Train Wreck

I staggered through the depths of the Atlantic Avenue subway station Saturday afternoon ready to admit defeat.

I had been so looking forward to this day, when my blogging buddy Xris of Flatbush Gardner and his partner would be hosting one of their fabulous get-togethers at their beautiful home.

There was no hemming or hawing on this one; no debating if I should or shouldn’t go like I do before just about every other occassion that catches my interest.

I happily RSVP’d the second I got the invitation. This was going to great, I thought.

And indeed, it was.

I had an absolutely wonderful time meeting new people whilst merrily munching away on all sorts of delicious eats. But I had to work my way through several circles of Hell before arriving at my destination, thanks to the MTA.

I knew things were going to be rough when I learned that my local subway, the R train, had been shut down for the weekend for several stops in my neighborhood and replaced by a free bus service.

Don’t let the word “free” fool you. The little money you may save in transit fare is dramatically dwarfed by the aggravation, misery, and discomfort you’re forced to endure trying to get to your destination—assuming you’re even able to get on in one of the buses in the first place.

I was annoyed at this development, but determined to get to my destination. Unfortunately, there were dark forces at work who were equally determined to derail my travel plans.

The free shuttle on Fourth Avenue was packed when it pulled into 69th Street and nobody got off. A few brave (demented?) souls got on board the rolling pig sty, but I just couldn’t do it.

Plan B had me waiting for the regular Third Avenue bus for a ride down to 36th Street, but I had just missed one and the MTA’s bus time app said another one wouldn’t be coming for nearly 30 minutes.

Screw that, I cracked down, charged into a local car service, and got a ride down to 36th Street, hopped on an R train to Pacific Street, where I could pick up the Q train out to Xris' crib.

Rail World

That is, of course, if the Q train had been running, which it wasn’t on this day—or at least not at the Atlantic Avenue station.

I started cursing the second I saw the yellow tape stretched across the stairwell. Just how in the hell was I supposed to get to my friend’s house now?

Oh, Jesus, I thought, why don’t just go home and send Xris your regrets?

And I as soon as I saw that surrender flag waving in my subconscious, I knew I couldn’t give up the ship, or the train. I was going to get this party and no force in Heaven, Hell, or Hoboken was going to stop me.

I got a D train back to 36th Street and bailed in hopes of catching a train to my destination. But the R train was terminating at Ninth Avenue and the N was going nowhere near my destination.

More cursing and fuming until I found a helpful MTA employee who told me my best bet was to take the next to D out to freaking Coney Island and take the Q coming back in the other direction.

This is the kind of trip a private eye in the movies would take to avoid being followed. But I had no choice, so it was off to Coney Island to make a Q-turn.

Now, I must pause here and admit that a large part of this drama was my own doing. While I was aware the R train was on the fritz, I didn’t research my trip thoroughly and thus was woefully ignorant of the massive re-routing going on this week.

And the annoying thing was that I had got a warning signal early Saturday when I used the MTA’s app to plot my journey. The app kept showing my bus trips with no mention of a subway route—because there wasn’t any available this weekend.

I finally made it to Xris’ house where I immediately demanded a big hug from my host, who readily obliged.

After I calmed down, I got some of food—rather, a lot, actually—and made the rounds.

When it was time to go home, I had a momentarily lapse of sanity and tried to figure out the bus route back to my shack. Fortunately, that madness quickly passed and I treated myself to car service.

I had enough of the MTA for one day.