I was talked into attending the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade by a few friends. Each year people dress in their strangest to be part of the festivities along Sixth Avenue.

It’s simultaneously fun and ridiculous. One of those once-in-a-lifetime events that seems to be a great idea, like driving across country and skydiving, but then as soon as you set off, you immediately can’t help wondering why in God’s name you agreed to do it.

The parade is nothing more than an excuse for people to dress and behave in ways they wouldn’t normally dress and behave. This is despite the fact that only five people actually have a view of the parade itself. Most everyone else mills about the sidelines bumping into one another, craning to get a glimpse. When my friends and I realized that we wouldn’t even get close enough to the parade to crane, we went for a drink and headed home. I didn’t find this upsetting in the least.

As it was the thirty-fourth year of the parade, the police and MTA had the proceedings down to a science, sort of. Some subway station stairs were changed to entrance only and some were exit only. They set up miles of blue police barricades to shuttle people more efficiently, and officers positioned themselves every few feet, above and below ground. One crucial bit of information they left out was to put up signs to tell passengers which station entrances to use. My friend, who takes the same train, and I tried to get underground at one of the Christopher Street station entrances. After we were halfway down the stairs, a policeman told us in an exasperated voice that this was exit only. We were to go back up and cross over Christopher Street to enter via a different set of stairs. My reasoning that we were almost to the turnstiles was met with a motion of his hand to leave.

We followed along the barricades, at a pace equivalent to the movement of tectonic plates, to cross the street. In this 50-yard walk, I saw Superman, two pirates, a pregnant nun, and the Tasmanian Devil. When we reached the station entrance we felt certain we were told to use, another policeman asked, “Where do you think you’re going?” I wished I had dressed as Dorothy and could click my ruby slippers to magically transport me home. He pointed to yet another set of stairs, this time on the same side of the street. With considerable effort we got back into the crowd and shuffled along. It was the height of the parade and throngs of people who thought they were going to see something were still pouring into the Village. Finally we got to the one place at which the police allowed us to enter the station. I swiped my metrocard and the train came within a few minutes packed with passengers. But this was no normal train. The doors slid open and the first one off was a man wearing a coconut bra over a green turtleneck. Then a menagerie of animals, long-dead historical figures, and superheroes followed. Just before the doors closed a monkey hopped out drinking an iced latte. They don’t call this the urban jungle for nothing.

Jacquelin Cangro

Today it is cold enough to wear my new winter coat, a gray peacoat.

After a wamer-than-average winter, everyone is eager to change their closets to sweaters and corduroy. Proving it, most people on the 2 train are a little too bundled for the temperature in the low 40s this morning.

I snake my way through the crowd on the train and hang on to the overhead bar. I feel as Sex and the City-sophisticated as I’ll ever get — I’m reading The Atlantic Monthly. My hair is cooperating since the lower humidity has cut me a break. Maybe I’ve even lost a few pounds. A seat opens up and I decline — why sit when you’ve got the confidence only a new outfit can give you?

At the office a co-worker says, "I like your new coat."

"Thanks," I reply, a little confused. "How did you know it was new?"

"The price tag is still hanging from your armpit."

Jacquelin Cangro

I’ve been trying to keep my subway pet peeves out of this blog, well, because they are my peeves.

Idiosyncratic and unreasonable, it probably wouldn’t make much sense to you why I get so pissed off when I’m confronted by a person or persons doing something I consider irresistibly stupid or just plain rude. But I feel I must share a peeve with you now because if I stop just one person from doing it, I will have done my part to make the world a better place.

I’d like to label this peeve “no standing.” It happens when a seemingly bright, able-bodied person—let’s call him John for the purpose of this argument—trucks down the stairs at lightning speed, nearly bowling me over in an incredible rush to get to the turnstile, wherein he comes to a screeching halt, holding up everyone behind him while he scrounges through his messenger bag to find his Metrocard. At this point I’ve almost run into John’s backside since he’s blocked entrance to the platform. He searches through this pocket, oblivious that he should kindly step aside while digging. He is the same person that will be walking along the platform, arrive at his preferred waiting spot and stop, dead on in the middle of the walkway, forcing people to squeeze by him to pass. John is also the same guy who decides that, upon entering the train first, he will stand by the train doors blocking everyone else from getting on or off. By now, you see my point. I bet John’s momma raised him better.

What is it about the Johns of the world that make them think they are the only ones on the planet? There does seem to be a conglomeration of these types in New York, a city with roughly eight million inhabitants, which makes it ironic that they live in NYC at all. I mean, if you don’t want to be courteous to your neighbors, Montana or Siberia might be a better place to call home.

My friend Helen says that this behavior can be summed up as a basic sociological assertion, the official name of which has escaped me. (Any sociologists out there?) The premise is that in hyper-populated urban areas people subconsciously need to set themselves apart from the masses, crying out, “I’m here. Notice me!” To do this, they act out in small ways: throw trash on the sidewalk, cut in line, let the door slam in your face. It’s an adult version of a child throwing a tantrum in McDonald’s. By no means is this limited to the human race. With all of the trees, grass, and curbs in the neighborhood, my dog often chooses to pee right in the middle of the sidewalk.

In writing this I realize that maybe you, too, share my peeve. If so, email me. Maybe we can start a support group.

Jacquelin Cangro

A man and I board the B train through the same door.

I hadn’t noticed him on the platform, but I should have. He’s breathtakingly gorgeous. Imagine the best parts of Jude Law, early Marlon Brando, George Clooney, and Johnny Depp (not the Willy Wonka Depp), all melded into one Franken-hottie. Does he really live in Brooklyn? I thought people who look like this are quarantined to the Upper East Side to keep the gene pool pure. He takes a sip of coffee and picks a song on his iPod. Of course I’m not actually going to speak to him. What on earth would I say? Come here often? Or So are you a "light and sweet" man?

I just stare at him for a while, over the top of my book, while I suavely pretend to read, not acknowledging any words on the page.

Jacquelin Cangro

Police officers are at the turnstile when I arrive at the station.

They’re laughing and teasing each other about someone named Charlie. Sometimes they are at the station for "presence" — to make the general public feel better about things we no longer feel good about. And petty crime on the subway has gone way down, so I try to focus on that and not the reason I know they are really here. Because the truth is with seven million passengers a day, 468 stations and 26 train lines, how could you possibly prevent…I’m going to stop there. Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.

Today the three of them are standing behind a folding table and signage that says they have the right to inspect our bags. No one is singled out from the clump of people around me swiping their Metrocards. Some of the items in my messenger bag might make me a suspicious character: one screwdriver (Phillips), empty plastic wrapping from gum, a worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye, a flyer announcing upcoming events at the KGB Bar, and a book of matches from a restaurant I was at last night.

Since inspections began shortly after the London bombings in July 2005, I’ve witnessed only one woman having her bags opened on the folding table. In fact, I have seen people enter the subway wheeling dozens of boxes stacked on dollies, usually messengers. They pay their fare, get buzzed in through the special door, the one right next to the inspection table, and carry on. An unscientific survey of people I know reveals only one young Asian male was subjected to an inspection, which he described as having "made me miss my train but no big deal."

September 11th and the London bombings spawned a new generation of "SubTalk" posters, which in this age of non-culpability, I like to classify as the "We warned you" series. These posters let the riders know that "if you see something, say something," meaning "we can’t be held responsible for what happens if we’re unaware." One image is of a mysterious black duffel bag left unattended under a seat. I think about the messengers heading unheeded to the platform with all of their boxes. Realistically can they be subjected to inspections every day when they’re most likely just trying to do their jobs? If they are waved through unchecked, how do I know when to "say something" about the duffel bag under the seat? Because if I tell a conductor, then all the trains on that line get backed up and rerouted because of an "incident."

Borrowing the color system of alerts from the Department of Homeland Security, an incident would be red, a police action or signal problem/door malfunction would be orange, and the sick passenger yellow (appropriately enough). An announcement of any of the above produces a wave of clucking and eye rolling among the passengers, but it gives me an indication as to the course of action to take. If there is an incident, I’m off that train like a shot, trying to find alternate routes. Unless, of course, the conductor tells us while we’re in the tunnel. Then I just worry because there’s nothing to do but wait. The problem is the word. Incident. It gives no indication to the severity or magnitude of the problem. There was an incident years ago when a deluge of rain flooded portions of subway tracks for hours while the pumps tried to catch up. Then there was the incident when my train was greeted at West 4th Street by Hazmat wearing gas masks. Don’t forget the incident on September 11th.

In addition to the helpful posters, other new items in the war on terror include tiny police booths on either end of the entrance to subway tunnels that run under the East River and clear garbage cans. The garbage cans with silver trim and oblong shape look like they’ve been deposited by an alien spaceship. At my first sighting in the Jay St./Borough Hall station, I wasn’t the only one who circled around it. A police officer tapped it with his shoe and peered inside. Yup, it’s a garbage can.

It’s the New York way. We aren’t fond of change. Throw something new at us and we’re discombobulated for a few minutes. Once we’ve scrutinized the situation and accepted it, it’s business as usual, like it’s been that way forever.

Jacquelin Cangro

Jacquelin Cangro

Jacquelin Cangro

A long time ago I made it a policy not to give money to people begging on the subway.

A long time ago I made it a policy not to give money to people begging on the subway. Not to people with one leg. Or people who say they’ve lost all of their belongings in a fire. Or even talented singers, accordion players, doo-wop groups (although I do have a soft spot for them), teenagers doing Le Cirque-esque tricks on the center poles, men who outright admit that they’ll be using your donation to buy a bottle of Southern Comfort at the next bodega they stumble across.

I’ve listened to the schpiels over and over: "Hi, My name is Sonny Payne. I’m homeless and I’m hungry," he repeats like a mantra as he shuffles from one end of the car to the other. "If you don’t have it, I can understand because I don’t have it. But if you have a dime, a nickel, or a piece of fruit, please help."

I figured that I could just make the decision not to give on the subway and then I wouldn’t have to think about it again. This way I’d ease any guilt I might feel in the process. Because, I thought, if I gave to one, the floodgates would open and I’d be reaching into my pocket constantly for spare change. Spare change I need. I’m not living on Park Avenue or even in a doorman building in Queens. I struggle to pay my bills. Increases to my income are paltry. Though, let’s face it, when I chose to major in English I basically shut the door on six-figure bonuses anyway.

I’m not pretending most of these people don’t need my change more than I do. But if I were to break my standing rule, who gets it? Do I then have to give money to every Sonny Payne I meet or, for that matter, every time I meet Sonny Payne?

Every once in a while I start to rethink my position. Take today. A man with torn clothes, but not all together unkempt, came through the car with his baseball cap extended for donations. "Just a penny. A penny will do. A penny. A penny," he said as if he was composing a song. At first I wasn’t moved to contribute. A few other people began making the standard maneuvers to find change — shifting in their seats, reaching deep into their pockets. The man paused, not wanting to assume or be pushy, but anxious to move on. Time is money.

I noticed something I’ve known to be true but hadn’t really brought to conscious thought before. Nine times out of ten the people giving money don’t seem to be in a position to give. They’re not the ones carrying smart leather briefcases, tapping away on their iPhones. They’re wearing faded t-shirts and ratty jeans. Maybe the ones who appear to have less know what it’s like to need it more. The pangs of guilt I’d always hoped to avoid chimed loudly.

The man waited patiently for a woman still digging through various zippered pockets in her purse. Like someone who’d lost her keys, she kept trying the same pocket over and over as if change would magically appear. The train came to a stop at the next station, his cue to move on to the next car, but she was still searching. His head hung low, maybe debating the further loss of dignity of continuing to wait while she grabbed at crumbs and empty wrappers.

"That’s alright, miss. You can get me next time." He continued down the aisle, the train now rumbling on to the next station. "Just a penny. A penny will do…"

I reached for my wallet, but it was too late.

Jacquelin Cangro

Morning rush hour on the subway is usually quiet… 

Morning rush hour on the subway is usually quiet. The mental fog has not yet lifted and talking is at a minimum, so people keep to themselves. No one is selling anything or pandering for money. I wonder if the commuters on the lines going to the financial district spend the a.m. rush pumping each other up because they have to be ready for the trading bell. Those of us on the west side lines generally stare at nothing in a trance-like state.

This explains why I can hear a clicking noise coming from the other side of the car. The clicks are irregular and it’s difficult to pinpoint the exact location until I see a woman give up her seat to stand near the door. Now that she’s gone I have a clear sight to a man clipping his fingernails. The nails are flying. Then he bites what remains of the cuticle and spits it out. I shudder and close my eyes to blot the image out. But I can still hear the clicks. It’s like nails against a chalkboard. This is why man invented iPod. I jam my earbuds in and turn the volume up. Think puppies, balloons, the Yankees, the latte I’m going to get on my way to work. Anything to get my mind off the image. The only consolation is that he’s not clipping his toenails.

I’m trying to let my eyes rest elsewhere and that’s when I spot an elderly woman flossing her teeth just a few seats down. I wish I could say that she is discreetly trying to extract something from an incisor. She’s examining the stuff that comes out on the floss and then putting it on her tongue. Just writing this down is enough to stimulate my gag reflex.

Of course flossing is part of good hygiene, it’s something we should all do, not just the morning we have our teeth cleaned, etc., etc., so before you alert the ADA, you should know I’m simply advocating boundaries. Certain things are privacy-of-your-own-home things, like smoking in New York City and watching Deal or No Deal.

Are these people sane but just confused about public versus private spaces? Maybe they only appear sane but are really fresh from Belleview. I know there are crazy people, let’s call them quirky, everywhere. But in New York, quirky people aren’t confined to their cars and backyards. They’re on the train clipping their fingernails.

Jacquelin Cangro

I’ll admit that I was a little concerned I wouldn’t find enough material when I decided to undertake this subway blog.

I’ll admit that I was a little concerned I wouldn’t find enough material when I decided to undertake this subway blog. I ride to work. I ride home. For days on end, it seems that uneventful. Then of course I remembered that this is New York, and when you’re riding with seven million people, things are bound to get interesting.

Here is the adventure that is my subway experience.

Jacquelin Cangro