There was a time (last summer) when I was more optimistic about summer in the subway. As an intern at a major television network, I had a long commute from Brooklyn to the Upper East Side. Each additional day in the subway meant I recognized more and more people. The hipster office guy, the sort-of-hot professional with brown hair, the touchy-feely Russian couple. The daily routine had us all standing at the same spot on the platform at the same times. There were never any smiles, nods or signs of recognition, but the fact that I saw these people made me feel that I had finally crossed the threshold into true New York City indoctrination. As a newbie to the city I had always thought familiarity with the subway is the sign of a true New Yorker – or at least a real resident, not just a college student or visitor. Being familiar with subway riders, I got further into the groove of my subway commuter idealism. I felt like being an NYC Subway commuter was like being part of a massive living entity – New York incarnate. Maybe nothing so grand, but we move together, we don’t invade each others space, we all go to work and earn money then return home, we laugh at tourists together.

One of the characters I would see every day was a tall, skinny man on the Times Square NQRW platform. He appeared to be a contractor or construction worker, carrying a big belt or bag of tools and wearing an American flag bandana, and I would see him pacing back and forth in the same spot where I got off the uptown N train, right near the stairs going up to the main concourse. Nothing struck me as unusual – or more unusual than the dozens of more freakier people I’d see in a day. This was just a regular guy who was destined to cross my path every morning. “There’s that guy” I’d smile in my head as I’d see him pace down the platform, and think in these words exactly: “Yep, just a regular New York Joe”.

But as I said earlier – the subway in the summer is relentless, and even my optimism began to wilt after hours and hours spent each week in the sweltering mass transit caves. One particularly harried morning I gazed at the tall, skinny man one minute too long. “Who is this man,” I wondered, eyes still following him as I walked up the stairs. And then I saw him for what he was – he walked back and forth on the platform, looking up women’s skirts as they went up the stairs, and he probably did it all morning long. As I realized this I paused on the stairs, other passengers flowing around me. I stared in restrained horror through the guard rail as he looked up at women and then he looked at me. There was a glimmer of recognition in his dead eye – finally recognition from a fellow subway traveller – and in no way did I want it.

My illusions about the subway evaporated that instant. No longer did it matter that I felt part of a community or that the subway was some great equalizer of man. No, the subway is just the cheapest and fastest mode of travel in the city, and the cost you pay is that you are stuck in a wet, metal hole with trains. Everyone is just concerned with their own well-being, and doesn’t give a shit about anyone else so long as they can get to and from work.

And this summer, when it is hot and the subway is feeling particularly violent and I just want to leave the city for good I can’t stand it, I think of that man looking up those women’s skirts and the vile glare he gave back to me. The horrible city incarnate.