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

I’m feeling pretty sick of the world right now.

There is the post-holiday barrage of gym-weight-loss-remake-your-body-and-life ads that people will buy into temporarily, half-heartedly, and fully drop at the first sight of Valentine’s Day candy. I love watching people stock up on yogurt and have fast food for lunch anyway.

Which leads me to the new Burger King commercial. Some shaggy loser responds to the news of the Whopper’s demise with a demanding, "Get me a Whopper, now!" Cue the minimum-wage uniform behind the counter to suddenly produce all 670 calories, 39 grams of fat, and 1,020 mg of sodium, saving the day. People in the background clap. And I’m ashamed of my fellow Americans. What’s that you say — the NSA is tapping my phone? Well, I have nothing to hide (oh look, Survivor is on). The news — there’s a second genocide occurring in Africa right now? Well I could go for a burger right now. Hmm? Low-income children still going without insurance? Meh. Burger King stopped selling the Whopper? Hold. The. Phone. This is an outrage, I am pissed the f*** off. How can they do this? I mean, I want a Whopper, get me a Whopper, now!
That’s what you’re willing to fight for? Are you KIDDING ME?

Next up, the Iowa caucuses, specifically, Mike Huckabee’s minor win. First of all, in 1992 I was 11 years old, and even I knew how you could and could not contract AIDS. The entire world did, and so did Mike Huckabee. Quarantining the homo-plague carriers was not about a lack of expert information about the disease; it was just plain ignorant and bigoted.
Next, call me crazy, but I don’t know how well I’d sleep at night knowing that more and more rapists/murderers/pedophiles like Wayne DuMond were out of prison instead of serving their just life sentences, thanks to Mike Huckabee. I’ve read the details of the DuMond debacle. His first murders were committed (or so he bragged) with the "slaughter of a village of Cambodians." His second, or first legally documented murder, was in 1972, when he helped beat a teenager to death. He molested an underage girl for the first time a year later. In 1978 he committed his first rape. The 1984 rape of a teenage girl was the one that stuck in the justice system. Life sentence plus 20 years. Huckabee commuted the sentence to time served in 1996. After that DuMond was convicted of murdering a woman in 2000. If he hadn’t dropped dead of cancer in 2005, he would’ve been charged with the rape and murder of a pregnant woman. Pro-Llfe indeed.

The good people of Iowa voted for Huckabee above all the other Republican candidates. They say the evangelicals were responsible for his victory. Well, that’s just fantastic. My only hope is for New Hampshire, up here in my corner of the world, to show a little more common sense and intelligence.

Don’t even get me started on that con-artist and cult leader Joel Osteen and the "Gospel of Wealth."

Last, but not least, the new article today about how much the cervical cancer vaccinations hurt the poor wittle arms of girls. Shut it, princess. I had the first shot a month ago, and the ache was gone after an hour. If you experience more, say a day or two of pain, deal with it. Am I supposed to break out my violin because for the first time in history you are privileged enough to receive a simple shot that can prevent cancer? Oh I can just hear it now from the pro-lifers: "Do we want our daughters’ arms to hurt? This is what liberals and feminists and devil worshipers want — for your little girls’ arm to ache for 24-72 hours so that they can freely fornicate with the devil starting at age nine! Jesus does not want your daughter to feel the sting! Can I get an Amen?!"  

These pretzels are making me thirsty.

Jennifer Leblanc