There are some things you can’t help but hate about New York, mainly rush hour on the subway. In fact, most of the things I dislike about this city revolve around the subway. (L train not running over the weekend? G trains running shuttles all weekend? Come on now.) Tonight should’ve, in theory, been one of the worst train rides of all time. However, it wound up being exactly the opposite.
I leave work around 6:30 this evening, figuring I’ll get home somewhere around 7:20. I wait at Columbus Circle for about fifteen minutes, which is an unusually long wait for an A/C train, especially during rush hour. Eventually they announce that all C trains have been suspended, and A trains are running local. Slightly put out, I continue to wait. However, I’m slightly appeased when the train pulls in and is completely empty. I grab a seat, turn on my music, and attempt to tune out everyone else.
This, however, proves to be impossible. Our conductor is essentially shouting into the speaker, trying to explain what’s going on with the trains. Then comes the “Please stand clear of the closing doors.” Except the doors don’t close. Instead, the conductor leaves them open and waits for the next train to pull into the station. The people frantically run across the platform and cram into our train (to the point that people are literally on top of each other — someone put their purse in my lap), and then the doors seal us in. (This repeats at every. Freaking. Station.)
We then proceed to travel at a snail’s pace. It doesn’t take long before people start complaining. Between 59th and 50th streets, the whiners have broken out. And I can’t even be mad because there’s a drag queen in full regalia sitting two seats away from me and bitching like there’s no tomorrow. I wish I could’ve filmed the entire thing, because it was probably the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. DQ (which is what I’m going to call our favorite drag queen from here on out) continues to ramble about our conductor the entire way home, spewing such lovely sentiments as:
“I hope he gets hit by a car. I really do.”
“This dumbass motherfucker. He be talkin’ to us like we ten kinds of retarded.”
“Is he Puerto Rican? He sounds Puerto Rican. And honey, I’m Puerto Rican, and I’m about ready to slap him.”
“Now I know why these dumbass train conductors be gettin’ slapped all the damn time. They can’t drive a fucking train! Next time I see one stick their head out the window, Imma slap ’em.”
Keep in mind I’m just repeating, but me and the rest of the train couldn’t stop laughing. DQ was waving fingers, and flipping hair, and miming slapping people, and it was absolutely priceless.
Eventually I had to get off and transfer, and the train was so packed that someone outside the car literally had to grab me and pull me through the crowd because nobody was moving. Sardines in a can has never been more appropriate. And yet I couldn’t stop smiling. DQ waved and blew me a kiss, and I still have it saved in my pocket.
So it took me twice as long to get home as it usually would — so what? So I ended up skipping a trip to Target. Big deal. I can get throw pillows another day. I can’t, however, expect to sit beside the bitchiest, most delightful drag queen of all time every evening. My only regret was failing to find out where DQ was performing. Because I’d totally go to that show.
And to spread the cheer, I’m leaving you with some quality 90s music. They played cheesy dance beats between acts at the Two Door Cinema Club concert last week, and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since.