Monday commute

Standing in a corner is NOT the way I'd chosen to start off my week. Especially when said corner is on the subway and I'm being crushed by the stinking hoards of New York . . . like a . . . sardine. Something's gong wrong with the trains today. At Steinway (in Astoria, Queens), a V comes into station first – and does not stop. The crowd seems thicker than usual and as we wait it gets thicker. A G train enters the station. Not a normal train for this station. Why's that coming through here? Am I supposed to take it instead of the R? Will they give us instructions? Will the instructions be audible?

Does not matter. The G zips by without stopping. Commuters turn heads, as they did with the V, to watch it go. No one comments. There's nothing to say.

It's almost 8:15. We wait. A light in the tunnel, then an R appears, at last. My train, thank God. I need to get away from the girl standing too close to me and coughing at the back of my head. I hope she has covered her mouth. We press forward. The car is packed. A few people get on. I'm not going to make it. Shit. I give up, move back, wait against the wall for the next one. If the V has room I'll take it, even though I have to go to 34th to transfer. Waiting. Finally it comes. Shit, it's crowded, too. A few people get on. Station is still crowded. I stay against the wall.

At 8:23 (I've been here nearly 20 minutes now), a second R pulls in. It looks crowded, but not as crowded as the first one. I'll make it. I push forward with the crowd. It's tighter than I thought; too tight. I WON'T make it! I hear the conductor yell, "Stand clear of the closing doors!" Take a quick glance to my right. The next door looks like there's a tiny bit of room to squeeze in. I take it, make myself fit. Sorry. Pardon me. Thanks. Too much humanity. A girl's ratty short ponytail is sticking out, right in my face. I turn my body as much as I can, but I'm still in danger of getting a mouthful of hair.

In the left corner, two female voices are suddenly raised. Someone has violated someone's space or sense of propriety, apparently. Can't see what has happened from where I am standing. Let's just assume someone overreacted. I hear, "Fucking bitch!" mumble, mumble, mumble, then "Yeah, keep looking!" Commuters smile to themselves at the ridiculousness, but, probably like me, they are glad they are not closer and even more glad they are not involved.

It's so hard not to judge. We are all in this together, but . . . why aren't they moving toward the center? – there's obviously room there. Why is that girl wrapping her arm around the pole when that's preventing someone from holding on? Etc., etc. At Lexington, three stops later, I am STILL crushed against the door and still no one has moved toward the center. While the train is stopped in the station, I push through people to claim my own spot in the center, along with some breathing room. No hope of getting a seat, however.

What is there to do? Grin and bear it till 42nd, where there's a huge exodus. This is Times Square, a huge transfer point. Up the stairs, push through people, try not to get annoyed by those walking on the "wrong" side of the stairs.

Up on the concourse, I slow down briefly to listen to a young musician I haven't seen here before, singing and playing original songs on his acoustic electric. He's not bad, but I am late – no time even to read his name. Down the stairs. Station is crowded. The 1 train pulls in, and is PACKED. We push in. Squished like sardines again. The train pulls out, heads north.

Welcome to Monday morning.