Dear N Q R W L B D F M G J W L 7 1 2 3 4 5 6 and the 42nd Street Shuttle,
We had something beautiful in the beginning. Walking down your sturdy stairs filled me with excitement, and I welcomed your steamy embrace every time. Some called it suffocating — I called it a free sauna.
You attracted musicians and bucket-drum aficionados into your great concrete halls. I remember your scribbles, obscene cartoons and pillars decorated with tasteful graffiti that read “Kony 2012.” I should have seen the red flags earlier, but I was blinded by your presence. Though it could have been the urine and sulfur. Either way, I lost my eyesight for a while there.
Your screech of metal was music to my ears. Your car trains were lively, sometimes packed with hundreds of commuters who squeezed together to wrap me in their warm and sweaty embrace. I realized I wasn’t the only one. Everyone rode you. I used to marvel at how you took my breath away, but now I see I actually couldn’t breathe; your air conditioning units were down for the day.
You took me for granted. You kept me waiting, promising to show up in the next two minutes but taking 20 instead. You showed me your dirty side. You and your questionable fluids, your rat kings and fist-sized cockroaches. Your BDFM line was the last slimy straw.
It’s time for me to go, even though it pains me to say goodbye. I will walk up your gum-lined stairs and feel the fresh air in my lungs once again. There will be no pole-swinging teenagers or creepy guys readily available in the upper atmosphere. But it’s time for me to meet other commutes, maybe the ferry or a Citi Bike. In other words:
This line has been permanently closed. I apologize for the inconvenience,
Angry New Yorker
Email Laura Rubio at [email protected]