It’s August when I’m writing this. Just going into a subway station is enough to make you sweat. Stale would consider the air in the New York Subway offensive. My father, Marvin Charton, used to refer to the air down there as the “Air breathed by your grandfather.” Does this mean I can get remembrances in familiar stations?
Getting in with the Metrocard, from my previous post is hardly a reward, but the invitation to the River Styx. I never thought the River Styx was that hot. Oh yes, I forgot, I am going into hell. If a volcano appears under stations, I will believe anything.
How would Dante describe the New York Subway, if he were alive today? Maybe he is looking down and scribbling. What’s so special about the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz? Down here, thousands of once beautiful women lose their looks and wonderful wickedness every day. You step over the goo. Don’t worry, it hardens by winter, and it is scraped off by transit workers at three in the morning, when the loud work trains come through. The subway is loud enough, it doesn’t need help. It offends the senses.
You hear the doink doink sound from Law and Order, as the doors are about to close. Then you hear another sound. It’s someone playing a trumpet for money. No wonder people wear headphones in the subway. This way, it’s your own noise, and you aren’t bothering other passengers.
I live in Arizona, now. You forget the heat and the noise of the subway. Before you ask, yes, it is worse in the New York City Subway than Arizona. I can’t get a permit for a gun in New York. (There is probably a reason why it is almost impossible to get carry permits in New York. The subway would look funny as the O.K. Corral.
So the next time someone tells me to go to hell, I will get on the subway.