Today’s Catch 22 Has Been Brought To You By The MTA Of New York City
I just realized that taking the express train that runs into Manhattan, from The Bronx, in the morning is completely useless to me. First let me back up, I forget not everyone is familiar a subways system on the day-to-day basis like I am. Some train lines have 4 tracks, where certain trains run express and always skips certain stops and then there are others that have 3 tracks and the trains only runs express into Manhattan in the morning and out of it in the evening. I live near the latter. The downtown express trains stop running around noon, but honestly, with the MTA (money taking administration), you never know. I’ve allowed locals to pass to wait for an express train that never came. And that was at 9:45 or so, but I digress.
If I were to walk the 2 block to the local stop near my house, it would take me about 4.37 minutes. (I give you a decimal because more often then not, I do a 500 meter dash the last block and a half because I see the train arriving at the station, at the tracks above my head.) If I were to walk to the the express stop which is 5 blocks away, it would take about 10 minutes AND there’s a good chance I’d see one or two local trains pass in that time. Then when I get to the express stop, there will be a local train that I’ll let pass because I can see the express train in the distance. By the time I’m on the express train, we arrive at the next express stop, the local train is still ahead of me, meaning those other two local trains, from earlier, already passed where I need to be to transfer to the next train at 125th Street. Two minutes after I get to 125, on the express train, that local train is right behind it and the connecting train hasn’t come yet.
All that dancing in The Bronx was naught, I would have been better off just taking a local train to begin with. I’m sure I lost about 5-9 minutes…that’s a lot to New Yorkers. It’s just that when you’re on a local and you see an express pass you by, you feel defeated like the subway slot machine dealt you lemons. Crap. It’s like every verse of Alanis Morisette’s “Ironic.” I now know not to be swayed by images of stop-skipping Bronx trains, they’re all sizzle, no steak.