People say that New York is over.  The city has lost whatever edge it once had.  The last hip downtown scene, the one from the early 80s, has finally been replaced by standardized Japanese chain stores serving  frozen yogurt.  A name like “Pinkberry” does not belong in The Bowery.  Street art by Basquiat and Harring has been long replaced by the work of an overpaid designer who came up with the “Bank of America” logo and the extensive group of bankers who probably changed that poor fellow’s original design hundreds of times to make it sanitary, corporate, standard.

But hope can still be found, where else but… down under.

Only a few newyorkers know that there’s certain midtown subway station on the N-R line that has the perfect layout to accommodate late-night lovers, voyeurs and exhibitionists.  This particular station has a central platform that extends longer than it should, with a room that serves as a trash deposit blocking most of the view of whatever happens at the end of it.

Late one night, after working all day, I was waiting for the train to take me back home when I sensed some strange activity.  A tall woman wearing a long winter coat walked all the way to the end and disappeared on the other side of the small room.  Immediately, I noticed a man come out and stay vigilant on the side facing the rest of the platform. He looked at me, nodding his head in an inviting way. Hesitant, yet very curious, I took a couple of steps towards him but then casually backed, trying to disguise my curiosity.  A tall man in a suit arrived and received the same kind of nod from the vigilant guy.  It looked like some sort of code, and the man in the suit obviously knew what it was all about.

So, living in a city like New York, where we are used to buildings with doormen, clubs with bouncers and even schools with security guards making sure every toddler going in has an ID and is part of the group, I was suddenly granted access to something, I had no idea what, but being a Newyorker, I had to take advantage of this one chance. I had  been given access, to what, I was about to find out…

So as I  approached the guy, he moved to one side, allowing me to pass to the far end of the platform.  There, among the filthy traces of the trash that was taken in and out of the small room everyday, the constant dripping of dirty water from the surface, and among the occasional rat zooming past us, I saw the tall woman leaning against the slimy tile wall, having sex with a total stranger, his pants all the way down to his knees. She was encased by a very expensive Burberry’s raincoat, all naked under that.  He had a very shiny white ass and silk boxers. They were having sex in a rushed, passionate, forbidden way. Two other men were watching: The man in a suit I had seen before and somebody who seemed to be a deli delivery man. I was welcomed into the scene by a quick look of the woman who smiled and went on with her business.

As we sensed the train approach, we all slowly moved back to the center of the platform. Coats were closed, zippers up and discrete smiles were exchanged.

The man who was having sex got on the train with me. Besides his wrinkled tie and a sweaty forehead, he looked completely normal. He sat and began reading the New York Times.  As the train left the station, I saw the woman walking up the stairs back into the city, in need of some fresh air and a good shower, I assume.

∞∞∞

In 1943, science fiction writer René Barjavel introduced the “grandfather paradox” to discuss the idea of time travel.  The paradox states that if a person goes backwards in time and kills one of his ancestors before they had children, the traveller cannot exist and therefore couldn’t had gone back in time and kill the ancestor.
So the idea of time travel is a very complicated one.

On the other hand, the idea of stopping time is very easy to prove.  Just get on the subway (this is best experienced when you are in a hurry), find a seat, and wait for this announcement when you are in the middle of the dark tunnel:
“Ladies and gentleman, we are being momentarily held by the train dispatcher, Please be patient. We’ll be moving shortly.”

Look at your watch. It’s 1:30.
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Look at your watch 45 minutes later. It’s 1:31.

Time stands still when you are stopped in the middle of the tunnel.   But don’t get the wrong idea: outside, on the surface, time goes on as usual and you will be late.

The time stopping phenomenom has caught me off guard today: no iphone, magazines, books… nothing. So I just look at the woman in front of me. She got in at the 14 street/Union Square Station.  About 5’5” in height and a petite figure.  Her shiny brown hair is tied back in a perfect ponytail. Her skin is flawless, not a single drop of makeup. She wears and inpeccably cut camelhair trentch coat with a tight black belt. She seems sad and tired, looking down at the floor of the subway car.  Very slowly, she wipes off some strands of hair from her face, raises her gaze and finds me. As our eyes meet, she smiles. A smile that lights up the dark tunnel. A smile that makes time move at its normal speed again. So the train moves. We arrive at the 23rd St. Station. Slowly, she gets up and leaves.
I will never see her again.

∞∞∞

One of the advantages of living in a quiet Brooklyn neighborhood is the slower pace everything moves at.
This allows a certain number of unique characters to hang out at the entrance of the subway station with the purpose of some financial enrichment  -begging. Although I have never given them any money, they insist on talking to me day after day, in any kind of weather. And I, like most everybody, ignore them.

One such character is Benny. He sits on a wheelchair right at the top of the stairs of the Carroll Street station. His favorite phrase, which he repeats every single time you dash by him is “any change to keep me rolling?”  Benny must be in his late 50s or early 60s. You couldn’t really tell. His skin has been wrinkled and browned by the sun and he’s missing most of his teeth and a leg.

He has an orthopedic leg that I never seen him wear, but it’s always around him. He uses it as a tool to call on people or move the wheelchair around, just like a paddle.

One lonely morning I walk pass him and ignore him.  As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear a loud ‘promp, promp, promp, promp, kaplaaaaam!’ noise behind me. I look to the side and see that Benny’s metal leg has landed right next to me.

“Excuse me? Sir?” he yells.

I look up and see him smiling at me with the 2 teeth he has left.

“Would you mind bringing my leg up to me?”

I look at him, and then back at the leg lying next to me.  It is incredibly filthy. On one end, you can see the suction cup with dirt and grime that has accumulated for years. On the other end, there is an old Prada shoe.
“It’s wearing my new shoe and I don’t want to lose it,” He says.

I look all around me, but there’s nobody else in the station. I breathe in, grab the leg by the Prada leather loafer and walk up the stairs, hand it to Benny who snaps it right back on.  I notice he’s not wearing the other Prada shoe.

“My other shoe is at home. They are way too expensive to wear them both at the same time. You should try that. Makes them last longer.”

Never thought about that. With that piece of wisdom in my head, I smile and go down the stairs again.
“God bless you, my son! Thank you!” he yells at me from the top.

From that day on, whenever I walk by Benny, he tells the story to anyone who’s willing to listen.
“Hey! There’s my buddy. He’s the one who saved my leg!” The other beggars look at me and nod. I now have street cred thanks to Benny’s jumping leg.

∞∞∞