It was a quarter after midnight last night when I boarded the A train at 168th Street and Broadway, after an ER shift. As I looked around the train car, I noted that, like many nights when I leave Washington Heights at this hour, my fellow riders were all men, and all minorities. I had a moment of irrational fear as I sat down, knowing that while I have to be vigilant the truth was that many of these men were hard-working people, likely coming off their night shifts as well.
There were only about 8 of us in that car; two were homeless men. One of these men was familiar to me; I had seen him around the hospital on and off for the last 18 months and had begun to call him George in my head. Although I’ve given him money from time to time, I have never had the chance to ask him his name. He’s either walking past me, or I’m walking past him, or we’re at different ends of the A train car. George looks to be in his 50s, tall and thin, with short dreads that eminate only from the sides of his head like tufts. Last night was particularly cold, and George was wearing a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and house slippers. He had no socks, and no coat. He was in a sort of fetal position trying to sleep, with his hood pulled over his head almost covering up his eyes. He had no bags with him. Come to think of it, George never carries anything with him.
At 155th street, another thin, tall, 50-something man, this one in a fancy long navy wool coat, dark jeans, and shiny black dress shoes, boarded the train and sat down not too far from George. The man had a brown paper bag in his hand through which a dark colored aluminum can stuck out. He was taking sips through a straw. Once the doors closed, he looked around with glazed eyes and said to no one in particular, “It is Thursday night, and we are in the greatest city in the whole world. This is NOT Philly, people. This is New York City!”
After this he serenaded us all the way down to Penn Station with broken songs ranging from the Four Seasons to Alecia Keys. I wondered if George was bothered by the singing.
Just the night before, I was at the Met to see Carmen. It was the first time I have ever been to the opera, and I couldn’t help but think that I had made it! I was finally living the life I had always dreamed of as a girl. It might be strange, but I had always know I wanted to live in New York City and dreamed of a life filled with gallery openings, amazing restaurants, intelligent company, and of course the Opera. Only in the dream I had a job which required me always to wear suits, not scrubs.
Anyway, at the opera my companion and I were gushing about how much we loved New York and couldn’t imagine a more perfect New York City experience. The shimmering lights of Lincoln Center, the handsome men in tuxedos, the $5 bottle of water we purchased — this was all part of our city. And it was true, I loved every moment of it.
So last night on the train, when the well dressed drunk man tried and failed to hit a high note in a ballad I couldn’t quite make out, and George stirred from his sleep to look over at where the racket was coming from, I couldn’t help but smile when I thought about how incredibly interesting, and how amazingly different, were these last two nights in my city. I had, indeed, made it.
Half way...where? 