The “G”

The letter G infiltrated my life two months ago. I live in apartment “G#–” on Green Street in Greenpoint and take the G train to go to graduate school. Goddamn gratuitous alliteration.

Riding the G train everyday, the most harrowing of all the G’s that entered my life of late, affords me opportunities I’m not sure other many other patrons of the MTA enjoy.

The “Save the G” coalition wrote, “The number of riders per year at G-only stations has increased from 8.6 million in 1995 to 12.6 million in 2006, according to the Metropolitan Transportation Authority” on their blog.

I watched one of those 12.6 million riders cut each and every one of his toenails while waiting for the train to leave Court Square on a weeknight evening.

I walked down the first flight of steps on the Queens bound entrance to the Greenpoint Avenue stop on the G train to notice some person had defecated on the landing between the other flight of stairs.

Those are two of my most memorable G train moments. What are some of yours?



Filed under Brooklyn, greenpoint, the g train

3 responses to “The “G”

  1. rexlic

    I once went down in a G station at night and a train appeared in lesss than a half hour.–Bert

    I once took a G train to Queens that went all the way to Forest Hills.–Ernie

  2. jenruss

    I once rode the G train with you.

    That’s all I got.

  3. I live right by the Greenpoint Ave. where you found the poop. My worst G train story comes from last winter:
    When the train arrived at Carroll St., I got on the subway car that had one scary dude on it sitting in the corner and that was it. No one else. It was a private train for the two of us. It could have been a very romantic evening on the train for the two of us if only I was in to crusty homeless guys. Shame. So the train goes one stop and then just stops. We are sitting on the tracks for about 40 mins. and I am avoiding crazy man’s eye contact like the plague. Then I notice he has a brief case that he is rummaging through. He began to shout, “I’m bleeding! I’m bleeding and no one cares.” I noticed that his briefcase was full of knives and that he was slicing into his hand with one of them. No joke. Rivers of his blood flowed on to the plastic orange subway seat. It was about this time that panic set in. I got up to creep to the door, hoping he wouldn’t notice that I was abandoning him. He needed a savior, I know, but it wasn’t going to be me. I couldn’t help but think how this guy ended up on this Queens bound G train with a briefcase full of knives at 3:30 AM. What if it just took one person to turn his life around? Give him a nice shower, some new socks. Some papers and pens to put in his briefcase. A little TLC and maybe everything would be different. But no, I was not taking responsibility for this potential metamorphosis.

    As I approached the door, he began mumbling to me about how pissed he was that he paid $2 to ride a subway that wasn’t going anywhere. Clearly this was his biggest concern, not the skin shavings that had fallen off his knife moments earlier.

    Damn you, G train!

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