"I think the worst time to have a heart attack is during a game of charades... or a game of fake heart attack." --Demetri Martin

I find the above quote both humorous and true – especially after a particularly disturbing subway ride yesterday.

I had left work on lunch, headed to my tanning salon in Union Square. I made my usual walk to the train station, down the stairs and through the tunnels, finally approaching my desired spot awaiting the uptown bound R train. As I waited on the platform, one of the usual groups of subterranean entertainers was belting harmonies from the Four Tops and the Temptations. I worked to ignore a particularly engaging rendition of “My Girl” and focused more intently on the book I was reading.

Finally the train arrived and I diverted to the next car down – hoping to avoid further guilt trip by the pan handlers. As I stepped into the car I immediately recognized my mistake. I knew did not want to be there – as any other New Yorker would – based on the lack of occupants. Only a few brave souls huddled at the end of the benches on the opposite end of the car – and one other passenger – directly in front of me – who was clearly the cause of all disruption.

She was slumped forward in a very unnatural way, her face hidden. Her right foot dangled out in the aisle, and was wrapped in a cast to about midway up her calf. In front of her sat an abandoned looking walker – duct taped in several places. Her clothes and posture would lead most to assume she was homeless. This sight on its own however, would not typically be enough to deter a train full of busy and hardened New Yorkers. What everyone was retreating from was the SMELL.

I don’t think I have the words to accurately describe what was emitting from this woman. It was of something soured and rotten and then soaked in urine. I tucked my face into my coat and continued to read – I only had 1 stop to go. But my mind kept wandering to the slumped woman. Was she even alive? Would anyone notice or stop to take action if she wasn’t? Could it be that her lifeless body was riding to and fro – not to be noticed until a policeman or train worker wandered into that particular cabin?

As we continued on, the quartet came through from a neighboring car. Their singing was abruptly replaced by loud and boisterous banter about the woman and the smell. “That’s that foot!” one of them said, with a sickened expression. “That’s the whole body” another replied, gravely. And despite this observation not they nor I nor anyone else on the train made moves to alert anyone.

There are a number of things I’ve taken from New York life that I think have made me a better person – and a number of things that probably work to my detriment. I came for the promise of expanding my horizons and increasing my tolerance. Instead I have grown more judgmental, less patient, and more self preserving. I came to prove that I could live with different cultures and lifestyles and find something real about the grit of the city. In reality I think we all just turn a blind eye to each other, and only see the bits of New York that our tunnel vision allows for.

This is not to say that it has to be that way. Perhaps the above can just serve as a reminder to not become too jaded, and to remain in touch with my own humanity. Perhaps I can work to view the city with the same wide, naïve eyes that I had when I came here.