As I drag my ass through my morning routine, I look at the clock. I am running late, which means that, instead of walking to work, I need to take the subway two stops, to 42nd street. Taking the subway will make up for hitting snooze too many times.
There is a sort of game-show mentality that comes over me as I swipe my MetroCard at 23rd Street. Which train will come? The E or the C? Same mode of transportation, yet worlds apart.
The C train stops at 42nd street, but then travels uptown, through the Upper West Side, and ends up in Washington Heights.
The E train will also take me to 42nd street, though it turns east at 50th street and goes directly into midtown, land of skyscrapers and office buildings.
Even though both will take me where I need to go, it's what happens at Penn Station that makes all the difference. Penn Station is where Long Island Railroad riders transfer to the subway into midtown. The C train is useless to them. I pray for the C train.
Here are some illustrations to prove my point.
This the the C train, blissfully lacking any people. Note the Magical C train force field, which keeps the mass of soggy Long Island railroad commuters from boarding. It's paradise at 8:15 a.m. I laugh at their misery.
And here is the horrid E train, jam packed with pasty, out of shape, grumpy assholes wedging their fat asses onboard. Pushing, shoving and biting each other like cattle with the heads of dogs. They fill up every single inch of space. E is for EVERY-FUCKING-BODY. (Note that they have all been converted into shit-heads by default.)
Maybe I just need a louder alarm clock.