I peeled my face off my phone this morning and noticed eight people slumped in the subway sleeping, each person spaced just about evenly through the car – an old one with the red, yellow and orange seats; the faux wood paneling.
One, a hipster in a blue peacoat and brown desert boots who clutched the canvas knapsack on his lap. He roused himself near 125th Street and headed above ground.
The others, well, they at least looked homeless, hunched in a light blue pleather jacket, bulging workboots, a natty patchwork skirt under a brown trench coat.
with layers. Too many layers on a 70-degree day. Black winter coats over hoodies with scarves dangling to the floor.
This must be the quiet car.
The A Train at 9:30 am may be the ideal subway for sleeping as it completes its route from Far Rockway to Inwood with long, uninterrupted periods between a few stops. The cars rock gently, squeak lightly as the train whooshes under Central Park. Too early for Showtime, too late for work. Out of the shelter and down underground.
With bags. Shopping bags on the nearby seat or on the floor, tucked under the chair.
The ideal subway for sleeping. What amenities. What solitude.
An old woman in an inflated beret like a bowling ball rested her head on her chest and tried to sleep.