The absolutely inexplicable moment of arriving in Grand Central Terminal is always the same. Some deity or notion of class has existed there since it’s erection in 1913. The antiquated grace, much forgotten long ago by many architects & inhabitants of new york city still remains, as if it were stuck in the history of new york city’s commuter past, unable to open it’s mind to the flux and change of the world’s starvation for silver and shine. It’s elegance is unparalleled to just about anything i have ever seen. usually this feeling of glamour is quickly stripped away, and i immediately head for the lexington avenue subway (4,5,6) and immediately return to brooklyn. i decided upon my exit from the metro-north today, walking through the middle of grand central, staring up at the stars, considering romantic notions lost in the last 1800′s, to this time take a different route, and hold onto my experience of a more historical viewpoint of manhattan for a little while longer. the shuttle train from grand Central to times square seemed the perfect route. i rarely actually walk through times square, swallowed whole by consumerism in every cement crack, and so figured staying underground was the safest bet for this venture. as soon I turned the corner on to where one is directed to board the train, i was awe struck. i don’t believe i had ever set foot there prior to this- the load bearing poles in the station, decorated with green and red ribbons, a 10-foot bit of space where the children can go to visit santa claus (and I am assuming also his reindeers, though at the time I saw neither.) and last but not least, perhaps one of the more rare sightings in nyc- the platform for boarding the train started 30 feet into the actual waiting area- allowing you to see the very front of the train as it rolls into the station- Magic!
I boarded the train, after taking multiple photographs of it’s full face before me. it was empty, for a moment. The conductor, a shorter fellow, scruffy, very much reminiscent of the hard working nyc aesthetic came out, and locked his control room behind him. in his absence, tourists poured in. the entire train was filled, children sitting on children laughing, a man singing like maria carey for tips; conversations of the holidays resounded everywhere. the conductor shuffled back in and slowly made his way back to the control room, “excuse me folks, excuse me, behind you.” it was a struggle on his part to say nonetheless. I was seated with the torsos of at least fifty tourists around me. the doors closed, and the train ride took not more than two minutes.
“Is this where we get off?” families started asking other families.
“It’s the only stop.” locals mumbled.
I waited for the train to empty out a bit before exiting. My feet placed firmly in the door of the train I looked down to see perhaps the widest gap between train and platform that could be even remotely legal. It nearly resembles a moat, and building a bridge between them wouldn’t have been the worst idea. the explanation for such a wide gap took not too long to put together, as i rationalized that perhaps the trains were wider, if not even one hundred years ago, but perhaps twenty, before trains resembled silver bullets.
the train once again i noticed, had ended where you could see the very front of it if you were to walk around to it, and the platform curved on, aligned precisely with the train, as seen very rarely in nyc, where pedestrians were allowed to walk as if you were to follow the train into the dark tunnel for a while before coming onto to a pair of steps to the outside world; a majestic sight in it’s own right.
to get from the shuttle to the a train in times square is quite a maze, and also, apparently an adventure, in which i am lead to believe i walked at least a mile underground, up stairs and then down stairs, ramps, and curved hallways, all very apparently redone in the 1990′s or later, unlike where i exited the train into an untouched 1904, where the first subway train in new york ever ran, i am lead to believe that perhaps it was even from that exact platform i had earlier described.
On my journey through the station, there were hundreds of tourists, a tribute beatles band called “The Meetles”, screen advertisements placed into the walls, shiny shiny shiny and various popular shops for temporary strap-hangers to wander into, as if the shopping couldn’t wait until they exited out to the times square sidewalk, which is much akin to walking through some kind of downtown tokyo daydream. a young man played a rendition of honky tonk women in one of the tunnels headed towards port authority, there was a lapse in stores and the environment shifted into long tunnels with tile art, portraits of kids in scarves and families with smiles on their faces (“us! whoa! it’s us walking through the tunnels, how quaint!” is the message i think they were attempting to send.) one tunnel couldn’t see the end of another, so by maze, i really i do mean it felt like one. Towards the end a particular left leaning maze, i heard a beautiful sound- beethoven perhaps, no, not beethoven, i said to myself… i was waiting to turn the corner, expecting a gentleman perhaps in his late 20′s, early 30′s playing a keyboard with perfection, i began to turn my ears to where the sound was coming from, walking faster….
i turn the corner and see a mass of people crowding around the musician, and walk to the front only to see the smallest young boy, with a suit and bow-tie, playing a keyboard raised not even two feet from the floor. five feet away, dressed exactly the same, is his father, an italian, ushering peoples attention to his boys jar which i am assuming was overflowed with oohs and aaahs taken the form of cold hard cash. I watched for a moment, smiling and perhaps, admittedly, shedding a single or perhaps two tears at the sight of immense talent in a person so young before continuing en route to the a train, past tile-people and real people, down further more stairs, until i arrived to the platform. Everything once again, felt overwhelming normal-looking.
people were tired and holding bags. i was one of them, though my various sets of awe-striking moments had woken me up a bit more than what their faces projected.
The train pulled onto the station, and i sat, as most new yorkers do, with eyes peeled to the floor, staring at peoples shoes.
this is when memory took hold.
when i was a young child, growing up in bay ridge brooklyn, i rode the trains quite frequently, every day in fact. They were silver-ish and dirty and had chairs and poles, and often were the base of many graffiti artists come and gone. every so often, my mother and i would visit her sister, to do this we took the 7 train to flushing. It was my favorite train in all the world to ride, as this was for one particular reason: it was old. it was red. and it slightly resembled a submarine. On it’s interiors, were moss colored seats, and a colored tile floor which was very easily dirtied. riding in this train as a child felt as if i were in the very early 1900′s going on a very important journey. it was a novelty i could understand at even such a young age.
These trains no longer exist anywhere in new york city, and i must wonder where they’ve all went, lost and gone, re-done and used for parts, history traded out for new smells, gutted of their art and human presence. the trains i rode daily, were all covered in art, people came and left and their marked stayed behind- the history of graffiti in america didn’t need a book to be catalogued, all that one needed was to ride the train out to the depot and look at them all, far from shining, and proud.
todays trains are the perfect example of the consumerist need for sterility in america. broken things are no longer fixed, they’re replaced. to feel comfortable in any atmosphere you have to feel as if you were the first person to discover it. white-washed, clean, and shine, as if those somehow represented our souls, which they are far from. silver bullets screeching into stations of white tile, despite the dirt and tread of daily life, any marking made by another person in the form of art of revolt is immediately removed, scratched windows promptly replaced as so the city’s messages are never seen. when did our need for sterile and polished arrive to such a degree? that everywhere we walk must be scrubbed clean of personality? we, as people, are touched by everything. marked by experience, scarred by traumas, scrawled all over in poems, and yet- the general public asks only for silver silver shine and shine, that decorum is a lack of humanity having ever passed through it, as if each perfectly polished train held the silent message: “Don’t worry, no one has ever been here.” it would almost appear to such a person as myself that these people are partially attempting to clear themselves of all their histories and art- to once again become “sterile” despite having not even been born that way.
Riding the trains as a child, everything was touched- some left with important messages, some far from, but to ride a train, to take in all the art, was to be a part of something bigger than yourself, to be in the artistry of new york, the history of new york, the heart beat.
If, ”The city changes more quickly than the human heart” scrawled by Baudelaire were to be
found on the window or the door of a train, it would be quickly erased and wiped away as if the words were not so holy and truthful. the fingerprints of mankind go erased, history is replaced by new shine, but never mind with polish, replacement has become the key to this new consumerism, and being the largest city in the world, new york city’s apple has no choice but to absorb it all..
but i, and you, and baudelaire can never be replaced,
and the red trains never erased from memory.
