G Train Glory, Miss Heather Style

There’s a new kid on my block (literally). The blog in question is Err(or)Ink and follows is an excerpt from one of her posts:

The “Save the G” coalition wrote, “The number of riders per year at G-only stations has increased from 8.6 million in 1995 to 12.6 million in 2006, according to the Metropolitan Transportation Authority” on their blog.

I watched one of those 12.6 million riders cut each and every one of his toenails while waiting for the train to leave Court Square on a weeknight evening.

I walked down the first flight of steps on the Queens bound entrance to the Greenpoint Avenue stop on the G train to notice some person had defecated on the landing between the other flight of stairs.

Those are two of my most memorable G train moments. What are some of yours?

I considered posting a comment to the above post but soon realized it would be a novella. So here it is. My favorite G train moments, in ascending order of importance (to yours truly). As Britney Spears once said:

People can take everything away from you
But they can never take away your truth
But the question is…
Can you handle mine?

Here it is. My Greenpoint truth.

1. Two out of three subway masturbators I have encountered (to date, hope springs eternal!) selected the Crosstown Local as their venue for “flogging the bishop”. For the sake of brevity I will limit my discourse to my first flogger, as he holds a special place in my heart.

After visiting some friends on Green Street, I hopped onto the G in hopes of hitting the L and playing in the meatpacking district. I was dressed to kill. Apparently, one of my subway patrons agreed: as I was putting on lipstick I noticed he was making repetitive jerking motions. Thinking he was simply scratching his balls (because that’s what men do) I glanced his direction. Nope. He was massaging his kielbasa.

I looked around me. There were no women whatsoever, only 12 men. Twelve very angry men, as I soon learned. I stood up and announced to my fellow G train patrons “Hey everybody, this guy is jerking off!” Shortly thereafter, one 50-something African-American dude laughed his ass off and yelled:

Dude, you’re sick! Hey, check this shit out!

Over and over. Soon his fellow XY chromos chimed in: public humiliation is an equal opportunity destroyer. That humble subway car became a monkey house. MY monkey house. And Mister Weiner Schnitzel tucked his angry little kielbasa back into his pants and bolted at the next subway stop: Nassau Avenue.

It’s the small victories that make life worth living— and trust me— this dude’s schnitzel was something to sniff at. 12 out of 12 male subway riders told me so.

2. I went to a good friend’s wedding last summer. I presume him to be a friend because I attended his wedding and he has seen fit to still speak to me. Dry weddings are unheard of in my philosophy. Ask my husband.

Taking mass transit home from Corona, Queens was an education. Thankfully the feeling was mutual: my fellow travelers had not seen a blue haired woman before and I got a crash course in biblical discourse.

When you’re tired and deprived of spirits nothing lifts one’s spirits like listening to a dude telling his homies that he’d a slit “a homo’s” throat while holding a copy of the King James Bible. On the G train at Court Square, no less.

Mike: Yo, check out that dude with the Mohawk. He’s fucking HARDCORE, nigga!

Traveling Companion: Heh, heh.

Mike: You don’t see dudes like that anymore. Look at these other people, they’re all faggots!

T.C.: Yeah, they’re taking over.

Mike: They can do what they want, but if one of them touches me in the shower I’ll slit his fucking throat.

The wedding vows my husband and I attended earlier this evening had a quote from Corinthians in it. That’s what the minister said, anyway. I wouldn’t know. Being an atheist, my husband has a pretty good command of the Bible so I turned to him and asked:

Is that from Leviticus?

He answered to the affirmative. Such is our life— fuck love, respect, commitment and all that slop. Our relationship is a low rent (but high wit) remake of Topper.

3. Before moving to Greenpoint I lived in Kensington. In order to secure my apartment in Greenpoint I had to deliver several cashier’s checks to a real estate office which happened to be located off the G. My journey back to my soon-to-be former home entailed taking making the G(auntlet) to the F. And in so doing, I learned a valuable lesson:

1. If a subway car has one person in it, it is for a very good reason.
2. Human beings are very cruel creatures, as am I.

I was one of two dozen people who filtered into this curiously vacant subway car. And once the G started ambulating to south Brooklyn the reason became apparent: this car smelled. BAD.

How one homeless person can make a space unfit for human transportation amazes me to this day. Everyone, myself included, bolted to the front seeking egress to the next car: the door wouldn’t open. What’s more, the residents in said car, our ticket out of shitville, were laughing their asses off.

At Broadway, we bolted into the next car. And a new batch of neophytes bolted into ours.

As the mighty G headed towards Flushing Avenue we laughed as these people clawed at the door. The panicked expressions. The desperation. The smell. The hilarity.

This cycle repeated itself all the way to Smith and 9th. And as I took this, my last trip, on the F train I realized something: I found my home.

Greenpoint.

Miss Heather