Memories from the F Train

Mass transit in any city will offer many opportunities for its users to rub elbows with types you wouldn’t normally meet. From beggars and conmen to entertainers, loud talkers, nosy people, and freaks, New York transit promises more than a passing chance of having an exchange of some sort on the train. On a balmy spring night in 2000 I had an encounter on the subway that solidified for me the reasons I love this stinky old town.

Admittedly, it had been a long night of drinking and I should have returned home hours earlier. I had had my fill and then some. As is usual at that late hour, I had to wait much longer than I would have liked for the F train to Brooklyn. Seeing as I had only $1.00 and some change the possiblity of taking a cab was nil so I steadied myself and focused on the rats running around the tracks beneath the platform in order to avoid falling asleep on my feet.

When the F train finally arrived I found a nearly empty car. That’s not too unusual for a weeknight. With my bags secured upon my lap and my eyes starting to droop I heard a sound. It was a lovely sound coming from a young, black man seated katy korner to me. I can’t get it out of my head. He was of a medium height, medium build, and he wore a nondescript sweater. He carried nothing. No hat or cup or tin for donations. I could have sworn that he had been quietly seated on the train when I boarded at Rockefeller Center. Nonetheless, out of nowhere came this glorious, honey coated voice singing “Over the Rainbow”. The two sleeping bums and the necking couple paid no attention to his wistful performance. After singing he announced to the passengers that he wanted no money. He had moved here from Kentucky and this was his last night in New York. Disappointed about his experience here, he was heading back home. He explained how much he loved New York and was sad to leave, but his luck was down and money had run out. “I don’t want your money or your pity,” he said, “I just want to go home and truthfully be able to tell my friends that I sang in New York.” He then proceeded to sing all the way to Delancey Street. Not only did he have a beautiful voice but he had the heart to make his schmaltzy selections seem like no one else had ever or could ever have sung them before.

“I sang in New York.” What a dream. So many of us secretly harbor such dreams and in my mind he fulfilled it. (As a side note, I did insist that he take my last dollar so he could tell his friends that he got paid to sing in New York.) What is even more amazing to me is the number of people fulfilling that same dream for spare change under the streets of the city every day. The performers run the gamut from classical musicians, dance and conceptual performance pieces, acrobats, soapbox preachers, and a myriad of singers and musicians celebrating the sounds of their cultural heritage. Even the panhandlers and conmen toting carts of cheap batteries and plastic toys from Taiwan have their own entertainment value, however annoying and tiresome they can be at times. Living and travelling in New York can be like spending your day in one of the dirtiest and yet most sublime circuses on Earth. Dreams and nightmares are on display here twenty-four hours a day. At any given moment, you can participate in any number of them, just by being there to bear witness.