The L train stopped dead somewhere under the East River on Tuesday and the lights flickered off and the whole car did that collective New York sigh. That sigh is the closest thing this city has to a group prayer.
We were stuck for twenty minutes. No announcements. Just the dark and the heat and thirty strangers becoming reluctantly aware of each other.
Here is the thing about the L train specifically — it carries a very particular crowd between Williamsburg and the city, all of us performing effortlessness in expensive-looking clothes we mostly thrifted. So when the lights went and nobody could pose anymore, something loosened.
The woman next to me — mid-thirties, incredible boots, tired eyes — laughed and said, "Of course. Of course this is happening today." And I said, "Rough one?" and she said, "You have no idea," and then somehow told me a version of her entire week.
Job interview. Bad date the night before. A cat with a vet bill.
I had a box of matthi in my bag, the little savory crackers my roommate's mom sends, and I offered her one because that is simply what you do when someone is having a week. My mother trained me. You feed the sad ones.
She ate three. Said they were the best thing she'd had all day, which given her day was maybe not a high bar, but I took the compliment.
The L train lurched back to life eventually and the lights came on and everyone immediately went back to being strangers. We got off at Bedford and she said, "Thank you for the crackers and the free therapy," and disappeared into the crowd going up the stairs.
I'll probably never see her again. That's the deal here. You get these little intimacies, whole conversations in the dark under a river, and then the city swallows both of you back up.
But I think about how a broken L train made the day better, not worse.
Always carry snacks. You never know whose day you'll save.
Love,