In Bill Bryson's book, In a Sunburned Country, he describes the harsh landscape of Australia's Outback. "It's almost not possible to exaggerate the punishing nature of Australia's interior. It's an environment that wants you dead."

To illustrate his point, he describes an incident involving a young Austrian couple. They had rented a four-by-four vehicle to explore off the beaten path (as if the entire Outback wasn't already off the beaten path). Soon they were hopelessly sunk to their axles in sand. The nearest trafficked road was about 40 miles away. I imagine they weighed every option, every possible choice before the woman decided to take nine of their twelve liters of water and set off into the punishing 140-degree heat, leaving the man to wait with the car.

Bryson notes that at temperatures that high "it is actually possible to begin to cook, rather as you would in a microwave oven, from the inside out." Sad to say, the woman only covered 18 miles in two days before she expired. The man, who had the availability of shade, was rescued and survived.

So it is with the same longing, if not the same torturous conditions, that I sit on the 2 train at Hoyt Street pondering the vaguest of all subway announcements: the dreaded "police incident."

There are three options given that the incident is at Chambers Street in Manhattan, each riddled with its own problems:
1. Wait it out.
2. Since there are no transfers to another train line at Hoyt, backtrack one stop to Nevins Street to try to catch one of the 2/3 trains now going express past Hoyt.
3. Exit the train and walk one stop to Borough Hall, pick up the R train to DeKalb, transfer to the B to West 4th Street and walk about 10 minutes to my office.

And it's already 8:55 a.m.

Then the conductor seems to eliminate option #1. "This train is out of service. Everyone out! No passengers."

We all move to the platform as the train speeds away empty and simultaneously stare down the tracks hoping to see a set of headlights through the dark tunnel. Nothing.

Another 2 train rumbles by on the express track, so I make my move — option 2. I have to go upstairs to the street and cross the road to get to the Brooklyn-bound platform. I have a gaggle of people with me, so I feel good about my decision. That is, until I reach the platform just in time to see a train pull in on the Manhattan-bound tracks, watch the people board, and get whisked away while I wait to go in the opposite direction.

At Nevins, I make my way to the correct platform and jump aboard a waiting train to find one of my co-workers already aboard. (This is one of those inexplicable things about NYC — how, of all the subway cars on all the tracks in all the city, if you'll excuse my borrowing from Casablanca, I can walk onto a train and run into the person who sits two feet away from me at work.)

We get underway to Hoyt, where the whole ordeal began, and move smoothly to Borough Hall. I've just finished regaling her with my poor decision to double-back when the conductor makes an important announcement: "There is a sick passenger on this train. We are holding in the station." What the hell!?!

It is now 9:20 a.m. and I'm not out of Brooklyn. We have three options:
1. Wait it out.
2. Transfer to the R train to DeKalb, transfer to the B to West 4th Street, and walk about 10 minutes to my office.
3. Transfer to the 4/5 train to Fulton Street to transfer back to the 2/3.

My friend says "Option 1." So we wait.

The conductor appears in our car. "The lady is refusing to be moved. We are here until EMS arrives." I'm going to sound like a brash New Yorker when I say, unless you're comatose or have some kind of spinal cord injury, please give the 1,000 people in the 10 cars on this train a break. This isn't a crime scene. If you'd kindly move the five feet to the platform, we'll all be on our way. Chop, chop.

Through a series of rock-paper-scissors wars, we go with option 3. After a decent walk underground, we hop on the 4 train and get to Fulton Street. My friend notes wistfully that now that we're in the city, if all else fails, we can walk to the office. Outer borough residents will understand that through blackouts, employee strikes, and terrorist attacks, the overriding feeling in situations like this is "just get me to the point where I can walk the rest of the way," i.e., over the East River.

As we're walking underground to the 2/3, which should be mighty crowded, we pass the platform for the A/C. It's now 9:35.

We have 2 options:
1. Wait for the C train to Spring Street.
2. Continue to the 2/3 to Chambers Street and transfer to the 1. Then it's a shorter walk to the office.

I think I'm done walking and transferring. "Let's just wait for the C," I say. My friend balks but agrees. The A express train pulls in and leaves. Then another A train pulls in and leaves. She points out that we could probably be on the 2 by now. I'm sure she's right. I'm exhausted and second-guessing myself and I haven't even gotten to work yet.

Then the C arrives. It's now 9:50. We exit at Spring Street and walk halfway down the block before we are turned around. Cranes are blocking the road and sidewalk to add something to the Trump Soho high rise.

So many choices, not a right one among them.

Jacquelin Cangro

On a frightengly cold morning (- 3 with the wind chill) I stepped into the sardine can they call the B train.

I haven't taken the B train in a while, but it was the closest to my doctor's appointment. (Oh I will never compain about you again, 2 train!)

These two poems were posted in the train car, one right next to the other. As my butt rubbed against the guy behind me (unfortunately he looked nothing like Johnny Depp), I read the poems and was transported.

Here they are. May you read them in a comfortable chair without having some lady sneeze on you.

For all of the aspiring writers out there:

Utterance
Sitting over words
very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing
not far
like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark
the echo of everything that has ever
been spoken
still spinning its one syllable
between the earth and silence

~W.S. Merwin

An early Valentine's gift:

love is a place

love is a place
& through this place of
love move(with brightness of peace)
all places

yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live(skilfully curled)
all worlds

~ e.e. cummings

Jacquelin Cangro

even if you've never been to that station before, you have a sixth sense about which end of the platform to watch for the next arriving train.

(Note: Regular riders will always stare down the tracks looking for the headlights of the next train. It doesn't matter if a train just left the station two seconds ago.)

Jacquelin Cangro

Consider these two scenarios from separate train rides this week:

On an uptown 2 train, a nicely dressed man escorts his daughter to school. She appears to be about nine years old. They are facing each other with the silver pole between them. He carries her pink backpack slung over one shoulder.

The father decides to use their commute time wisely. He quizzes her on her times tables. She is eager to do well so her father can be proud of her.

The father asks, "What's four times five?"

"Twenty! That's easy!"

"Okay. How about seven times eight?"

A little harder. She thinks. "Forty -two?"

"Nooo. Think."

The girl ticks her fingers as if she could use them to count that high. "Forty-nine?"

"Are you guessing, or do you know?"

"Uhm. Fifty-five?"

Frustration shadows across the father's face. "How can you not know the answer to this? We've studied the seven times tables over and over. Night after night."

"Fifty-nine?" She almost whispers.

The father shakes his head. "How do you expect to get into the magnet school? You're competing against kids that know their times tables already. Everything builds from here."

The corners of her mouth downturn and tears start to roll down her cheeks. In mere seconds she is bawling. "I-I-I'm sor-sor-sorry."

"Stop crying." The father pulls a hankie from his pocket. He pats her on the shoulder. "We're just going to have to study harder. That's all."

************************************************************
The Brooklyn-bound Q train is crowded, but most people who want a seat have found one. A heavy-set and eccentric father is sitting closest to the door while his daughter has the middle seat next to him. It's clear where she has gotten her taste in clothes, but it could also be partially a result of the onset of her teenage years.

Resting on his stomach the father holds the Times crossword puzzle. He is smiling all over.

"We need a four-letter word for ‘Waterloo pop group.'"

"Abba."

"Of course! Abba." He writes it in the squares. "You weren't even alive then."

"I went to see Mamma Mia, remember?"

"Yes, yes." He nods. "How about ‘Melville captain?'"

"Ahab!" They both say at the same time.

"Eight down: ‘Before to bards.'"

"How many letters?"

"Three."

The girl looks at the ceiling with her Bette Davis eyes, eyes that will someday be her favorite feature, and says, "I don't know." She rested her head on her father's ample arm.

"Okay, let's try another one." He scanned the clues. "Got the gold."

"First," she said.

"You're first in my book," the father said.

The girl rolled her eyes as only teenagers can, but her lips curled ever so slightly.

Jacquelin Cangro

It satisfies the voyeur in me.

I don’t know these people personally, but I feel like I do. They are part of my vast extended family, my community in the truest sense of the word. A barrier is removed that’s more than just physical when there’s nothing between you but a window, rather than, as in the suburbs, a fence, a driveway, and a half-acre of grass. Those that live in gated, manicured subdivisions, I think, are missing out on the meaning of community despite the lovely clubhouse, heated pool, and tennis courts that sold them in the first place with the hope of "getting to know their neighbors."

I like that my neighbors leave magazines and old books on their stoops. Pick them up as you please, then pass them on. Did your kid lose a glove? Go back to where you last saw it and you’ll likely find it waving back at you from the finial of a wrought-iron handrail. If your dog is thirsty, walk him by the brownstone where the owner leaves a large bowl of water and a hose for refills.

Statesman of Ancient Rome Cicero said, "We were born to unite with our fellow men, and to join in community with the human race." (And, while I’m at it, the idea of community can even connect us to past generations. Poet and fellow Brooklynite Walt Whitman reminds us, "What is it then between us? / What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? / Whatever it is, it avails not — distance avails not, and place avails not, I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine.") There are many neighborhoods like mine around the country fulfilling those aspirations, but nowhere is that truer than on the subway.

During Friday morning’s ride, the conductor is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. At the Nevins Street stop: "Five train pulling in across the platform. Step lively and make your transfer, Brooklyn."

At Hoyt Street, as if he’s working the crowd at Yankee Stadium, he says, "Hoooyyytt! Hoooyyytt, here!"

Then at Borough Hall: "Hey Brooklyn, wake up! How you doin’ this morning?" It’s not like we can answer him, but regardless, I think to myself. "I’m okay."

The guy next to me is not okay, apparently. He’s reading the results from his employer’s random drug screening. I know this because, master of deduction that I am, I see the paper he’s holding says in bright red letters across the top of the page, "Substance Toxicology Report." I can also see that he has failed.

You may be thinking to yourself, "Why would he be reading such a personal document in public?" He doesn’t feel he’s in public, not in a general anonymous sense. He’s in his community — a personal, comfortable space. It’s the same reason the lady across the street from me will walk to the corner coffee shop in her slippers on Sunday morning. These areas are an extension of their private spaces.

So people read a lot of things on the train that would otherwise be classified as personal — bank statements, retribution summaries from lawyers, 401K reports, etc. It’s like an informal state of the union — getting up to date on your community. He looks wealthy but just got evicted; she received a sizeable inheritance; he is failing every class except gym. I just got a jury summons. (Note to NYC residents: you’ll regret filling out that benign-looking questionnaire.) People out in the ‘burbs buy People Magazine or watch Entertainment Tonight to catch up on the goings-on (most of which have dubious information at best); I just get on the subway and get the real scoop. {readmore}{jomcomment}

Jacquelin Cangro

The train screeches into the 7th Avenue station while I am descending from the street. By the time I swipe my Metrocard and take the stairs two at a time down to the platform, I hear the annoying bing-bong sound of the doors closing, and I am left standing by while the train gathers speed to the next stop. I wonder how little events could have transpired or conspired so that I would have been able to make the train. If I had made the green light at Lincoln Place on my walk to the station…If I hadn’t gotten the “too fast—swipe again at this turnstile” message (which honestly only makes me swipe faster in frustration)…If I hadn’t changed my clothes twice…This last one is less about a vain concern for my appearance and more about a subconscious ploy to procrastinate going to work.

Now that I have the time, I walk toward the back of the train. For all of the stations I frequent I am well aware of the location of the exits. If I’m going to work, I want to be at the back of the train because when I arrive at West 4th Street the stairs to the street are closest to that end. When I go to the gym, I get in the very first car with the train operator. In other cities where the trains and platforms aren’t as long, this probably is not common practice. I figure right now while I’m waiting for the next train, I’m on the MTA’s time. But when I get to West 4th Street, I’m on my clock and I don’t want to waste precious minutes walking the length of ten train cars to get to my exit.

The Q train arrives and I’m waiting for the B, so I step back to give those now running down the stairs for their train a wide berth. I have a friend from Atlanta who refused to run for the train when she was visiting. I understand this. She’s on vacation and there will be another train along in a few minutes. Though, let’s be honest, even then I have to fight the urge to sprint to the waiting train. I mean, if I can get where I’m going five minutes faster, why wouldn’t I hurry? She clucked that I had become too “New York minute,” always rushing, and I should ease my pace before I have a heart attack. This is the same person who will breakneck down I-85 twenty miles per hour above the speed limit, weaving in and out of traffic, to shave a minute off her commute. But I digress.

During the day, when trains come every few minutes, my friend’s philosophy is fine, but not at one a.m. when time between trains can be twenty to thirty minutes. Then I turn into Jackie Joyner-Kersee. I’ll hurdle garbage cans, sleeping homeless people, and small rats to be on that train before the doors close.

This has led me to another interesting point. New York’s subway is the only major subway system in the world to operate twenty-four hours a day. In more civilized places, the local government expects people to be deep into slumber by midnight when their trains stop running for the night. So when my friend refused to run for the train as the clock struck one, I knew we were in for a long wait and in terms of subway creepiness, there is a big difference between 1:00 a.m. and 1:30. Why were we even in the subway at that hour? (Note to my mother: Please stop reading here.) The answer is simple: money. At the time I was an assistant to the assistant and, weighing the fifty dollars it would have cost us to take a cab versus the then-$1.50 to ride the train, there didn’t seem to be a contest. As we walked from the train station to my apartment after 2 a.m., I could see the headline: "Foolish Women Should Have Taken Cab." (Or if it was the Post: "Hacked for 50 Smacks.")

Not long ago an eighteen-year-old girl was struck and killed by a train because she had jumped on the tracks to retrieve her new cell phone. The train operator, who watched helplessly as he saw her struggling to get back onto the platform but couldn’t stop in time, will probably be in therapy for the rest of his life, as will the two men who tried to pull her up from the tracks but instead had her ripped from their hands as the train barreled into the station. The cost of the phone? Fifty dollars. People who weren’t there shook their heads at how stupid she was to risk her life for that amount of money.

Jacquelin Cangro

I think most people are basically good (yes, even in New York City).

I get a lot of raised eyebrows and looks of pity when I say this. I understand your disbelief if you watch the television news.

A quick review of the top stories yesterday evening at 6 p.m. goes like this: "5-Car Crash Kills 3 in Hoboken," "Bronx Man Sentenced in Screwdriver Killing," "Jersey City Police Discover Body in Vehicle." I know I’m going to sound either whiny or deluded when I say I honestly wonder why the stations can’t air more positive stories. Defenders and non-challengers of the status quo say the answer is simply that bad news sells.

I want to be a well-informed citizen of my city, country, and world, but the local television news (and often the national news) airs enough doomsday reports to make me not want to leave my apartment. Ever. Obviously sticking one’s head in the sand isn’t a good idea either, but really how can anyone’s day be enriched by learning that a five-year-old boy was killed in a forklift accident at his father’s place of business?

Besides, isn’t it just as important, perhaps even more important, to share some feel-good news? There really are plenty of encouraging things going on these days, but you have to dig to find them. Here is a story I learned about a few days ago from one of the free morning papers. It didn’t appear on the nightly television news, or in the award-winning newspapers, or even on their corresponding websites.

Seemingly this would be an attention-grabbing story: a man clings to the railing right next to the tracks on the Williamsburg Bridge, and he’s threatening to jump.

For almost 45 minutes, as six MTA employees inched ever closer, the man incoherently mumbled his goodbyes to this world. The workers, three track employees and three crew members of the Manhattan-bound J train, tried to calm the man to keep him from plunging into the icy waters of the East River.

The poor soul on the bridge screamed, “I want to be with my wife. I want to be with my wife.” Every time the man looked down to cry, the workers took another step closer. I know what the New Yorkers are thinking: "What about all of the people on the train? Were they all late to work?" (Admit it. You know it’s true.)

Finally the man reached over to shake one of the workers’ hands. The worker, Thomas Bodai, seized the opportunity and grabbed the man’s waist. He and the others pulled him to safety. Later, Bodai said, “You do what you have to do. It’s part of being a New Yorker.”

In the end, this story probably didn’t make headlines because there was no bloodshed or visit from the coroner. So for now I’m going to do what I have to do and keep the news turned off. Maybe if it doesn’t sell, they’ll get the message.

Jacquelin Cangro

the subway too long when…

you don’t even notice that your jury summons lists directions to the courthouse by subway and by bus but not by car.

Jacquelin Cangro

There are several things one doesn’t expect to see while riding the subway, among them: wheelchairs, pets, people having sex, aerobeds, Santa Claus, and rain inside the station. I’m not saying that these things never appear on the subway, but it’s rare. So when you happen upon one, you are stirred out of your general comatose-like state and take notice.

I awoke yesterday to find, instead of the torrential downpour predicted, nary a drop on the ground, so I was already in a good mood when I got to Grand Army Plaza, not having had to trudge through it all. Then the train came quickly and I got the last seat in the car. Monday was off to a kick-ass start.

The man on my left looked impeccable — tailored trench coat, cuff links peeking out from the sleeves, wing-tipped shoes. His hands rested on a monogrammed duffle bag on his lap. I would have sworn he had a manicure.

I had my book open (Amy Bloom’s latest Away), but felt my lids were sinking, sinking closed. (This is in no way a commentary on Ms. Bloom’s novel.) I thought I felt something brush against my thigh, but nothing alarming. Then I felt it again, a little harder. My eyes flicked open. Generally, touching of a fondling or pick-pocket nature doesn’t happen while one is sitting and usually only on very crowded trains. My mind wasn’t grasping what was going on.

A dog — a ten-pound, brown dachshund — had his two front paws on my leg and his two back paws on the man to my left. First thought: “Whaaa?” Second thought: “Awww!”

The man, flustered, attempted to lift the dog off of me. “I’m really sorry. He just leapt out.” He pointed to the duffle bag. Then, he talked to the dog. “Pickles, you have to stay in the bag. You know that.”

Pickles did not want to go back in the bag. He resisted in the style of a Tom and Jerry cartoon where Tom splays all limbs across a doorway to avoid being pushed through. I’ll admit I was a little flattered that Pickles was interested in me.

“Don’t worry. He probably just smells my dog,” I said. I returned to my book, trying not to stare at adorable little Pickles.

But Pickles was a sly one. He lay down on the man’s lap and gave him a don’t-worry-about-me-I’m-just-resting glance. The second the man relaxed, Pickles was up like a shot and sniffing all around my legs, leaving gobs of drool on my coat. This was going too far — Pickles and I barely knew each other.

The man was trying to rein him in a sort of lackluster way while Pickles was pointing his long snout in my pocket, rooting around. I tried to grab his collar to pull him off when he backed away all on his own, triumphant in his victory. From my pocket Pickles emerged with a rawhide I must have forgotten to give to my dog before I left the apartment.

Note to self: Prior to entering the subway station, empty pockets of all keys, money, cell phone, and dog treats.

Jacquelin Cangro

When I was planning the book launch event for The Subway Chronicles two summers ago, I knew the party wouldn’t be complete without good music. It was apropos to ask a subway busker to play.

I sent invitations to a few members of Musicians Under New York (MUNY), and then I stumbled on Susan Cagle’s CD at the cash register of a local coffee shop. Of course it caught my eye. It’s titled, The Subway Recordings. I found her website, her agent, her MySpace page and proceeded to shamelessly stalk her. And then I learned why she wasn’t responding and probably never would.

Susan Cagle had hit the big time. In the subway.

She and her band were discovered performing in the Times Square station by famed music producer Jay Levine. Faster than you can say "stand clear of the closing doors," Susan Cagle was recording her first album for Sony/BMG. Listen to a sample of her song "Shakespeare" (actually recorded in the subway) with WMP.

"If you can play in the subway and get a crowd and be successful, you can play pretty much anywhere," said Susan. It’s up to you, New York, New York. Here she performs in the Times Square station for an MTV video. The song began as a letter she wrote in her diary when she was 16, so she titled it "Dear Oprah." Then Oprah answered Susan’s letter last year by having her on the show.

The same principle doesn’t really apply to writers. I’ve penned a number of "Dear Oprah" letters in my day, but as yet she hasn’t responded. I’ll share one with you now, which goes something like this:

Dear Oprah,

Please choose my novel for your next book club selection. I promise I won’t snub you the way Jonathan Franzen did. I’ll let you put as many book club stickers on the cover as you want. I have no problem ‘selling out’ to crass commercialism.

Yours truly,
A Writer, formerly known as A Poor Starving Writer.

Though, let it be known that one writer did get discovered on the subway. Mr. Heru Ptah is the author of A Hip-Hop Story, a modern version of West Side Story. He self-published his book and began selling it while walking through the subway cars. Between November 2002 and July 2003, he says he sold 10,000 copies, which is an astounding rate.

Then one night in 2003, Jacob Hoye, publishing director of MTV Books, purchased A Hip-Hop Story while riding the A train home to Brooklyn. He read the entire thing in one night and left a message for Ptah at 3:30 in the morning.

Hoye said he normally ignores salespeople on the train, but the author had such a charming spiel. "I’m a young writer," he recalled Ptah saying. "It doesn’t cost a thing to take a look. Just a glimpse? A glance? A peek? This is going to be the number one book in the country. One year from now, number one in the world. You see me here today. Tomorrow you see me on Oprah."

Get in line, Mr. Ptah. Get in line.

Jacquelin Cangro

My last experience playing a musical instrument of any kind was about 15 years ago. I was in the supposedly soundproof practice rooms of my college’s music building.

After I spent not an insignificant amount of time tuning my borrowed guitar, I launched into a show-stopping rendition of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." When I finished I distinctly heard a beautiful melody coming from the next room in which there apparently was a protégé of Yo Yo Ma doing Bach.

I know everyone has to begin somewhere, a journey of 1,000 miles begins with one step, etc., etc., but since then I’ve not been inclined to play the guitar while any souls are within a 100-yard radius. Considering I live in spitting distance of eight million people, you can safely conclude I don’t play at all. Note: This also applies to karaoke no matter how many drinks I’ve had.

So I admire the folks who put themselves out there, get up on stage, and bare their souls. It’s indeed a strange exercise to subject oneself to extreme vulnerability on a regular basis. (You writers know what I’m talking about, too.) The hardiest of these is the subway busker. Some are great and some should take a vow of silence, but either way, these people have guts. They play in hostile environments — trains roaring into the stations, brakes squealing, heat, gross stuff being thrown into their instrument cases, and possibly the worst, people just ignoring them. It’s a bit masochistic if you think about. Most do it, not for the pittance of change they get, but because they are driven to play music for people.

That’s one of the reasons I invited Don Witter to play at the book release party for The Subway Chronicles at the New York Transit Museum, housed in a converted subway station. He left his job in 1994 as a computer network troubleshooter to play classical guitar full time. He considers playing in the subway “as natural as anything else.”

Grand Army Plaza is his preferred station. I see him every Wednesday morning. He positions himself on a stool under his banner and plays one soothing tune after another. My favorite is "Girl from Ipanema." Yeah, I’d rather be on a beach in Brazil than 100 feet underground on my way to work.

Recently at Grand Army Plaza there has been a man playing a full-size harp. I mean, good gracious, how dedicated (read crazy) you must be to lug that thing from your apartment, all the way to the station, and then down at least two flights of stairs to the platform. (See the November 27th post.)

It’s a misunderstanding to think that buskers perform in the stations because they can’t get other gigs. Don, who is a member of Music Under New York (MUNY), an MTA group that boasts membership of 100 musicians and organizes the stations and times of their performances, regularly plays around the city, including venues like Lincoln Center. The musicians in MUNY range from the Big Apple Quartet (barbershop) to the Ebony Hillbillies (left) to Sean Grissom, the Cajun cellist (linked on YouTube). From what I understand the auditions are fairly rigorous.

But I’m just not sure what to make of the Saw Lady. I guess if teenage boys can turn plastic containers into drums, why can’t she wield music from a saw? She’s performed in Paris, Rome, Florence, Prague, and Tel-Aviv but likes busking in New York best. “New Yorkers make an honest audience.”

I think that’s all that anyone, be it musician, writer, tax attorney, is looking for: an honest audience. Validation is a powerful thing. When I ask trusted friends to read my work, the absolute worst response I could receive is, “It’s good.” If I wanted an answer like that I’d just give it to my mom, who thinks everything I put on paper is better than Hemingway. (Thanks, Mom!)

That’s the blessing and curse that buskers live with — instant feedback. As Don put it, “You have to have character to play there.” He has also learned some valuable tips from playing on the platform. "If someone is hanging around too long, do not have too much money in your case. Play every single note well and bring your business cards because you never know who might hire you."

That’s probably Susan Cagle’s mantra: "You never know." More on her during the next post.

Listen to Don Witter play "Girl from Ipanema" here.

Jacquelin Cangro

I’ll admit I’m getting a bit worried. The homeless man who hangs out at Grand Army Plaza every morning hasn’t shown up for about a week now.

He has been there for years without fail, save one brief period, occupying a seat on the platform during the morning commute, and gone in the evening. When a homeless person doesn’t make his appointed stops, there’s a reason. We all have our routines.

There’s something about this guy that’s a little bit different. Something about him I like. He’s Burmese (as I overheard him tell another woman one day) with stringy gray hair down the middle of his back, but so sparse on top his scalp is visible. He pushes a shopping cart that’s been rigged like this: the front end has been sawed off so that only the handle and back wheels are in tact, and in place of the missing basket is a granny cart held on by bungee cords.

Despite the fact that all of his earthly possessions fit inside a shopping cart (or perhaps because of it) he seems, to me, to be a genuinely happy guy. He works on the sudoku puzzle in one of the free morning newspapers. He eats bagged salad with chopsticks and washes it down with Coke swigged from the bottle. He watches the comings and goings of the trains like a Buddha. He laughs a lot. I don’t know if it’s with us frantic commuters or at us.

Maybe he moved on to greener pastures like Union Square, suddenly deciding that Grand Army Plaza was no longer appealing. The last time he disappeared for several days, he returned with this latest cart incarnation. Of course the cynical side of me assumes that the old one had been cart-jacked during some sort of scuffle, but he might have just figured he needed new wheels.

I know one other Burmese man who goes by the name So. So works in my building as a greeter. (Though knowing my company, his official title is probably something along the lines of Executive Salutation Assistant.) This is the happiest man alive. He is relentlessly cheerful. He says hello to everyone who appears from the elevator bank in a grand sing-songy voice. There is something about So’s energy that is so peaceful and calm, your spirits are lifted immediately. Even the normally grumpy bike messengers offer a handshake and a wave when they see him. Now he’s trying to expand his English by watching television and picking up bits and pieces from his co-workers.

“Hello! It crazy, sick cold outside, yes?” (Laugh) “My bum about to sweat off.” (Another laugh) “You got one package waiting here for you, okay?”

I’ve been teaching him a few words in Italian because he wanted to know. Now he also says things like, “Ciao! Buon giorno!” as he walks the halls for his hourly rounds. In exchange he tells me things about his country. “We like food things hot, hot, hot. Too hot for you, yes. But a-okay for me!” (Smile and laugh)

I don’t know much about So’s life in Burma (now Myanmar), but I suspect it wasn’t cushy, probably much like my friend on the train platform. Yet they both give off a serenity and happiness that can’t be faked. Is it because they have learned to be truly grateful for what little they may already have rather than deciding to be happy only when they acquire a laundry list of things? Maybe it’s as So succinctly put it one day, “It so easy. You just smile. Okay?”

I hope I see the guy on the Grand Army platform again soon. I’ll give him a big smile and the sudoku puzzle book I’ve taken to carrying around with me. Just in case.

Jacquelin Cangro