I don’t know if you’ve heard: I hate the F train.
And here is yet another reason for my hate of said train.
Let’s take a look back at my Friday evening, shall we? It was not a good night. Much of that blame lands on the F train, although to be sure, a good portion must be allocated to the spiteful cosmos.
First of all I was feeling a bit off on my way to happy hour in midtown. When the place we wanted to go was packed with a million hour wait, Kathleen, David and I decided to head alllllllll the way uptown to their ‘hood in the hopes of wider drinking pastures.
There were still waits. It was inevitable. Friday was a gorgeous day: hot but dry with a breeze—perfection in the summertime. And so we waited there—way up there, above 100th on the west side.
And then I began to feel more than a little nauseous. To quote Lucille-Two, I sensed the “dizzies” coming, soon to be followed by a departure from consciousness on a Manhattan sidewalk.
I chose another way, only slightly more dignified: I tottered over to a low, filthy marble stoop and sat with my face on my knees.
It was attractive.
At one point, despite sitting down I was hit by yet another urge to leave the world behind. The street before my eyes dimmed, the sidewalk appeared to rock back and forth. Kathleen looked worried. David continued to bargain with the hostess a few yards away.
Once that wave of doom passed, I wondered if it would be worth getting up, walking back to the front of the restaurant and allowing myself to collapse right there. I mean, that would merit expedited seating, don’t you think?
What does all this have to do with the F train? Just wait for it. The F train is Act II.
As you may have astutely inferred, I never got to have my margarita. Other people had margaritas and nachos. I had diet Pepsi and water. And some rice.
After holding down our table for as long as possible, we headed back to a couch since clearly I would not be going out further that evening and was not yet ready to suffer the subway ride home.
At midnight, I toddle down to the 1 train. Despite inordinately loud and never-ending track announcements, my 1 train experience was lovely. The train came almost immediately and even though they were power washing (story of my life) at Columbus Circle, all was not bad. The D train came right along and I slipped into a coveted seat.
And then it happened. We pulled into 34rd street I suppose, just as an F did the same.
“Oh jolly,” I thought, “An F train, that will save me a few minutes on my walk home, and they never come. What luck.”
What disaster, you mean.
There I am all pleased with myself as the train leaves West 4th.
Then there I am wondering why we haven’t stopped yet.
And then, there we are pulling in to the C-E stop at Spring Street.
Not Broadway-Lafayette. Not Second Avenue. Not even Spring Street on the 6 track. Spring Street at Sixth Avenue.
I almost died right there on the train. Luckily, I managed to scramble out in an effort to minimize my disaster. There was nothing for it. I started to walk.
Did you know that the walk from that stop is nearly two miles to my apartment?
Recall that it is now 1 a.m. on a night during which I have already nearly passed out multiple times—due to not the slightest debauchery, I assure you.
I was haggard. I was gray. I was dragging my corpse-like body through territory far too trendy for me to have had to deal with in that moment. Heels were clacking, lines were roped off, I was cranky.
Why, you might ask, did I not take a cab?
Because I am poor. That is why I have a blog.
Obviously. If I was gainfully employed, would I have time to watch nearly every World Cup game and generally rant here all the time? No. I would not.
It was a bad night.