platform began to fill again and smolder as the milling bodies each added their own to the heat already trapped in the tunnel, all of it pulsing against the fever-not deadly, but certainly irksome-I'd been fighting owing to some illness or another.

I found myself a pole and leaned.

A few minutes later I glanced a splash of sharp light against a far tunnel wall. As the train drew closer, I could see that it was a V. Fuck the V. It stopped, the doors opened and a few people got on. This always confused me a little-the train's only going one more stop, and it wasn't that far away. Why not just walk? It'd be quicker.

Two minutes after it pulled out, another V came through. The crowd on the platform continued to swell, and the temperature-both mine and the platform's-continued to climb.

Then a woman's voice-strange, I thought, how it seems to be the same voice at nearly every station-came over the PA.

"After an incident at 53rd Street," she said, "Brooklyn-bound F and V as in Victor trains are running on the G line."

Well, that was just odd, given that the V was still clearly on its same old route. Still, it didn't bode well. I began to concoct an alternate plan.

Another V showed up. On the express track, Bs and Ds were zipping into the station with frustrating regularity. Not much of anyone was boarding them, but plenty of people were stepping off, adding to the mess. I continued to lean and sweat.

Someone asked the conductor of the still-idling V if the F was running.

"Yeah, it's running," he said. "Just a signal problem. It'll be along shortly."

He pulled away, and the woman in command of the microphone made that "G line" announcement again.

As the next V was rolling in moments later, a short, squat woman with sagging cheeks and confused eyes stepped up and asked me, "Is this train going to Delancey?"

"Yeah."

"No," I said. "But it'll get you one stop closer than you are now, which is better than standing here, I guess." Mostly it was a ploy to coax at least one body off the platform.

It didn't work. She returned to her spot against the wall and stayed.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the PA crackled again. "A Brooklyn-bound D-delta train has pulled into the West 4th Street Station on the lower level, and will be running on the F line."

So now the F was running on the G, the D was running on the F, and the V, well, that didn't seem to be bothered much. Goddamn useless train.

With news of the imminent D, all the bodies around me began to squeeze together toward the edge of the platform in anticipation.

"Oh, you fuckers," I thought. "You silly, stupid fuckers." You'd think they'd know by now what kind of shape the D was going to be in when it showed up. But no.

They're like dogs sometimes.

I stood my ground and waited patiently.

"After an earlier incident," the voice above us said, "the F and B trains are running on the A line from West 4th to Stillwell Avenue?"

That didn't even make any sense. I realize that keeping the trains running in the face of unexpected mechanical problems and dead passengers is a monumental task-one far beyond my feeble imagination-but after more than a century, you'd think the MTA would be able to figure out a few standard contingency plans and communicate them clearly-not only to us, but to their own employees, who seemed to be as much in the dark as we were.

Well, by that time I was in no mood to switch over and go back to West 4th. It probably wouldn't do me any good anyway. If I'm not in a terrible rush someplace-and I rarely am-I have no trouble waiting. I've let five or six trains come and go in the past; there's always a half-empty one somewhere back on the line.

The light splashed against the tiled wall again, and a moment later, the D hissed to a stop. Inside, people were already squeezed together and up against the doors like sweaty canned tomatoes. There was no room at all. Still the poor souls on the platform did what they could, pulling and scratching to make room.

I watched the squat woman who just wanted to get to Delancey hover in front of the open doors, weighing the possibility. She kept shooting frantic glances toward me until she saw that I wasn't making the slightest move to board the train. After a moment, as more people shoved and kicked their way inside, pressing themselves up against strangers, trying to make sure they were officially inside, she took a step back again. The doors inched shut and the train groaned on.

The squat woman looked like she was going to cry.

There was another announcement that the F really was running on the A line, and some of those people who hadn't made it onto the D finally relented and began trudging up the stairs to cross over to the uptown side.

I began to wonder if it was time to relent and consider a change in plans, no matter how much the idea revolted me. By this time, after all, I had no real idea what trains were running on what lines. I was sweating bad, and the stink was starting to get to me. I could always just walk a couple blocks and grab an R simple as pie. I'd done it before. But still, something in my head was telling me that if they're switching routes around so quickly this way, it wouldn't be long before they got it right, and everything was back in place again.

Another V pulled in, and a woman behind me asked this conductor what he thought she should do.

"Cross over," he said. "Go back to West 4th."

Most of those who were still on the platform did just that. I looked around for the squat, fretful woman and couldn't find her. I'd guessed that she'd joined them. Of course if she had, the joke was on her-she'd end up even further away from Delancey than if she'd just taken the V. Silly cow.

I was almost alone on the platform once more. Again the voice came over the PA: "After an earlier incident, the F and B trains are-"

"It's the B now?" I thought, but the announcement was cut short. I wasn't sure if she'd been interrupted, or was simply making an ontological statement. As I stood there against my pillar trying to decide, I saw another light crawling along the wall. I paid little attention this time. Seemed no point in it.

A moment later I saw it was an F, which had apparently snuck under the radar somehow. Better still, I saw a lot of orange flashing through the passing windows.

It stopped, and I was still expecting it to be a cruel joke when the doors opened.

It may not have been completely empty, but it was plenty empty enough. I stepped aboard and took a seat. I could feel the sweat begin to cool.

"Patience," I thought, as the train began jerking toward Brooklyn. "Silly fuckers got no patience."