Subway Time

How to seize your New York City. 

By Tierney Smink

Illustration by Vanessa Zhou

I was sitting on the subway, minding my own business a little too well. My earphones crammed into my ears, cancelling out the noise around me, and my nose stuck into my book of the week. There was no one sitting next to me; it was a late Thursday night, so it made sense. The only other person in my vicinity was a man sitting diagonally across from me. At first glance, he seemed slightly forgettable: a trench coat, leather boots, and a black briefcase. A tight, close-cut hairstyle.

As if in slow motion, I noticed his hand reach out toward me, extending a curled finger, like he was going to poke me. He tapped the spine of my book. Once, twice. My head snapped up, blood rushing to my face, and panicked thoughts bouncing through my head. I paused my music.

“Sorry to bother you, but what are you reading?”

So I had freaked out about nothing. Still harmless. Swallowing the lump lodged in my throat, I reluctantly responded. “My Brilliant Friend. It’s pretty good.”

I looked back down almost immediately, still mildly uncomfortable. But I stuck to my unfazed façade—earphones back in, open book still in hand. Most importantly, eyes down. Don’t make eye contact. 

It hadn't even been 30 seconds, but I could already feel his eyes crawling over me, tightening a defense mechanism in my chest. I felt caught between wanting to shrink into the subway seat and wanting to bare my teeth at him. I glanced up again, startled: The man was still staring at me. His unnervingly green eyes pinned me in place. As soon as I accidentally made eye contact with him, his lips parted. He hesitated, then spoke, slicing through the comforting hum of the subway.

“You’re really pretty. You have gorgeous eyes.”

I felt dumbfounded. How was I supposed to react to this? Part of me, in some strange way, felt flattered. The way he said it though, didn’t feel like a compliment. My face burned a violent shade of pink, and I couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment, flattery, or fear. All I could think about is that I was utterly alone. Down here, 49 feet below ground level, without cell reception, I was defenseless.

“Thank you.” Thank you? Really, Tierney? 

I looked back at my book. He was still staring at me. My book lay motionless in my lap, my palms sweating against the paper and clinging to the pages. My heart was pounding, like a drumline hooked to my chest. 

I lowered my gaze and raised the book higher, building a flimsy wall to block my view of him. I took a deep breath, slow and shaky, watching the tiled blur of the tunnel flash by. His unsettling fingers drifted toward my book again and tapped the cover. 

“Sorry to bother you again, but can we chat? I’d love to have a conversation.” 

Almost confused, I looked at him. I knew what I wanted to say, but the courage to do it felt stuck under my tongue. He inched closer to me, smiling; I felt breathless.

“No.”

I said it without thinking. A moment of realization through action. 79th Street Station. My music was still paused. I heard nothing but the roar of my thoughts. Luckily, at the last second, the conductor’s voice cut through the static, and I bolted, darting off onto the platform just as the doors slid shut behind me.

…

The early February wind was whipping around the buildings, seeping into my sweatpants and sweatshirt. I turned my music back on, letting it carry me through my walk to the hotel. The wind cools my hands, filling my lungs with fresh air. I walk slower with each breath. Despite my initial fear, in my reaction, I discovered that I had grown.

The first time I exited the subway downtown is etched into my memory; the buildings towering above me, impossibly tall, as I followed my fellow lacrosse recruits—and soon-to-be-friends—toward Bryant Park in December. The smell of freshly-fried Oreos, grilled cheese, and hot chocolate wafted up into my nose. Young kids skidded across the ice, shrieking for their parents, and the sounds of camera shutters provided a constant baseline. 

Nothing makes you feel more insignificant and more acutely aware of your surroundings. It reminds you that the world is bigger than you are, how many lives brush past yours within a single block. Hundreds of strangers cross through your eyesight in minutes. And slowly, almost without noticing, the city starts to desensitize you. Soon enough, you are weaving through crowds like they’re moving in slow motion. Where I was once fearful, I grew numb. What used to feel like quests—tasks, trips, tiny journeys that seemed so daunting to the past version of me—soon became routine. 

Something small, like the uncomfortable interaction you have with an older man on the subway, helps you realize that the current version of yourself is now dramatically different from the version of yourself three months ago. Unexpectedly, what you needed to recognize change was a moment of fear. New York City, as much as it takes from you, has given you something irreplaceable: your independence.

This city is your day, and you are seizing it.