Arduous Ardor: Mass Transit Dependence

Staring down the dark subway tunnel at 2 am on a Friday night, wondering when then train will come and knowing that when it does it will still be more than an hour before arriving at my own stop, I muse that my reliance on the subway is like being involved in codependent and not entirely healthy relationship with one very fickle lover.

As a starry-eyed small town girl who had only ever been involved with automobiles and highways, naturally I was at once swept off my feet by the subway's urban style and efficiency. I was passionate about the train; thrilled at the swipe of my Metrocard and clatter-clack of the turnstiles that admitted me to the busy subterranean transportation hubs of New York. I always stood anxiously near the edge of the platform so that I could feel the first faint currents that indicated a train's arrival lift the light hairs off my forehead to tickle my face and then experience the rush of air that blew all my hair back off my shoulders as the cars were propelled into the station to come to a screeching halt. I'd eagerly push my way aboard crowded cars and gaze around at the faces of all the other straphangers who doubtless were as enthralled that they too could use such a wonderful form of transportation on a daily basis. My love for the subway was at times overwhelming; how had I ever lived without it, and how could I ever return to a world that only relied on gridlocked interstates and gas-guzzling cars? My subway was such a beautiful thing; it took me everywhere I needed to go, kept me warm when it was cold outside, gave me shelter from the wind and rain, provided light for me to read and endless entertainment if I should choose to just sit back and observe. I thought about the subway all the time, couldn't wait for the moments when I could find myself reunited with it to explore its intricacies, prowl its hidden passages, gaze at the strangely-placed but nonetheless beautiful art and structures that would appear when I least expected them. I threw myself headlong into our new and wondrous relationship, knowing that this was something so real it just had to last forever.

Everything was nearly perfect for several months, but then cracks in our relationship started to appear. I started to notice that despite the initial appearance of overwhelming glamour and good looks, often my train was dirty, and indeed older than it first led me to believe. I began to notice that despite my promptness to our platform rendezvous, I was often left standing, waiting impatiently for long stretches of time. When it finally did show it was never apologetic, although my irritability always subsided after a few minutes of taking a seat. Still, what else could possibly offer me everything the subway had given me since we’d met?

As more time passed, our relationship began to degenerate further, and I began to lose patience. I began to find myself abandoned for longer periods of time, and later at night at that. There I’d be, alone, tired, and sometimes unnerved by the presence of strange and slightly unhinged people around me, and instead of promptly sweeping me to the safety and comfort of my home, the subway would leave me standing there in the chill darkness. Then there would be periods of days, usually weekends, when it just would not come at all; service was suspended and I was left stranded. Sometimes the MTA would give me notice and sometimes it would not; I would find out by being brought to a halt in my descent down the stairs by tape blocking them off and a sign that offered little information and no apology. At first, during these times I’d feel abandoned and nearly helpless; after all, I’d grown so reliant on the subway that I had never really considered other options. Later despair turned to anger, and those feelings of resentment that had begun to simmer below the surface finally exploded into fury. I'd curse, I'd rage and I'd cry until I swore that I was through with the train and its fickle, unpredictable ways. I’d find something else to satisfy my commutation needs, subway be damned. But always, always on Monday mornings I’d find myself, despite my better judgment but compelled by a need bordering on dependence, crawling back to the station and into the awaiting embrace of the train’s sliding doors.

I started to notice other girls around me happily coupled off with other means of transport. There were the handsome tuxedoed chauffeured limousines, the absolute royalty of transportation, clearly in a social class well above my modest means, but dazzling enough to make a girl dream. There were the prosperous-looking black sedans, sleek but not showy, that promised warmth, care, and security. There were the more blue-collar yellow taxi cabs that are in many ways the visual representation of both the city and the American dream; they work long and trying hours, but they have drive and determination, and at the end of the day they make a living and look forward to tomorrow’s promise. Then there were the old-fashioned city buses, which, although often slow, were dependable, steadfast, and offered a view of daylight and life at street level. I even was drawn to the granola-crunchy pedicabs, which promised an environmentally-friendly alternative and could efficiently and uniquely convey you through the toughest street conditions, even if you did arrive a little wind-blown and occasionally frost-bitten. And yes, there was still my old faithful, my personal automobile that sat mostly parked and dusty under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, waiting patiently for me to come back to it and for things between us to be the way they used to be.

Yes I looked, I flirted, and I even had the occasional affair, but in the end, I always came back, always looked past the flaws in the train, and went for another ride. I don’t know what kind of bonds it uses to hold me in its grasp, but I’m nearly helpless against them. Perhaps it’s because the lows are so low, so terrible, that in contrast the highs seem that much better—much better, in fact, than anything I could ever find with any other style of vehicle. Maybe it’s that I can see its potential, can see all that the subway could be if its flaws could be repaired, and I hope against hope that someday it will change, and that perhaps by loving it I can help it change. Deep down, of course, part of me knows that there is nothing I can do; it is what it is, and no matter how much you care, you can’t change a thing’s inherent nature. I wonder, though, if I will ever have the courage and the means to change myself and my dependence on our relationship, or if I will continue chugging doggedly along down those underground tracks, wishing and hoping for something better, until the end of the line.