MISS TRANSIT AUTHORITY: 2 train, Wall Street to Eastern Parkway; 3:49 am, Saturday

You probably thought MTA stood for "Metro Transit Authority," but round here it stands for "Miss Transit Authority." Every couple of weeks, Nadine (aka MissTA) will take you for a ride on the rails (or, fuck it, on a bus) like you've never taken before. Whenever possible, real pics and names will be used to embarrass people, cause what do we care?

You know that moment on the subway? After the spirited exit from a bar, a cab deemed too decadent until the foot shifting, buzz-flattening 20 minutes on the platform, the preview to a late-night MTA funhouse? And you look at your phone, see you left the party 58 minutes ago, noting you're not drunk OR home? Not home at all?

This slumping gentleman is in Acceptance, the 5th stage of grief for his Saturday night, and his emotional voyage was more remarkable than any of the surrounding metropolitan horrors I could capture.

Getting on at Wall Street, I surveyed the vista he had been hostage to:

* Two very, very Drunk Girls, sitting upright, but entirely unconscious, knocking gently into each other as the train lurched; their striped, thigh high American Apparel tights making them even more reminiscent of bowling pins. Drooling bowling pins.

* A vibrantly textured and hued Puddle of Vomit. 2 feet in diameter, boundless in awful.

* Barky Homeless Guy, recommending several times for everyone to 'Put on your tits!'

* Genial but Unmusical Elderly Homeless Guy with Woodwind Instrument.

* Silvery MILF flipping through Martha Stewart Living, her brows furrowed in frantic inadequacy.

(Upon review, this personnel section possesses a Snow White-like caliber of group identity. Add 'Aggressive Single Homeless Mom' and you have the cast recording of a tender but unsettling Disney hit. Wheee!).

* Determined stream of Unidentifiable White Substance, which I noticed only after it snaked its way under the box between my feet, creating a milky cardboard sponge, a sponge soaked with nightmares.

In these moments, you close your eyes, mouth-breathe and rue your 11-zip code. You'd trade summer stoop conversations and dreadlocked bartenders who know your drink just to take a taxi to your lofted Chelsea bed. But you can't, and you move from Denial, Anger, Bargaining and Depression to Acceptance in the solace that the Food Co-op sells carob for a quarter of Whole Foods' price, albeit with more hair in it.

Launching the young man from Depression into the most healing of stages was our final rider, who joined us at Hoyt Street. Scraping congealed floor cum off my box, I looked up to see a man step on, holding a dead rat. Between his fingers. He laid it on his lap.

At this, our hero groaned, surveyed the live Bosch painting surrounding him for a final time, and buried his head in Acceptance, where it remained till Rat Man and me exited at Eastern Parkway. Through separate doors.

Comments

[joshiku]

Snap! Love the new column!

[Alan]

i am totally bogarting "sponge soaked with nightmares". given our history, i assume i dont owe u any copyright royalties

[Teresa]

Drooling bowling pins. :)

Your imagery sure is evocative! Great column! Looking forward to more...

[Anonymous]

love this blog