Okay kids, sit right down and you’ll hear a tale of my True NYC Commuting Horror Story (tm). Here’s a handy map if you want to follow along at home:
Left my apartment early for a change, because I’m trying to lowkey finish a paper for class at work. I get these handy little email updates whenever there are subway delays on the lines I travel most frequently. So, I know before I leave the house that there are some delays. No big deal, I think to myself.
WRONG.
I get on the F train at my stop, ride to Bergen Street, where we are informed that the F will now run over the G line because of signal problems at Broadway-Lafayette. I waver, but decide to stay on the train, ride to Fulton, get a coffee there, and the transfer to the C train. I get above ground, get said coffee, and go back underground to grab the C at Lafayette Ave (Brooklyn).
The C takes for.ev.er. to show up. Four (4) A trains pass by on the express track before the fucking C shows up. But okay. I’m on the train. Huzzah.
THE TRAIN DOESN’T MOVE. I’ve now been commuting for nearly an hour and I’m about 3 miles from my house. Fine. I start sending emails, working on a submission for my writers group, ANYTHING to salvage this terrible experience and make my time just *slightly* less wasted.
We finally move. Slowly. I change to the A (express, runs on the same line as the C but skips lesser-used stops) at West 4th Street. Hallelujah, it moves at speed.
I transfer to the 1 at 59th Street and wait. And wait. And wait. The line is four to five people deep by the time the 1 train pulls into the station ten minutes later. It is now 9:05am.
I shoot a text to Boss Man: “Stuck in the seventh circle of MTA Hell. Going to commandeer a horse or a jet pack, if I can find one.” Alas, I find neither horses nor jet packs.
We finally get to 96th Street (three stops away!), and the conductor announces that, because of some &#%^$@ (no, that’s not me trying not to swear, that’s actually what he said) at 145th Street, no trains are running between 145th and 168th. And also, this train is going express to 137th Street, so anyone who wants the stops in between 96th and 137th, get y’all asses off and wait for the next one.
FINE.
Along with the rest of the population of NYC, I stumble off the train and onto the platform. I look at the countdown clock down the way, and it won’t event give us an inkling as to when the next train might arrive. So I decide to walk the rest of the way to work.
I’m walking. I see the M60 stopped at the next corner. I run to make it across the street, looking like an awkward penguin, flapping my ginormous purse as I do so. I make it to the bus stop, where I must now swipe my MetroCard to get a receipt that shows that yes, I am allowed to board this express bus. I get my receipt! Yes! I turn around as the bus driver closes the door and pulls away.
The dude feeding the parking meter next to me had the good grace not to laugh in my face when I finally broke down and screamed at the bus: “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME????”
My indignant rage kept me warm for the next half-mile.
My commute is 11 miles long, and it normally takes just over an hour every morning. Today is was well over two hours. This is why I am still bitter about the MTA squandering a budget surplus twelve years ago on a PR stunt, when they could have re-allocated those funds towards capital improvements instead.
And yet, I am keeping this in perspective. I’m not in Ankara or Brussels, my commute was a pain in the ass, but did not endanger my life. On all counts, I’m really happy to be at work right now.
