Blame It on the Train | New York Press

This story was published in 2009 in the New York Press.

During my early, drunken youth in New York, I made many decisions detrimental to my health.

Since I earned $10 an hour as a receptionist, answering phones as gracefully as a semi-deaf construction worker with an anger disorder, my nutritional intake consisted of dirty-water hot dogs and greasy pizza. What I didn't spend on sustenance I wasted on gin-and-tonics and cut-rate beer at downtown dives such as Holiday Cocktail Lounge, Welcome to the Johnsons and Blue and Gold. I spared no expense to get smashed. Why earmark money for nutrition when salty pretzels and greasy chips were free?

When 2 or, more commonly, 4 a.m. rolled around, I'd be faced with dragging ass back to my then-apartment in Astoria. An empty wallet meant a cab ride was out of the question. Instead, I'd haul my alcohol-wrecked body to the subway and, once the train arrived, find a cozy corner seat and cinch my eyes. Just a few minutes, I'd think. Just sleep for a few minutes. A "few minutes" soon became 50. I'd awake at a far-flung stop such as Sutphin Boulevard or Union Turnpike, names that'd make no sense even if my blood weren't 30 percent PBR and bottom-shelf whiskey. Groggily, I'd decipher my location on the map and wait for a train to backtrack me to my bed. I'd arrive home after sunrise, my own mistaken walk of shame.

Though I never had my pockets cut and wallet snagged—it happened to my friend Chris, who awoke to find his jeans air-conditioned and his billfold goneI—'ve stopped tempting fate. These days, the rare weekday that I'm out boozing till midnight, I'll gladly pay for a $20 cab ride home. I've learned from my youthful folly. Well, I thought I had.

Last Wednesday, I was entrenched at Midtown's Manchester Pub (920 2nd Ave. betw. E. 48th & E. 49th Sts., 212-935-8901). It offered sports on tons of TVs, burgers and wings and decent craft beers on tap. It was a decent neighborhood hangout but nothing worth traveling to, except for a coworker's going-away shindig. I know what you'll say: "Coworker? I thought you worked at home, pants-less, clacking out stories with dirty, jagged fingernails?" That's true. But working at home is a lonely lot. Entire days pass wherein I don't speak a syllable, as nonverbal as my mutt Sammy. Thus, I copyedit twice a week at a Midtown magazine. I ensure proper grammar and punctuation. In return, I receive conversation and sweet, sweet cash. It's a win-win for everyone!

As a loyal part-time employee, I'm often invited to work functions. Which is why I was toasting my coworker with a glass of fragrant Cigar City Jai Alai IPA. I should mention that this is a strong beer. Two glasses will make anyone a chatty Cathy. Four glasses and you'll win a medal for impersonating a fall-down Bowery bum. By coincidence, I kicked back four glasses. This gave me the Nobel Prize notion to order a snifter of smoky Macallan 12 Scotch.

"Sure you want that?" a friend asked, watching my eyes roll around like marbles.

"Yesh, yesh I do," I replied. No, no I didn't. No sooner did I vanish my drink than I realized my mistake. My legs turned to Jell-O. My head felt as heavy as a bowling ball. It was time to go. Now. Not bothering to say my goodbyes, I slunk off. Cabs whizzed past. I should've extended an arm high in the air, as if I were a fifth-grader who knew the answer to a teacher's question. But I didn't have the intelligence of a fifth-grader, much less a five-year-old. Subway home, I thought, subway home. I set my body on autopilot and lumbered to Grand Central. I caught a Brooklyn-bound train in a jiffy, finding an open seat. I sank into the plastic like a sack of dough. I shut my eyes. Goodbye, night. Hello, nightmare.

The train trundled toward Brooklyn.

Stops came. Stops went. I slept. I could've slumbered all night, as snug as a bug in a rug. But then the train loudly squealed to a standstill. My brain sparked. My eyes flickered. Franklin Avenue. Subway home! I lurched from my seat and stumbled off the car, right before the doors closed. I guess you could call it a dream commute.