Guy #1: So then I'll transfer to the D.

Guy # 2: Don't do it. That D train will fuck you over every time, man.

Homage to Overheard in New York, a favorite eavesdropping website of almost everyone I know. It has snippets of conversation submitted by readers who overheard them on the street, or in the elevator, or more often than not, in the subway. As Lawrence Block wrote, "You don't often overhear a lot of interesting things when you're driving around in your car. Overheard in Los Angeles? No, I don't think so."

Jacquelin Cangro

I'm having an uneventful train ride home. Peaceful, even. I cross the platform at Chambers Street to a waiting 2 train. The doors close and a man from the opposite end of the train car shouts, "REPENT!"

What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a subway preacher.

The subway preacher is a unique type of busker. He's not trying to entertain you like the strolling mariachi band or the guy who plays Big Band-Era hits on his horn. Nor is he pleading his sad story in a bold-faced attempt to get donations. No, no. The subway preacher is simply sharing information which is, to be direct about it, that you're going to hell.

On this evening, my subway preacher is a fire-and-brimstone type sporting a thick Jamaican accent. Since it seems that I'm stuck in a traveling pulpit, for the subway preacher does not change cars at each new stop like the musicians, I figure I'll make the best of it.

"The answer is not in your fancy house or your fancy purse or your fancy car. No, mon. The answer is not in any of those things."

He seems to be saying that we place too much importance on material things. That's something I can get on board with, but then he crosses the proverbial line in the sand.

"You think you can listen to the devil all your life and then follow God to the kingdom of heaven? No, mon. It doesn't work like that. Let me tell you how it works. You will all go to hell. You have to break free of your devilish ways. Tell that demon inside you: "You are not welcome here anymore.' Repent, earthly children, REPENT!"

Um…

"God made Eve for Adam. He didn't make Adam for Adam. That's the devil taking up in you."

And because New Yorkers can't keep their mouths shut, a woman protests about this recent comment. The preacher rains a barrage of Bible quotes down upon her. This scene reminds me of a woman affectionately known to F train riders as the Chinese curses lady.

The Chinese curses lady, who eerily resembled Yoko Ono in her giant glasses phase, had one big pet peeve. She did not like anyone to talk on the train. The subject matter wasn't important.

"So, I heard it's going to rain later today."

"One hundred curses on you," said Chinese curses lady. "You call the Chinese name from the devil? One hundred curses!"

Inevitably the offending person would glance her way, realize the lady's elevator was not rising to the top floor, and continue the conversation. "I forgot to bring my umbrella and I have to go way uptown."

"Five hundred curses on you," said Chinese curses lady.

I've seen people move to another part of the train car to get away from her, but she would not be deterred. She would simply follow them, sending curses their way the whole time. For months, I'd traveled unscathed until one day I made the mistake of talking to a friend before I realized she was there. From behind me, her voice boomed, "One thousand curses on you." Whoa. That's a lot of curses. Don't we usually start at 100?

My friend began talking, oblivious to the blight now on our auras.

"One million curses on you." That's some bad ju-ju.

Meanwhile the subway preacher continues railing, having moved deftly from homosexuals to George Bush — the transition easier than one might think. I alight at Grand Army Plaza while he still has the devil on his mind.

Jacquelin Cangro

The homeless man who spends his mornings on the platform at Grand Army Plaza is back after a long absence. (See "So easy. You just smile, okay?" post.) He showed up a few days ago, sporting a new knit cap. I found him carefully pouring most of a 5 lb. bag of sugar into a bottle of orange soda. His cart was intact and contained more or less the same things when I last saw him weeks ago.

I was relieved to see him and comforted to know that he had not been victimized while he was away. Every morning that he'd been gone, I'd thrown out some positive vibes for his safe return, but then I realized that instead maybe I should have been hoping to never see him again, that he would find a way out of his current situation and into a better life. Is that egotistical of me to presume that one way of life is better than another? He could be perfectly happy in his current situation, surviving on the kindness of strangers, unencumbered by the traps of society.

Many people might look at my existence and assume something similar — "How does she live in a 600-square-foot apartment in a fifth-floor walk-up? I hope that someday she can move up to a big house with a fenced yard." While that would be very nice, I'm actually happy in my tiny apartment, thank you very much.

I'm starting to rethink the notion that "more" means "better." Maybe instead of hoping that the guy at Grand Army Plaza gets what I want for him, he should get whatever it is he wants for himself.

Later that evening, I was returning home after walking my dog around the neighborhood. An elderly woman came out of her building with a yellow lab. She's partially blind and shows signs of dementia. In fact, the only reason she seems able to live on her own, and not in an assisted living home, is due to the dog.

I've seen her many times before. She never strays from the straight line between her door and the curb so the dog can relieve himself. Occasionally I see her wrap his leash around the fire hydrant so she can brush him. She is not gentle or kind, using the brush as if she were scrubbing a linoleum floor.

Easily more than 80 pounds, the lab remained docile while his owner jerked his collar and whined, "Come on! Why are you doing this to me? Hurry up!" His inky, soulful eyes watched intently as I passed with my dog. They stared at each other and I would swear in a courtroom that this dog was begging to be released from this situation. "I did it, your honor. I stole this dog and drove him upstate to a farm where he can breathe fresh air, sniff another dog's butt, eat gross stuff, and run until his tongue is hanging out."

As I put my key in the door, I glanced once more at the dog, still staring at us as the lady yelled again, "Hurry up!" I felt so sad for him, just as I'd felt sad for the guy at Grand Army Plaza, and I wished the dog a better life — the life I wanted him to lead, the life I thought he should have. But maybe, just maybe, he's fine just where he is. Maybe he doesn't mind the 600-square-foot apartment in the fifth-floor walk-up. Maybe he's actually already happy.

Jacquelin Cangro

Upon arriving at your destination, your first order of business, before you put your bags down or remove your coat or get a cup of coffee, is to unconsciously make a beeline for the nearest sink to wash your hands.

See "Spring is in the Air" post, April 6, 2009.

Jacquelin Cangro

It seems that not a month goes by wherein some study or another reveals alarming statistics proving that people lose their memories as they age. (I wouldn't be surprised if most of these studies are government funded.) In fact, I read about such a report just last week. Apparently by the time we are 27, we begin to lose the ability to store specific details for long periods of time. This doesn't seem too horrible. Maybe you've forgotten the name of your kindergarten teacher? Or perhaps you are unable to remember quadratic equations. Let's face it, you really weren't planning to use the stuff from algebra, were you?

Fast forward ten years and you are now having trouble remembering more recent events. Sadly, I realize I am falling into this category. Here's a conversation I had with some co-workers yesterday:

Me: So I saw a movie this weekend. It was the best movie I've seen all year!

Co-worker #1: Oh, yeah? Which one?

Me: Huh. It's on the tip of my tongue. You know, it's about the thing with the guy in the place.

Co-worker # 2: Well, who starred in it?

Me (wracking my brain): Wait. It'll come to me. It's the guy with the crazy hair and big eyebrows? He has an accent?

According to the report, by the time you're 47, you can't retain your kids' names. ("Come here, Johnny. I mean, Joey. I mean, Janie.") And by the time you're 57, you might as well just stay home because you won't remember what you did when you went out anyway.

This is all considered "normal." So is it normal to be on the 2 train, hear your name called, and not be able to place the person if your life depended upon it? About two stops from work, a woman makes a beeline for me, skirting a subway preacher and a strolling mariachi band.

"Hi," says Blonde Woman. "You're getting to work early today."

"Uh, yes? Uh-huh." This could be some kind of rouse for money, so I am using Standard Subway Tactic #1: no eye-contact.

"Thanks for all your help on the Schneider project. It was a lifesaver."

Abort tactic #1. Abort. I look at her. Not even a glimmer of recognition. I ratchet up to Standard Subway Tactic #8: vaguely worded answers. "Don't mention it."

"Are you kidding? After 10 years at this place," she winks and elbows me, "I know if we don't give each other encouragement, who will? Anyway, how's your dog doing?"

Not if someone told me that I would win five million dollars could I simply utter this woman's name. I'm now breaking out in a bit of a cold sweat. How is it possible to draw a complete blank? The subway only makes this situation worse — there is no escape, no polite way to excuse myself. No, oh-look-at-the-time!

Is there something wrong with me? In the spirit of hypochondria, as soon as I got to the office, I did a quick search on WebMD. I do not recommend this for the inexperienced. You will learn one of two things: either there is absolutely nothing wrong with you, or you are dying. In this case, I may have an affliction called prosopagnosia, an inability to recognize faces, something millions of people might have but not know it. Or it's entirely possible that this is a direct result of all the brain cells I decimated before waking up in my dorm room and uttering the phrase "I will never ever touch vodka again."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go do something, but I forgot what it was.

Jacquelin Cangro

Friends of my mother are coming to New York for the first time ever. Unbeknownst to me I was nominated as their go-to gal for all things Big Apple. Their itinerary includes super fun things like Times Square and the Empire State Building. Boy, do I LOVE Times Square. 

Note: the aforementioned is for parental use only. My grand tour of the city begins and ends by handing them a map and a MetroCard. Rule 31-5.4.6 of my New York City Life Continuity Plan is still in effect, which clearly states that, to improve upon Dorothy's line, there's no place like my couch. Though there is a provision in the event George Clooney should need a personal tour.

So I've been sending my mother's friends all sorts of helpful advice about taking the subway. Number one (say it with me): No eye contact. (This will be hard for them. They are from the South, where it is polite to look people in the eye. In New York, it is considered an act of aggression.) Number two: Ditch the tell-tale I'm-a-tourist white sneakers. Number three: If a train car appears empty, there's a damn good reason.

I emailed them link to the subway map. "This is a little overwhelming," they wrote back.

Why yes, yes it is. Even back in 1904 when the first subway lines were completed, I wouldn't be surprised if one sandhog — nickname of the men who dug the tunnels with pickaxes and shovels — had nudged another and said, "Bet you a nickel they'll never figure out how to get crosstown."

I suggested to my mom's friends they could look to Sammy Sosa for inspiration. Not that Sammy Sosa. This Sammy Sosa, age 5, tired of waiting for his mother, went upstairs to the elevated platform and boarded a 1 train in the Bronx by himself. While his mother frantically called the police, who in turn searched the neighborhood and called in helicopters, little Sammy calmly rode the 1 train, all the way to South Ferry — 33 stops. The police had notified the MTA, just in case, and a conductor noticed a little boy who didn't get off the train even though it was the end of the line. The conductor said, "He looked like he was having a good time, not a care in the world, like it was just another ride for him."

May my mother's friends be able to ride the subway just like little Sammy Sosa. I'll be there for moral support — from my couch.

Jacquelin Cangro

Still waiting…    

The peeps inch closer to a commuter.  

The peeps, tired of waiting for the train, decide to commit hari-kiri.

Jacquelin Cangro

A few months ago, I watched from my office window as US Airways pilot Chelsey Sullenberger landed his Airbus A320 on the surface of the Hudson River.  

Of course this in itself was an amazing feat, but what I found the most remarkable was the response of the New York Waterway ferries (12 in all). Quite literally within seconds, commuter ferries from both the New York and New Jersey sides of the river mobilized to locate survivors.

It is that quick action borne from gut instinct that impresses me. In such situations I, a person who weighs every possible outcome, every nuance of every angle, would probably stand stock still gawking and pointing until someone else offered up a viable plan. You could say all of this second-guessing is due to a lack of trust in my intuition, but really that comes from a failure to live in the Now. In fact, author and illustrator Florence Scovel Shinn wrote that intuition is a spiritual faculty and does not explain, but simply points the way. 

Superb athletes, battlefield soldiers, and pilots about to crash often describe the "zone" of intuition when they are completely entranced in what they are doing in that moment. Using their training, they simply react. Make that superb athletes, battlefield soldiers, pilots about to crash, and one Chad Lindsey, an actor/proofreader.

Chad was waiting on the Penn Station C platform yesterday afternoon when a man took a swan dive onto the tracks. He hit his head on the rail and passed out. Our hero's (although he is very uncomfortable with that term) intuition kicked in and he didn't hesitate. "I dropped my bag and jumped down there. I tried to wake him up," Chad said. "He probably had a massive concussion at that point…He just wouldn't wake up, and he was bleeding all over the place."
 
Chad saw the glow of the train's headlights reflecting on the tracks as it approached the station. Did he panic? No way. Chad was in the zone. And his current role in an Off Broadway show that requires him to repeatedly lift another character who can't walk didn't hurt either. He grabbed the man under the armpits and hoisted him toward the platform. "It's kind of higher than you think it is." Some men on the platform pulled the man up and then Chad hopped up himself with 10 to 15 seconds to spare before the train barreled in.
 
The EMTs arrived and whisked the man to the hospital. Chad hopped on the next arriving train and went about his business. "It was quite a New York day," he told a New York Times reporter who tracked Chad down only after his friends saw this post and outed him. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm weighing the difficult options of taking the 2 express or staying on the 1 local.

Jacquelin Cangro

You know who Dr. Z is and, during long train delays, have actually given serious thought to using his services.

[For the uninitiated, Dr. Zizmor's ubiquitous ads in every fifth car of the NYC subway system have developed a sort of cult following. ''Is your skin loose? Do you have more than one chin? Has your skin lost its firmness and tightness? Do you think you look older than you should for your age?'' Never fear. Dr. Z is here. With the image of Dr. Z himself at the end of the rainbow, he says, "Now you can have beautiful, clear skin."]

Jacquelin Cangro