New Utrecht
Is this shaking normal, or is it a sign of deterioration? The 71st Street platform for the D Line is shaking as a train leaves towards Coney Island. I’m on the opposite side, standing against my chrome bike waiting for the next train. It’s Easter Sunday and I’m wearing bright colors, on the way to St. Thomas Episcopal Church. I step onto a train. The car is full enough that I would feel like I’m taking up too much space by occupying a seat and having a bike, so I remain standing.
Did I mention it was Easter Sunday? None of the other passengers look like they are going to church. This is their Sunday morning or perhaps their employer’s, but it’s not the Church’s. Next to me is a man, his wife and a bunch of kids. Are all of the kids theirs? Probably not, but they are all part of the same group. What language are they speaking? The man has the kids’ attention, engaging with them, serious comments, moments of levity. They throw in English phrases every now and then. Warmly, in a tone of paternal encouragement, the man switches to English to tell one of the kids, “You know a lot!”
This guy’s gregariousness and the group’s staked-out encampment at the back of the car produces a low level of unspoken interest from the other passengers. Look at how he interacts with his kids. Look how engaged they are. Look how he keeps the big group of kids’ attention. His wife, pretty sure she is his wife, looks tired if not disinterested. On noticing her, I can’t help but also notice the guy’s tallboy in a paper bag between his feet. Is this the best he will be today? Is he going to slide out of this gregarious state when the booze wears off? Is that what she’s thinking of? What happens next?
Some point before we leave Brooklyn, a woman and her boy get on. She’s wearing a denim dress and heels, no wedding ring and carrying the boy’s micro scooter. She is naturally gorgeous and that has my attention now. Would I break the social contract of this orderly subway car to talk to her? We’ve all upheld our ends of the bargain so far on this trip. No one is blaring music, no one is taking up more space than they need to, we’re only speaking when we must, and even then, it’s not too loud. Would I break this contract to talk to her? If I thought it would work, you’re damn right I would.
Yes, if I had the words that would make getting to know one another a good idea, I would employ them. Those words would need to do something about that boy, though. “Ah, don’t worry about your dearest Franklin (the boy’s name, I imagine). As my ward, Franklin will never have a worry, and neither will you. Yes, nothing but blue skies and smooth sailing for Franklin, now that you and I have met each other.”
Somewhere around Barclay’s Center, Rachel (probably the woman’s name) and Franklin leave, but not before Franklin sees something across the tracks. “That’s a GARBAGE train!” yells Franklin, pulling everyone out of their own thoughts. He’s excited and Rachel is trying to get him to focus so they can make their stop.
“Oh, that’s never good,” says Rachel, more to the other passengers than to Franklin, embarrassed by the attention but amused by the circumstance. They leave. Two French tourists take their place. They look at me, they look at my bike, they look at me again, on the verge of commenting but say nothing. I maintain eye contact. I want them to know any of their bullshit will receive an instant reply.
The local-to-tourist ratio of the passengers seems to fade to the tourists’ favor as we move into Manhattan. I get off at 7th Avenue.
As you get to street level from the subway, the awareness of your anonymity sinks in. I think that wears on some people. They don’t like feeling insignificant: two more feet plodding across an impervious sidewalk that doesn’t recognize the consciousness connected to those feet or any feet. For me, however, this is absolutely freeing.
I arrive at St. Thomas Episcopal Church. The greeters are on full crowd control. I’m ushered onto the second floor, overlooking the nave. It’s a full house, illuminated by stained glass. The Rite I liturgy begins. I’m the only person who crosses themselves in my pew. Had I finished RCIA class, I would’ve been confirmed Catholic yesterday. Instead, I receive communion with the other tourists who may or may not be baptized and leave. I miss the post-communion prayer, “Thank you for feeding us with your spiritual food…” I’m on the street now, outside, wondering if my bike was tampered with. I’m in the midst of the same humanity that was in the church, but now we’re under the light of the sun, unfiltered by the stained glass.
