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