Subway Meditation 1

The sixth avenue subway line. The F line. F for Freaks. F for Fucks. When I was little, I used to extend my hand in the arriving train’s path to high five it. The train almost always grazed my middle finger like dusty little kisses. Kiss, break, kiss, break, kiss, break. When I did it last week, the wind blew my hand back. I missed it. Today, this train is empty for a Thursday afternoon.

F for Forgotten. No one in their right mind rides this train. It’s old. These trains still have the intercom for the conductors. They still have conductors! The intercom drones on in a raspy tone. It reminds me of a Strokes song.

I saw a guy commit suicide on this line once. He was a business guy dressed in a mediocre suit that looked like his wife got it for him on sale at Macy’s as a reconciliation gift for fucking his eventual replacement at work. He looked like the typical middle-aged white guy who hated his job and was too pussy to do anything about it, until he killed himself. He didn’t do the old fashioned “fall” into the track and smile as the track sliced him. He cautiously lowered himself onto the track and opened his arms wide, as if he was going to give the train a bear hug. The train pushed him for a few seconds, and then he went under. The screeching covered up any slicing or screaming.

 If I were to kill myself, I would probably use the subway. It would be very New York of me. I don’t think I would jump right before the train passed by. As soon as I saw the train enter the station, I would do an epic dive to the third rail and fry my brains out before the train had its way with me. I wanna feel the current slither down my arms to my core, down to my legs and thrill me to death. I want the hum of electricity cruising through my watery veins like ohm. My last thought would be a prayer to God to bring me back to life just before the train runs me over, just so I could die twice and experience the mass cutting me like knife through butter, to see how something so valuable turns out to be worthless under a twenty ton machine. Every man, woman, child of any race, culture and weight can die just as easily under a million dollar piece of metal.  That’s equality.

I’m just an aimless traveler. Maybe I’ll ride this train to Jamaica for the hell of it. Right now, I’m in the former Lower East Side. LoHo, or one of the other ‘ho’s. I don’t get it. You can call a piece of shit gold, but it will still be a piece of shit, like this station, Second Avenue. The conductor has an impediment that adds the last letter on the next word. “Thi si secon davenue. Pleas estan dclea ro fth eclosin gdorrs” Fucking idiot.

You can see water rust corrode the old sign indicating that you are currently in hellHo.

I’m not feeling suicidal today, just reminiscent. This train is empty. There are just colored seats. Orange orange orange orange yellow! Thank God it’s empty. The air conditioning flows better. Try getting a cool breeze on the fucking six train during rush hour. Packed like sardines. It’s funny how no one objects to invasive personal space when everyone’s personal space is violated. When it’s packed, you don’t get touched, you just feel pressure, like dead weight is on you. The response is to put pressure on the other person, like fighting fire with fire.

You can get touched on the subway. I remember my ex and I coming back from a movie on the six train filled to the tetas. We got on at 14th street going downtown. We were pressed against the door. She gives me a full hug and pressures me against the door. Her breasts smother me. She puts her head on my shoulder and bites it. Hard. No one around me reacts. That’s what I love about New York, public solitude. She puts her head to my ear and whispers te quiero. Then she lowers her hands and grabs my ass. This girl was five inches shorter than me, but she almost lifts me up. About a minute later, she takes her right hand off my ass and grabs the bulge in my pants. No one turns a head. That was the greatest pressure I’ve ever experienced. Fucking bitch.

I like this empty train. My curses get to echo. If I ignore the screeching, I hear the universe like Ohm. I like grabbing the subway pole and exchanging hot for cold. Best thing about this line is that no terrorist would blow it up. No one gives a fuck about anybody on the F line. Bloomberg takes the six. The Lexington Avenue line trains take more people in a day than every other transit system in the country does put together. They wanna blow up the stockbrokers, the hipsters, the whites, Yankees fans and Grand Central. After 86th street and before Houston Street, the terrorists don’t give a shit. They couldn’t give a flying fuck about this schmuck, this Duracell battery selling black man. He smells like subway. As soon as this guy comes out of the train, he drops his African accent. Fucking genius. Terrorists could easily attack the subway. I just think that they don’t like the pressure of the four, five, or six trains. Right here is where it’s at. I meditate on life like Ohm.

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