A Tale of Two Subway Platforms

Dear Diary:

On a recent Monday night I found myself at the West Fourth Street subway station after an evening of Vietnamese soup and Belgian beer.

Like Bill de Blasio’s New York, West Fourth is a tale of two platforms. And although the teeming masses on each level probably earn similar incomes on average, a yawning gap separates the have-trains from the have-not-trains.

Above lie the A, C and E; below, the B, D, F and M. Separating the two is a cavernous expanse in which the stairways to the levels on either side stretch outward toward the invisible way home.

Thus, a waiting game. On this particular Monday, I was one of the players, pendulum-ing from the top of the lower staircase to the bottom of the upper one, craning my neck in all directions in the vain hope of glimpsing an arriving B or C.

It wasn’t long before I noticed another gentleman performing the same harried routine, just several steps behind me each time an incoming train rattled the rafters. After several iterations of our syncopated dance, he stopped me and asked, “What are you waiting for?”

“The B or C. You?”

“The E or F.”

A pause, then he continued: “Well, I’ll take the bottom; you take the top.”

And with that, we ensconced ourselves in our respective battle stations, newly vigilant to the task. Seconds later, an E train rumbled in, and I bounded down the stairs. “It’s here,” I shouted.

Without a word, the man on the staircase below sprinted past me. I saw the blur of his figure, a coat rustling on his shoulders, and then he disappeared into the void.

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