A Sub-Par Way

By Sean McVeigh

I’m blessed with a pretty wonderful commute these days. While I no longer have to go into the city every day, I’m occasionally lured into Manhattan’s warm, smelly, dirty embrace — if only to justify continuing to live within the NYC limits.

I’m about as pro-ferry as a guy can get. But depending on where you’re going, it’s not always the most efficient option. Why spend an hour on the ferry and then hop on a train for 45 minutes when I could just take one train for 50 minutes? That — plus my wife’s occasional aversion to sailing the high seas of Jamaica Bay — led me to suggest the B train for our latest Midtown adventure.

Back when I still commuted into Manhattan (before I came to my senses), the B train was my daily ride. Since this was a weekday, I figured things would go smoothly.

We flew down the Belt Parkway — some would say the reason to avoid the B train altogether — and found a parking spot right on E15th Street.

The walk to the station is always a little tense. You can hear when a train’s coming. When I’m alone, I’ll sprint for it. But the group I was with wasn’t built for speed. I approached the platform with bated breath, listening for the click-clack of a Manhattan-bound train … silence. We beat every train.

Which can be a bad thing. Did we just miss one?

Nope — here comes a Q. We let that go. You won’t catch me on a Q train on a weekday. My time is too precious.

Right behind it, a B train rolled in — perfect! Or not. The conductor was hanging out the window, shouting. Click-clack. At first, we couldn’t hear him. Click-clack. Why is everyone turning around? Click-clack. Then we made it out: “B train service is suspended! Take the Q!”

We joined the mass shuffle across the platform. I wasn’t thrilled, but what can you do? Another 30 minutes of travel time won’t kill us. Let’s just settle in.

Four stops later, the conductor came over the PA: we’d be sitting at Avenue M for a while — stalled train at Dekalb. We eventually crept forward, but with frequent stops and long pauses. The announcements didn’t help:

“No Manhattan-bound B train service due to an electrical issue.”
“Q trains are experiencing extreme delays.”
“Repent, for the end is nigh.”

Stuff along those lines.

To make matters worse, the Q started filling up like a can of hot, sweaty sardines.

When we reached Prospect Park, the conductor dropped the big one:
“This is the last stop. Q service is suspended. Take the Shuttle train across the platform to transfer to the A.”

The sardine can burst open and tried to pour itself into a much smaller one. If you’re from Rockaway, you already know: the shuttle is not a full-sized train. Fewer cars, less space. So this overstuffed can of hot and late New Yorkers tried to cram into the clown car of trains. We managed to elbow our way on — not everyone was so lucky — and there we sat. Doors open. Occasionally, someone tried to squeeze in, prompting shouts of “Moron!” in nine different languages. It was a very “New York” moment.

Then finally, the sweetest phrase in NYC transit:
“Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

And … nothing. The doors didn’t close. Long pause. Then:
“Q train across the platform is back in service.”

All hell broke loose.

People flooded in every direction. We had to choose: stay on the mystery shuttle heading who-knows-where, or return to the same Q train that had just failed us at every turn. We chose the Q. We’ll never know if that was the right move. It probably was not.

The Q got rerouted onto the local R line. We inched through Brooklyn and into Manhattan, stopping more often between stations than at them.

Two hours later, we finally schlepped into our station.

I don’t know how people do that commute every day. Maybe you get used to it over time. But a day like this will sneak up on you — and crush your soul.

But this one’s on me. I broke the golden rule: never leave the peninsula in the summer for pleasure — only for business. That’s unforgivable. Some people just can’t be taught. I had to relearn that lesson the hard way.

Let’s hope I don’t forget it again. But if I do, it’ll be on the ferry.