A Highly Scientific Study

One of my first experiences with courtesy in New York occurred the summer before last, roughly a year before I moved to the city. George, the wife, and I were all on a car, and I was trying to juggle the baby, the stroller, and myself, all while dealing with the rocking of the train. An older Jewish woman, seeing my difficulty, offered me her seat. Obviously, I couldn’t take this lady’s seat, but she insisted. Searching for an out, I tried to get my dear wife to take the kid and sit down, but she smirkingly decided that she really felt like standing. Torn between exhaustion and courtesy, I glared at my beloved as I took the Jewish lady’s seat. I felt like a total heel.

I’ve since learned to get over it. There is a clearly-defined hierarchy for seating on the subway and, as a healthy male in his mid-thirties, I am definitely at the bottom of it. On those rare occasions that I get to sit down, I almost inevitably find myself getting glared at by all the people in the area. It’s not a pleasant sensation. Luckily, I always pack a book.

There is, however, a loophole: when I am carrying my daughter, I shoot right up to the top of the seating list, just below pregnant women, people who are near death, and ladies who are carrying their kids. This doesn’t mean that people will give me their seats; as with so many other things, possession is nine-tenths of the law, and people are loath to give up a seat to a healthy white guy. That having been said, I’m surprised at how often George snags me a seat. Best of all, when I’m carrying her, I can sit down without getting glared at by everyone in my vicinity.

I have also discovered that there is a definite hierarchy of the giving. In other words, some people gladly give up their seats, while others refuse to budge under any circumstances. I have also found that this hierarchy breaks down into clear gender and ethnicity lines. Here are the results of my exhaustive six-month study:

I am ashamed to say that, generally speaking, the rudest group is white males. Not only do they not hesitate to push people out of their way to grab seats, but they don’t actually seem to even see the people that they are shoving. It’s kind of embarrassing to watch. I will also point out that, in my effort to elevate la raza, I try to give up my seat if I see anyone who needs it more than I do. I am not alone in this; I find that white males in their early thirties, particularly those who wear sweaters, not suits, often seem willing to give up their seats.

The best group, far and away, is Hispanic males. Regardless of age, these guys tend to hop up at the slightest hint of need. A little taciturn, they seem to become almost gallant when it comes to helping out people in trouble. In fact, my friend Joey, a self-described Nuyorican, has told me that he never sits down on the subway, as he always ends up giving his seat away, and the bouncing up and down is hard on his knees.

Another great group is Black males, particularly ones in their teens and early twenties. I remember the first time that my wife experienced their extreme subway courtesy. She called me that evening to tell me that some thuggish guys in gangsta clothes had given her a seat. Later, she reported, another group of young men cleared the crowd on the icy stairs and helped her carry my daughter’s baby stroller out of the station. I was blown away at the time, but have since come to realize that these guys are just amazingly courteous. Also, they tend to be more talkative than the Hispanic guys.

After white men, the second rudest group is black women. With younger black women, it's pretty simple: they stubbornly refuse to give up a seat, no matter how badly another person seems to need it. Older black women, on the other hand, tend to be downright shameless about it. Even when I’m clearly holding Georgia, if I'm sitting down, I have to endure the angry stares of women who are standing. Sometimes, they’ll even glare at me after they sit down, as if they're holding a grudge. It can get a little disconcerting.

The rest of the subway riders are all somewhat mediocre. Asian men rarely give up seats, but they have neither the angry defiance of black women nor the aloof snottiness of white men. Frankly, I think they’re just totally clueless. The same goes for Arabic men, who often seem inclined to stretch out over three or four seats. White and Hispanic women are pretty good, and will sometimes give up a seat. Older Jewish women, of course, are outstanding, even if they are inclined to humiliate you into sitting down.

Oy veh.

Beggars and Buskers, Musicians and Thieves, Part III

The Stand-Up Guy

I'm sitting on the two train on my way to pick up Georgia from daycare. The car is full, but not stuffed, and I've got room to read my book, so I zone out. Suddently, I hear a couple of guitars, a concertina and some familiar words:

AY YI YI YI
Canta y no llores
Seben y crecen..."

It's the Mariachis.

Clad in jeans and straw hats, the Mariachis sometimes show up on the one, two, and three trains, and I usually bump into them in Harlem. They play a bunch of Mariachi classics, which I only know by sound, and one of them collects money in his guitar. I'm a pretty soft touch for the Mariachis, not only because I like loud Mexican music, but also because they are usually a welcome surprise on the train.

The Mariachis are part of the ongoing entertainment that runs on the trains. There are basically two types of acts: musical and vaudeville. My other favorite mobile musical act is the Drum Player. He is a black guy with dreads and a beard who claims that his day job is teaching elementary school. I sometimes see him on the four train. He carries a couple of African drums with him, which he plays with consummate skill.

There's one other act that I like a lot, but I only saw them once. They were three older homeless guys who performed a nice Doo Wop routine. I heard them at the end of their set, as they finished up, parted ways, and agreed to meet together the next day. I never saw them again.

The Vaudeville acts are pretty awesome, too. There's the tumblers and dancers, who are usually younger guys and kids. The tumblers do cartwheels and other feats, which are pretty impressive on a moving train. The dancers do breakdance routines, which, again, are amazing, given that they're trying to do their thing as the stops and starts and bounces along.

There's also a ratty magician who plies his trade on the four train. He has a moth-eaten red coat and top hat, but I think that the low-rent look is part of his act. He does some classic stage magic involving making doves disappear and reappear in inappropriate places, and the combination of his patter, his appearance, and his birds usually creeps out a few of the other riders. He plays into this by choosing one of the more skittish passengers as his unwilling assistant. This poor shmuck usually ends up uncovering a live dove or having a ball bounce surprisingly. It's a lot of fun, and I often give him a little cash.

Far and away, my favorite performer on the subway Vaudeville circuit is the Stand-Up comedian. Based on this guy's layered, dusty look, I'd say that he's homeless, and when he gets on the car, everybody tends to avoid him. He, of course, usually opens his routine with the standard "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN..." However, instead of giving a list of his miseries, he wanders through the train giving a Henny Youngman style act, in which he complains about his fat wife, who eats all his food. I remember one day when I was on the train and was seated just a bit down from a generously-sized matronly Puerto Rican lady. By the sour look on her face, I figured that she'd be a really hard touch. She and I looked at each other, and I could see her desperately trying not to laugh, as if she knew that laughing would give away the whole game, and she'd have to cough up a buck or two. By the end of the ride, she had broken down and was reaching for her pocketbook. I gave him a buck, too.

The best thing about the Stand-Up Guy is that he doesn't need any special skills. He can't play an instrument, and he can't tumble. He doesn't know magic, and he probably isn't a great dancer. His routine is so old that my grandfather was probably laughing to it, and it's been the exact same every time I've seen the Stand Up Guy. Yet, every time I've found myself laughing uncontrollably as I hand over my cash.

Beggars and Buskers, Musicians and Thieves, Part I

The Fighting Irishman

One night, I had to take the four train into lower Manhattan to go to a party. At my stop, Kingsbridge, the four is elevated, and as I walked up the clattering metal steps, I noticed the guy in front of me. He was blond-haired and ruddy, about 5'6", with a backwards-facing Yankees baseball cap, baggy pants, and a baseball shirt. As he swaggered up the steps, he carried a cane in his left hand and swung it in slow, lazy circles.

When we get to the platform, he staked out a spot on the southern end, and I made a beeline in the opposite direction. He seemed oddly familiar, and his aggressive stance and jaunty motions made me nervous. He was pacing back and forth, the cane swinging in the air like it was eager to hit something. I wasn't interested in getting in a fight, and this guy was spoiling for one.

He started to wander up and down the platform, full of nervous energy. When the train came, he went into the car ahead of mine. I relaxed and started reading my book. At the next stop, he walked into my car. As the doors closed, I remembered where I had seen him. He was a beggar, and the four train was his regular prowling ground.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,PLEASE EXCUSE ME FOR BOTHERING YOU" he began, speaking in a tone that I had long since come to associate with subway beggars. It was a disappointed monotone, the sort of voice that an Assistant Principal uses. "I AM SORRY TO BOTHER YOU TODAY, BUT I NEED TO ASK FOR YOUR SUPPORT. AS YOU CAN SEE, I AM GETTING OVER AN INJURY..." The cane, which he had been swinging previously, now supported him as he lurched from one end of the train to the other, favoring his right foot. "I ALSO WAS RECENTLY RELEASED FROM PRISON. I AM NOT HURTING ANYBODY OR COMMITTING ANY CRIMES, BUT I NEED SOME MONEY TO GET BACK ON MY FEET..."

We had all seen him on the platform. At this time of night, there were only about twenty people in the car, and about half of them got on Kingsbridge. We'd all watched him prowling around at Kingsbridge. We all knew that he could walk perfectly well. We all knew that this wasn't begging as much as it was a threat.

At this point, the train pulled into a station and he positioned himself in the middle of the doorway, shoulders broad, facing into the train and daring passengers to squeeze past him. After the train started moving again, he continued his spiel. I zoned him out, and tried to lose myself in my book, although I kept one eye alert as he wandered back and forth in the car, yelling at his fellow passengers, demanding money. Like everybody else, I kept my eyes off his face. I looked at my book, or the windows of the car, the ads, the ceiling, anywhere but this guy. I didn't want to look him in the eye. It's not that I was afraid of feeling pity, or didn't want to see the face of need. To put it simply, this guy gave me the creeps, and I was afraid that, if I looked him in the eye, I'd end up getting in a fight.

I have a name for this one: the Fighting Irishman. He's like an angry, psychotic little James Cagney, and his begging patter has more than a little threat in it. He's a healthy kid, well-muscled and well-fed, with a recent haircut and clean clothes. He seems to enjoy working the cars. Our silence, our refusal to look him in the eye, fuels him. He's not a beggar; he's a minister. He's John Edwards, prowling around his moving pulpit, exhorting his unwilling, weak congregation. He knows he's got us, at least until the train pulls into the station. He glares around the car, letting us know that a buck or two will keep him from going back to the streets, where might just meet him down a darkened alley. Sooner or later, we're going to cough up the dough...

On a long four ride, I can usually count on seeing the Fighting Irishman a couple of times. He moves up and down from car to car, switching at stations or going through the doors at the end while the train hurtles down the track. One day, when I was in the second to last car, he hit us up once, disappeared for two stops, and came back again. Each time, he went through the same spiel, acting as if he hadn't bugged us just a few minutes earlier. As if we were total strangers, a fresh audience for his routine.

I don't give the Fighting Irishman any money. I'll sometimes give out a little change, but I'm pretty particular, and the aggressive, in-your-face beggars don't get any of my cash. The Irishman's patter is familiar, because I hear it a few times a week. I've heard it from dozens of beggars, with surprisingly few variations. It's as if they're all working from the same script, and I sometimes feel like its an audition. Sometimes there will be a sick mother at home, and sometimes there will be a few kids thrown into the mix, but most of the time it's a simple, veiled threat: I'm an ex con with an injury. I can't work, and I'm trying to stay off the streets. Give me your money now or give me your money later, one way or another, you're going to give me your money...

Service Changes

Looking at this image, one might imagine that it's a postmodern interpretation of a bowl of spaghetti, or perhaps a flowchart representing a baboon's thought processes. Maybe it's an outline of the capillaries in one's pancreas, or maybe it's the circuit board on one of those new Japanese vibrators, the ones that simutaneously tittillate and download the latest top 40 hits.

It's hard to imagine that this seemingly random hodgepodge of lines and dots could possibly be intended to convey information, much less direct a confused traveler on the best route between two points. However, that's exactly what this image is intended to do. You see, this is the famous New York City MTA map. Personally, I'm starting to be convinced that this map is designed to obscure the fact that, using the subway, it takes almost half an hour for my wife to travel the two or three miles between our home and her work. What's even more telling is that my wife often brags about the brevity and speed of her commute.

I'm not going to comment on the weirdness of the subway, or the byzantine set of rules and favors that underlay its almost fractal structure. No, that's well-trodden territory, and I am taking a pass. More to the point, I still don't really understand the beast, so I'm taking the wise route out and letting it lie.

One thing I have noticed is the havok that a rainstorm can wreak on an apparently stable and well-ordered system. Recently, my wife has regaled me with tales of the disastrous service she's had to endure. Apparently, the horrifying weather has flooded many of the tunnels, so the city has been shutting down subway lines at a moment's notice, re-routing trains, making local lines express and express lines local, and generally making life a lot more exciting. In a bad way.

At any rate, she sent me this piece on subway lines in New York. Anyone who has ever found himself or herself sitting in a car in massive traffic because of road work should be able to relate. If you live in the city...well, it isn't really a joke, is it?

MTA New York City Transit

Service Alert

Posted on:8/8/2007 4:27:05 PM

Due to a single droplet of water falling from the sky mistaken for rain that was actually condensation from an air conditioner in a 17th floor apartment, there are delays on the following subway lines:

1 trains are running between 14th Street and 18th Street in both directions.

2 and 3 uptown trains will terminate at 96th Street, as they are afraid to go into Harlem.

4, 5, and 6 trains will be making two loops around Central Park before getting you to your destination, because they need some fresh air.

7 trains are enjoying a hot dog and beer at Willets Point-Shea Stadium and will resume normal operation once the game is over.

A, B, C and D trains are not running at all, because they really just don’t have time for your crap today.

E trains are running express in Manhattan, enjoying the nice cool breeze they get from going 30 miles an hour.

F and V trains are stuck in some neighborhood in Queens that you’ve never heard of.

G trains are currently experiencing an inferiority complex and will not run until further notice/counseling.

J, M, and Z trains are running normally, of course, since nobody ever uses these trains.

L trains are running between Princeton Junction and Hoboken. We really can’t explain how they ended up there.

N and Q trains are currently running on the Cyclone track at Coney Island-Stillwell Ave.

R and W trains are feeling nostalgic right now, and are currently running over the Brooklyn Bridge.

S service is suspended between Times Square-42nd Street and Grand Central-42nd Street. You can just walk. You do have legs, don’t you?

We would apologize for the inconvenience, but we like to watch you suffer. Thank you for riding with MTA New York City Transit!

Uncommon Courtesy

For some reason or another, I've always viewed the South as the last repository of good manners. Perhaps this is because the South prides itself on its manners, or maybe it's because of the long pedigree that manners seem to have in the literature of the South. Maybe it's just because everybody just talks more slowly down here. However, recent events have convinced me that the time has come for the South, or at least my little corner of it, to surrender the mantle. The time has come to admit that the South is peopled with intolerant, immature, agressive louts.


From South Cacalacky to Silver Beach
A few years ago, my then-girlfriend Angela and I visited her mother, father, and great-aunt in South Carolina. As soon as I entered the house, Angela's mom had me in a chair and was shoveling food in my mouth. Seriously, the whole operation was creepily reminiscent of Lawrence Olivier in Marathon Man. She started off with leftovers from breakfast; within an hour, she was force-feeding me food that had been in the freezer since the Nixon administration. During the seven days (and twenty pounds) that I stayed with Angela's family, Angela's mom rarely gave me a moment's respite. I was eating constantly, and not always willingly. I also noticed that every time I stepped into a room, Angela's mom would offer me a seat. I appreciated this a lot until I realized that Mrs. H refused to let me stand up.

Later that same summer, we visited my friend Billy's parents on Cape Cod. Now, Billy's mom is old-school Boston Irish, which means that she was half in the bag by the time we got to her house at 6 PM. Glaring at me through an alcoholic haze, she snarled "Siddown!"

I complied.

She gave me the evil eye. "Ya want some blueberry pie?" she sneered.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"With ice cream?"

"Yes, ma'am." She practically threw it at me.

I ate it quietly and quickly--blueberry pie is among the many culinary delights of the Cape, and is almost always amazing. When she noticed my empty plate, Mrs. C practically yelled at me: "You want more?"

I smiled. "Yes, please."

She refilled my plate and slid it over.

After this interaction, I assumed that I had somehow pissed Mrs. C off, or that I just brought out the demon in her. However, when I saw Billy two days later, he told me that his mom had asked after me, and was wondering when I would be coming back. I told him that I thought I had pissed her off. Billy gave me a funny look, replying, "No, she really liked you. A lot."

Thinking about it later, I realized that Angela and Billy's moms were actually not all that different. Although Mrs. H was charming, there was never the slightest question that her gently-worded offers were, in fact, orders. On the other side, for all her brusqueness, Mrs. C took it upon herself to see that I was fed and well cared for while I was under her roof. Based on this summer, I started to reconsider my concepts of courtesy.


Remember My New River Valley
One would think that the halcyon vales of the New River Valley would be a haven for polite, kind folk. Miles from any city, far from the madding crowd, it would seem the perfect setting for genteel manners. One would imagine the local gentry, tipping their John Deere caps to each other as they pick up their Skoal and Big Macs.

One would be wrong.

I believe in holding the door when somebody is nearing an entrance at the same time as me. I know that this is old-fashioned, but I was taught to be courteous, and some of my mother's lessons stuck with me. As an inveterate door-holder, I have grown accustomed to the rude looks and sneers of the people I courteously allow to pass ahead of me. My wife, on the other hand, lacks my sanguine, relaxed sense of justice. One day, she was holding a door for someone at the library. As the woman passed through, she made the mistake of giving my wife a sneering look of superiority. Bad move.

My wife hauled back and slammed the door into the woman's ass. As the offending shrew went sprawling, my wife yelled "Next time, say 'thank you,' bitch!"

My wife is the coolest person ever.


Road Warrior
About a month ago, I was driving up interstate 81 into Roanoke with my sister and daughter. Two people ahead of me, a SUV and a Hooter's delivery van, were in a rolling roadblock. Both were going about 60, which was five miles below the posted speed limit. I was about one car length behind the Hooters van, and I flicked my lights to indicate that I wanted him to pass or get out of my way. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a white van slid into the tiny space between the Hooter's van and my car, nearly running me off the road. After I caught my breath, I laid on the horn for about fifteen seconds. The guy in the white van slowed down to fifty miles an hour. For the thirty minutes remaining in my trip, I tried to pass the white van. He would let others pass, then would slide ahead of me. There were times when he careened across four lanes of traffic to cut me off. I started to wonder if I was going to make it to my destination alive. One exit before I had to get off, I pretended to pull off, and the white van veered ahead of me. Once he was firmly inside the exit lane, I swerved back onto the highway. As I drove away, he flipped me the bird and shook his fist out his window.


New York
This last summer, my wife, my daughter, and I wandered around New York together. Oddly enough, we found that New Yorkers were almost insanely courteous. Our previous experiences had taught us that, while New York was generally not as aggressive as its reputation would suggest, it was still far from polite. This summer, however, we found that it had an almost Jane Austen level gentility. Everywhere we went, people opened doors, held elevators, and gave us smiles. The final straw was when I was on a subway and a Jewish lady in her seventies offered me her seat. I didn't want to be the shmuck who took an old lady's seat, so I tried to pass George to my wife. Smiling, she said "No, I'll stand."

I stared daggers at the love of my life. "No, really, honey, you look tired. Have George and sit down."

She smiled sweetly. "No, I need to stretch anyway. You sit."

The yenta tapped my arm. "Sonny, really, sit down."

I tried to save the last shreds of my dignity. "Really, ma'am, I appreciate it, but I'm fine."

"Of course you are. Come on, sit, sit!"

There was no way out of this. Feeling like the biggest asshole on the face of the earth, I took the old lady's seat. We talked for the rest of the ride, and she told me that she remembered how hard it was to juggle kids and bags on the subway.

Of course, I know that people were only nice to us because we were carrying a cute kid, but this isn't the first time that I've noticed that people in New York are surprisingly kind to each other. After a few days of this treatment, the rudeness of Southwest Virginia was an unpleasant shock.

I'm not sure what's going on with courtesy, or why our daily lives have become a Mad Max in Thunderdome foray into barbarism, but I'm getting a little sick of the rudeness around me. Maybe I have to take lessons from my wife.