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The following is not actually part of The Subway Diaries (or any other Dreamscape) but it seemed to embrace the ethos (not to mention the setting) of the category so well, that we include it, here, for your enjoyment.


I sit, as it were (crouched, really, my back braced to a wall), in the twilight dawn of subway station X, the twilight dawn that stretches, dim, through all these lonely and darkened corridors during any period of the night, every night.

Can you feel the breeze? It comes noticeably from my left, from the north, ruffles my hair... would ruffle these pages were I to relax my hold. That’s the air pushed ahead through the tunnel by the next approaching train. And look! Up the track, still in the tunnel: two yellowish eyes come a’rattling and a’screeching its approach: a #9 train, heading south? Well, thankie much; don’t mind if I do.

Now I sit in another expanse, internal and metallic and mobile this time, descending the colon of the beast, a long smooth chromium turd sliding down down, to dump me downtown, as it were.

And Look! Stuttering through the girders and briefly glimpsed as they rattle past: every station a book-in-waiting, if only I would take the time and...

Ah. The ride smooths as we coast from 116 → 110 on steady rails and no propulsion, superconductive it feels, steady as the night. Now we slow, pause, ka-ching, doors open, souls descend and disembark, or vice versa, as the case may be... ding ding... "Stand clear of the closing door!" to lurch us on our way.


The yellow/orange plastic pre-formed curves designed to palm the average NY bum. (Or “transient,” as I believe correct terminology these days, or "unsavory," by others [Cam!...]). And my bum too! It could be Mickey Ds, in here, with the form-fitting molded orange and beige plastic of it. But listen!

A rush of air. A higher whine. The low-slung murmured gossip that animals make to pass the time, distract the mind, from the terminable darkness.

Oh, hark. Why have we stopped now? No tiled aquarium glow to be glimpsed, just blank blackness outside the scratched and plastic windows, maybe a hint of grimy tunnel wall pressed close up to the glass. But still... feel that? A hum. The deeper, burning, glowing surge of electricity held in check. Do any of us really know: the thrumming power that feeds the grid?

Oop, on the move again. And someone laughs as we lurch and leave the station (103rd). Out of 22 passengers in this car (yes, I counted) I am not the only caucasian. Another sits opposite and ½ way down, his chin propped on knee-propped fist… no socks, white t-shirt, shorts (it’s damned hot, remember). And me, now, as we arrive at 86th (“Stand clear of the closing doors…” ding...ding. Swoooooosh. Hummmm.) Yes me. I'm glad you asked: red socks, red t-shirt, khaki shorts… I write. For no apparent reason, I write. I am a “writer”, pen to paper, thus. But when I pause (which I don’t often) what then? For example, as we hit 79th and I glance up to take assessment… When I pause to lick the quill and look around. Still a writer? Definition unclear.

"Burden of Proof" (by Scott Turow) is the novel the man held; the man who (bearded, bespectacled, marching resolutely from one car to the next, bracing himself occasionally from swaying) passed, just now, in front of my knees and, for a moment, through the world of my perception and description…

Hark! 66th street… south, south and south some more we go (59th next). Ding ding.

… but am I still a writer then?

I am surrounded now it should be glumly noted. And it ain’t no fun. To my right, to my left, and above, hanging one arm on the crossbar. If one of these scurrilous fellows so much as side-eyes they can read every word and meta-word (and meta-meta-word) I scribe. Well, fuck ‘em all! To hell with them! I scribble on, undeterred, and determined, it might appear, to set a new, and, as yet unconceived record, to be the first, foremost and probably ONLY person to scribble virtually unceasingly from 125th Street (ah, respite from the prying eyes: 42nd Grand Central brings an equally grand exodus, a general emptying of the train, the good from the chaff, as it were [chaff, including me, left on board, as only those heading TRULY downtown stay] and I can breathe again with some space and lucidity and privacy around.) Yes UNCEASINGLY, is what I was saying, I shall pull meaning from the void and press it in ever tightening spirals and hieroglyphs to this page, to be exhumed someday and marveled at by future sociologists and historians alike. They will ogle and gasp, unable to believe, equally unable to deny: the only person, I propose, ever to write perpetually from 125th Street to Christopher Street, unstopping! AND, as 14th St is now behind us, it appears I might just make it since Christopher is next and no more power outages in sight. Still, man plans and god laughs and when's the last time a power outage was predicted never mind spotted, so I won't count it yet, not yet, but now! The train slows! The aquarium glow. Most importantly, I can’t miss my stop (that would be a disastrous and dastardly turn of events). CHRISTOPHER STREET. Ding ding. Jayson, out!

The Subway Diaries i (36/85)

April 4, 1996

Choose a different dreamscape

So this is a surprise: an unexpected and unprecedented turn of events: Me, heading to work, on a Wednesday! What up with that? I’ll tell you, gentle reader.

[Side note: Yes! I am in heaven! Waiting tentatively ( since my forward front-of-the-train technique proved so disheartening + soundly defeated) near the MIDDLE of the platform now (ready, like a defensive linebacker, to break in either direction…) and along comes one of the most beautiful (to my eyes) old-fashioned, full-length trains! Quickly, taking advantage, I scurried to the very rear of the platform and was patiently waiting when the doors dinged and slid open to a virtually deserted rear car! Oh Joy!! I write, noiw, in glorious seclusion with ZERO fear of jostling or compromising the private, sacred nature of these profound words. 

Anyway, Angelo called out sick, Eduardo called out sick (or whatever), Nancy called me. Since we do the big ‘Double Move,’ on Friday, I opted to acquiesce to her request and partake in the Wed. ritual of trafficking vitals in the hope that Friday will find me free for the day…

“I can come in today,” I said, “And I’d be glad to come in today regardless of your response to my following request…”

“Yes?” More than a hint of irritation, already.

“Well you see, hem, haw, I could really, er, that is Friday night… ah…”

“We’ll see.”


[Side note: Now we’re frozen at Grand Central – all engines idling, all systems neutralized – allows added “write time” but decreases, proportionally, my probability of getting to work on time. Fuck it! I will write on!]

At times, lately, it’s as though the words are being pushed out of the pen and I just wag + wiggle my aching wrist in a desperate attempt to keep up…

So we gear up, now, for the final and most crucial leg of our residential marathon. Friday (two days from now) we move, w/movers, all our stuff from E 7th St to W 73rd, AND THEN, all Robert’s (parent’s) stuff from W. 73rd to 29th + 10th, Manhattan Mini Storage. If this double debacle meets no opposition, I will consider us officially “in” and finally my nervousness and agitation will abate. The bed, which may arrive then, or soon after, will symbolize the final piece to the puzzle of our plan and act as the final (a better metaphor by far) tumbler falling into place + locking us into this deal. And an incontestable good deal it is. Pretty much permanent and unalterably affordable rent in the spacious apartment on probably the most desired block (by young, hip, folk) in Manhattan – who can complain?

We’ll see. All this is contingent upon so much… but at the very least we’ve had an adventure of it. We got some furniture too, some clothes. We found the ‘Mad Money.’

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