Left Hand Karma - Portfolio and Blog of a Freelance Web Developer living, working and playing in New York City

I don’t drink coffee. When I wake up, I enjoy watching other people rush past me to the corner store to satiate their craving for the molten hot, albeit highly aromatic, bean-based liquid. Likewise my decision making is free from the burden of deciding how many creams or sugars I need in my cup that day in order to fool myself into believing that coffee is actually satisfying on its own. I mean honestly, if you are going to pour that much extra shit into your “coffee” you might as well throw out that edition of The Wall Street Journal you are carrying, pick up the a copy of The Daily News and punch yourself in the face.

Anyway, I have bigger things to worry about when I walk out my door in the AM. My commute to work offers me the chance to perform a mini triathlon every morning, setting the pace for the rest of my day. Much like a person who doesn’t get the minimum number of coffees to function properly, if I under perform at any point during the race, if I falter or lose a single step, my day is ruined. The choices I make here are probably the biggest decisions I will face all day, beginning with the decision to take either the bus or subway to work. It might not seem like an important decision, but if I choose correctly I will make it to the next leg of my commute that much quicker, avoiding that uncomfortable standing around phase, and be in a better position to fight through the next leg. It’s a game time decision. You can’t simply wake up and decide right away that you are taking the train. You have to be open to both and be comfortable with running to either, as the bus schedule is erratic and the G train is shorter then Scotty Pippen’s rap career.

I see the bus as I round the corner and break into a sprint just in time to catch it at the next stop. The bus continues to make stops as I wait impatiently, my eyes fluttering anxiously out the window. The person next to me recognizes the anguish in my face as we stop for the eleventy billionth time, currently letting off the elderly couple who have just ruined my record-breaking pace. We share a moment together as we realize we are both just numbers on the mundane route the driver goes through on a daily basis. We reach our stop and a mass quickly forms at the door, ready to shoot out of the bus like sperm on prom night. We unload and head towards the Subway stop, ignoring any traffic that is foolish enough to try and get through, and we flow down the stairs, anxious to start the second phase of the event.

This section I relate to the Swim part of a Triathlon, as it deals with a mass of other commuters, all hungry and competing for their position on the crowded subway. You can wait for the spot you know would let you off closest to your next train, but sacrifice getting on board right away, or accept the 50 yard walk to the less-crowded tail end and just get on the damn thing. I hurry down the steps to see the train has already pulled up to the platform, and I shoot a glance down to catch if my spot is clear. Damn, a school of people all wearing hoodies, black coats, skinny jeans and designer glasses are huddled around my spot, no doubt aware that they are in perfect position for the final segment. My mind flashes and I decide to book it towards the caboose. I have no time to spare as I sprint around the corner of the steps and try to make it to the Mecca at the end of the platform. I hear the warning bells of the cars echoing down the hallway, signaling that the sliding doors are about to close and that my time is up. The people are a blur as I pass by them, huddled around the entrances like salmon trying to swim up river. All I need is an open spot in the last car, a little bit of room, one chance to preserve my time. I run blindly forward, a deer escaping the pursuit of a predator, and approach the last door of the train. I flail myself mercilessly into the car, squirming in between the people, creating just enough space for my body so that I won’t get caught in the jaws of the doors. I realize my bag is protruding out the side, and maneuver it just enough around me and the large hispanic women to my left as the doors slam shut, smiling as I know my position among the other racers is secure. For now.

The Air Conditioning is a Godsend for the people on the train, even in the winter. I am all but sweating at this point from the early morning exertion and the layers holding my heat in. I have no place to put my hands except above me, testing my deodorants claims of a satisfaction guarantee. I’m somewhat comfortable for this leg of the trip, despite the extremely close proximity to my neighbors. I feel protected, enclosed nicely between people whose other body’s offer a cushion against the bumps and turbulence of the train as we speed under the East River. But it’s not over. From here I face the last leg of the race, the last surge before I surface from the tunnels and make my way to the finish line. The announcement alerts us of our upcoming stop at Union Square and we all prepare ourselves to disembark. The doors open and it’s as if the dam gates have been let loose; people flood onto the platform and exhume all the space. Like smoke escaping the fire of a burning house I make my way off the train, I’m the first to get out, yet I emerge at the very end of the platform and have to travel through the swamp of fellow commuters, eager to get to their next destination. Streams begin to develop of people going in similar directions and we slowly make our way to the stairs that lead us to the next train, stacked on after each other like dominoes. I abort my plan and decide to take the closest set up to the next level, leaving me further away from the next train but escaping from the masses and hurry towards the downtown R/W line. I know this next train is scheduled to arrive right when the L does, so I hastily nestle between the slow walkers and stride forward. I see the exit gates but quickly formulate that it would be quicker to catch the train, even if I missed the first one, then to walk so I hurry down to the platform just as the doors of the train are closing. I quietly swear to myself as I rush to the door, pleading with the glass window to let one last passenger in. I hang my head in sorrow as I step back from the window, wiping my perspiring forehead from the agonizing defeat that the morning has wrought on me. I turn to my left to see a man stuck in the doors, and a glimmer of hope shines through my eyes as I turn towards the conductor. A miracle! The doors open and I rain inside the car with a whoosh of air. I turn around to rub it in the window’s face that turned me down, and see a woman rush up to it with a look of dispair as it closes just out of her reach. Only 1 lucky person per door ma’am, I thought to myself, and this one is mine. I can’t help but let out a heavy sigh as we make our way to 8th st, acknowledging the fact that I pulled a fast one on a system that rarely rewards perseverance.

I emerge from the tunnel to a slight drizzle, nothing I wouldn’t expect for a day like today, but nonetheless, excited to be outside once again. I check my watch and see that it is 9:33am. Right on time, I said, no need to hurry after all. On a good day like today, I catch all modes of transportation and complete the dramatic triathlon in under 30mins. Compared with the hour and a half commute some of my co-workers have to digest, I don’t mind a little exercise in the morning. My stomach growls a bit and I pause to decide what to eat. I think I have time for a bagel today, I say to myself, satisfied that I am only 33 minutes late, with a top 5 finishing time from the triathlon and that I deserve a reward. I cross the street and wave to the men inside the breakfast cart on the corner. No need to tell them my order, as it’s always the same. They recognize me as the guy who always orders 2 eggs and cheese on an everything bagel. They always ask, but I always tell them; no coffee.