J-Train

July 29, 2005

I helped my friend, Dusty, move last night. It wasn't a major move or anything, just a few boxes from an apartment down the block from mine, to a new one a mile down the road. Her former landlord is a Hasidic boozer who chain-smoked and drank cheap beer as he watched over us. "Watch the paint," he said, as I carried something through the doorway. "It's still wet. It's brand new paint."

"Okay," I assured him. "Don't worry."

I carried another box through the doorway.

"Watch the paint."

And another.

"Careful. It's brand new paint."

"Not any newer than the last time you said that.”

Once we'd amassed a large pile of belongings on the curbside, I began cramming it all into the back of my Jeep. My friend went upstairs to give her apartment one final check. When I had most of the things packed, I looked at her Cello. She didn't have a case for it, and I paused to consider how to pack it so that it wouldn't smash to bits. As I stood there, the girl returned carrying a lamp with a crystal base. "This is the only thing that's kind of delicate for us to worry about," she said, putting the lamp down on the sidewalk.

"What about your Cello?" I asked, holding it carefully. "This is kind of delicate, don't you think?"

"Uh. Yeah. Kind of. I guess. Whatever. Don't worry about it."

"You rock and rollers, you're all the same,” I said.

I found the safest spot available for the cello and the lamp and shut the door.

Dusty’s new apartment is a large loft on Broadway in Williamsburg, near the base of the Bridge. When we pulled up, she pointed it out from the street. "That's my place, right there."

I looked up and saw her bedroom window open directly in front of the elevated J train. "What's it like when the train passes by?" I asked.

"It's not so bad," she said.

She shares the place with two roommates. They were in the middle of eating Chinese food when we arrived, and didn't seem interested in helping us unload. I couldn't blame them. After I was introduced, I asked them how long they'd been living there. "About a month," they said.

"What's it like when the train passes by?" I asked.

Like Dusty, they answered the question quietly, "It's not so bad."

They shared a bedroom in the back of the building, so who knows, for them it might've been true.

Just as we’d finished unloading and I sat down to have a drink of water, I could feel the low rumble as the train approached.. Suddenly, an explosive blast of air blew curtains open. The floor vibrated, and Dusty’s fragile lamp swayed —clickitty-clack clickitty-clack clickitty-clack.

"I guess you get used to it," I said, almost yelling, over the fading rumble.

"Yeah," Dusty said, flatly.

"At least, if you're late for work, you can just jump out the window and hop on the train."

“Huh, yeah.”

How many times do you think they’re going to be hearing that joke?