Crossing the Yellow Line

In honor of my last week at this assignment, I thought I would post my walk to work. Or more, my way to work. 12 miles, 105 minutes, 2 trains, 9 avenues. I find it strange that a commute I make so often can be filed into my mind as moments on the train. Moments outside of Penn. Moments in the cafeteria in NYU. All neatly stacked, somehow forming one singular story.

I’ve waited over an hour for the NJT to pick me up before, so let us start as if it is that day. My car is waiting for me a few hundred feet from my apartment. It rests on a hill overlooking the NYC skyline. Hopping in, I immediately turn on the heat and radio, making my way to the station. I park in the sprawling parking lot near Shoprite and a sub-par Homegoods. Late, as usual, I stuff my spare belongings in my bright orange Patagonia backpack. I feel the outline of my work badge for reassurance. I flip the lanyard on my keys as I grab my coffee and slam the door. I watch for the reassuring blink of the lights as I hit the lock button on my keys. I run down the muddy path created next to the steps by my fellow commuters who needed those extra thirty seconds to make the train. I manage to smile as I shove my earbuds far into my ear, forgetting to put on music.

Hopping over the wimpy chain blocking off the shortcut to the station, I feel a certain sense of rebellion that can only be felt by a person who started feeling comfortable swearing at the age of twenty-three. I run up the hill, leaving behind a woman dressed in business attire. I am left grateful I do not have a job that requires heels and pencil skirts. There’s a light fog this morning and the threat of rain. When the plateau of the tracks is reached, there are hobbling commuters in front of me, disappearing into the cold, wet air. I slow my pace. I am going to make it.

The station is really just a bare piece of concrete next to the tracks. It starts to mist and rain. I lose track of the time on my phone or in a book. I become aware of the restless men and women around me. I check the time. The train is ten minutes late, and my sweat from rushing has now mixed with the rain and made me cold. I carefully take my backpack off and hug it between my legs to unzip my umbrella from the main pocket. It’s really raining now.

The creepy, Big Brother (voiced by a lady), announcement is made by an invisible speaker. The train will be delayed. It will be forty-five minutes late. So I better pick some music. I chose some synth electro crap so I can continue focusing on my book. I watch some of the people I recognize. The couple: a shorter woman dressed in a skirt and white, commuter tennis shoes and a man forever wearing a grey hoodie and transitions lenses. I have half-heartedly wondered what their relationship to each other is, and if they head to the same job together everyday.

Today, my sister doesn’t ride with me. If she did, she would emerge from the fog five minutes after me, huffing and puffing, scrolling through Instagram. She leaves after me every time, knowing the exact moment she can leave by just to make it in time. We would hop on the second car to avoid the restrictions of the quiet car, catching up on whatever we like.

Today, I have to call my job to let them know that leaving an hour and forty-five minutes before work just isn’t going to cut it. I am going to be late. It’s okay. It happens.

The electro synth whatever is still playing as I hear the train whistle, wait behind the yellow line and the weary crowd. I walk on and claim a middle seat, forcing someone to stand up to let me in. They sit back down and let me steal their body heat, along with that of the window seat passenger. I will probably leave a puddle from my soaked clothing, umbrella folded and dribbling at my feet. I watch the top of everyone’s heads bob to the beat of my music as the train shifts over tracks. Their movements make me feel like I am under water. Or maybe it is the water dripping from my hair down my back.

Outside, suburbia has come and gone. Swamplands where reeds usually glow golden in the morning sun remain blue and grey on this morning. The marshy area makes me ache for open space as I sit sandwiched between two passengers bundled in grey. Wool and dry heat makes me itch.

Maybe I should be rushing, but I get off at my stop to make my connecting train and I am tired. I walk up a set of stairs, let the crowds herd me onto the escalator next. My numb fingers fail to grab my train pass from my wallet. I make several attempts, people shove past me oblivious to my existence. I pick the slowest ticket line, only vaguely aware of the fact that work starts in twenty minutes.

I see my fellow zombies start to quicken their steps, and I follow suit. I make the train to Penn just in time, squeezing in to the car right before the doors hiss closed. There is an awkward arrangement of bodies as we stand in between cars. The twelve minutes pass by with shifty glances and ill-timed eye contact. Maybe an accidental elbow jab or butt touch as the train rocks side to side on the tracks. At least we will be the first ones out.

The tunnel pops my ears, my music turns off. Service is lost. The next and last stop is Penn Station. Please mind the gap. We burst out of the doors and instinctively turn towards the stairwells. After a five minute long shuffle to the stairs, I emerge to classical music chiming through staticky speakers. I orient myself within the station by looking for the Dunkin Donuts and head towards Madison Square Garden. There are random patches of the station that have a strong odor of urine. Outside, a boom box might be playing Christmas tunes next to a red bucket asking for change. There might be a flock of pidgeons gathered by a woman throwing breadcrumbs ecstatically into the street. While I’m still tired, I turn on my NYC speed walk. Once in the city, I have to respect the flow. Don’t go with it, run with it.

If it was September, back when I was figuring out my route, I would take 33rd street towards the East side. There, I would spot my favorite oddball doing calisthenics on the steps leading to MSG. An avenue later I would spot the same falafel stand with the same bum sleeping across from it. I would pass the smell of chicken wings from Hooters, and then my favorite arts and craft store. Rick’s cabaret would be free of its bouncers wearing hipster glasses and blue tooths in suits. The sidewalks would be soapy, maybe even a few workers would be spraying them clean. My shoes slide in the suds and I have to slow down.

But ever since I had a cold and found the cafe that serves Ginseng lattes, I take a different route. No matter what, I have to cross 7th and not give in to the temptation of throwing my hand out to one of the many yellow taxi cabs in line on the street; allowing myself to doze in the back seat. I might start on 32nd or 31st and climb down to 30th. 32nd is short lived, due to the smell of fish that permeates from the restaurant’s trash. Chicken wings or old fish in the morning. Take your pick. Choose your adventure.

I pass a million cafes, endless construction, and almost get hit by the one car that decides to drive that far down Broadway. They scream at me and I don’t acknowledge them. I have a mile left and I’m officially late to work. The buildings I pass usually reflect the light from the morning like summer sunlight dancing in a swimming pool. Today, my reflection is grey and blurry in the display windows.

If I wasn’t running late, I would stop in one of the cafes. I would grab a cappuccino to walk with, maybe a bagel. Not today, though. I’m not coordinated enough to walk with a drink, a bagel, and my umbrella. I have to play umbrella tetris as I walk down the street and oncoming pedestrian traffic presents people of many heights and umbrellas threatening to jab me in the eye or throw my own umbrella off course. I look like Mary Poppins trying to fly as I raise and lower my umbrella to avoid conflict. A crumpled umbrella sparks my interest as I wait for the crosswalk to turn. It sits on the dirty concrete, inside out, bent every which way and makes me laugh in a delirious sort of way.

The avenues feel endless as the last of the leaves fall of the trees in front of the brownstones. The pulse of the raindrops slows and quickens as I unapologetically scan the faces that pass me by. I doubt if I have ever registered seeing the same person twice the last fifteen weeks. As I get closer to the hospital, sirens sound off like I am in the third installment of Kill Bill. Kiddo battling the assassins named Rain and the Mundane.

If I had time, I would walk to the cafeteria of NYU, so white in contrast with the rainy day that is sears my retinas. I would sit and read, enjoying my anonymity decided by my jeans and hiking boots. Not yet a nurse for a few more minutes.

Today, I am without such luxuries. Forced to hustle up the flight of stairs and make my way to the scrub machine. I type in my code incorrectly, curse, re-type, then snag the seafoam green, rolled up scrubs while running towards the locker room. I change as quickly as I can. Peeling off my rain soaked jeans, legs now stained light blue from the dye, tightening my drawstring scrubs as tight as they will go. Already anticipating the next time I will have to readjust the ill fitting, wrinkled scrubs. If I am lucky I will have packed a lunch. If I am luckier, I will remember to place it in the fridge in the lounge.

And the rest of the day passes easily or maybe with a bit of difficulty. I learn about a new drug, or maybe just finally remember to ask a coworker about his/her birthday. My sides hurt from laughing, my eyes blink from the dry air, someone wakes up from anesthesia with a sense of wonder for the world and a sense of urgency both to see their spouse, and to pee. I try not to seem pushy as I encourage patients to just go home already. The end of my shift gets closer and my train options home dwindle. I feel sorry that I wasted my break in the courtyard sitting among the lion statues. That time could have gone towards getting out early.

Then, I’m back in the locker room. Unfolding and changing into my damp clothes. Checking for items left behind in my pockets,balling up my scrubs. Checking the time and deciding how many avenues I will have to sprint to get to the early train in time. It can go up to nine but today it shouldn’t be more than five.

I barrel down the flight of stairs into the cold cutting wind. No point in using the time to catch up with someone on the phone. The wind screams in one ear, the traffic in another. I try to put on an r&b playlist but I stop paying attention to the baby making music that generates itself. I still prefer 33rd to walk back to the station. It’s more populated, maybe safer, but that’s not why. I chose it because I get a view of the Empire State Building. It guides me. A man made northern star. Tonight, it takes a break from the blinking and color changing. It’s shining bright white against the navy sky.

I pass wine bars and cafes where people sometimes sit outside and eat $15 pastries. At night, the lights are harsh but the smells are soft. Butter on warm rolls and oaky tones of wine. I’m hungry but a stop might mean getting home an hour and a half later than usual. I can wait.

When I do stop (the many times I have) I can choose any food that comes to mind. Usually, I choose a place simply after seeing however many places I have had the willpower to pass. If I were to stop tonight, we will say that I stop at Space Nomi. A mostly Korean bar and cafe. I’ve had a bad day at work and there are kimchi fries on the menu. I feel my stomach expand, satisfied by the cheese and pickled vegetables. An unlikely combination, but still an ultimately comforting food, especially paired with a beer from Brooklyn. There’s a hushed ambiance filled with low chatter and gallery art pieces on the wall. All of it contradicted by a disco ball in the center of the room.

I told you, though, not tonight. I’m making that train or else I’m waiting an additional hour. No thanks. Somewhere around Park ave, I look at the time on my phone and I know I have to sprint. No warm ups. This is not a light jog. For every person I pass I feel my anxiety rise. I flashback to Tokyo and the unorchestrated single file lines, longing for pedestrians with common sense. As I approach groups of people, they seem to fan out to fill the entire sidewalk as I attempt to pass them on their left, then their right. I fantasize taking my pointer and middle finger and flinging them over my shoulders by their nostrils. The anger is real.

If it were fall, and I’m truly sorry that it isn’t, and if I had the time, I would stop at Greeley Square for Bites on Broadway. Once again, the options are endless. People lounge at paint-chipped steel tables eating their sushiritos or powdered donuts. Leaving crumbs with crystal particles of sugar where they may fall. I think of the rats I have seen in the streets and the google-eyed pidgeons that will be grateful for the offering. Tonight, I make my way through the stands slowly as people stand unable to decide, off to the sides.

The last obstacle is crossing 7th. I run past the shop that sells cheaply dyed furs and crocodile shoes, wondering how they manage to pay rent in midtown when I can’t think of one person who would be interested in perusing such an inventory. The crosswalk blinks walk and the crowds diffuse into the street like noxious gas. I slow down and my frustrations evaporate away with my sweat. Ive made it. Down the steps and to the track. There are so many seats I can hardly decide where to sit. I chose a blue velour seat with the least amount of stains and assess how many pages I have left to go in my book.

My connecting train leads me to my car. I hold my kitty jabber self defense key chain as I walk the dimly lit street to my car. My eyes droop and my one shoulder aches from my backpack. My hair lies in a pile somewhere between my right ear and my neck from me pulling my hood up over my head and back down. I’ve crossed the yellow line eight times today. Zooming to familiar places I never thought I’d know. Somewhere between 13 and 14 hours later and I’m home.