Nothing unites New Yorkers quite like petty, but life-affirming fits of rage on the subway. Strangers in a train car find togetherness in their hatred for the canned voice announcing: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are delayed because of train traffic ahead of us. We apologize for any inconvenience," as if this supposed apology lessens the inconvenience by a single iota. Hating the announcement, assigning the responsibility for fucking up our day to the anonymous human being whose voice is talking to us instead of the non-sentient machinery that malfunctioned, gives meaning to these incidents, which makes them bearable. The angry delight in having a common enemy also makes us sticklers about the unspoken rules of public transportation because these rules do more than protect us from unpleasantness—they allow us to get mind-numbingly irritated at those who don't respect them.
Some people's tendency to sprawl out and take up more space than politeness allows has been well-documented, but I'd like to shine the spotlight on the neglected forms of subway douchebaggery, such as gripping the pole with both hands and pressing yourself on it like you're about to ask it, "How many drinks would it take you to leave with me?" Or, conversely, wrapping your arm around the pole and cradling it in your elbow in order to not touch it with your bare skin. YOU'RE NOT TOO GOOD TO TOUCH A PIECE OF METAL LIKE THE REST OF US.
A roller coaster of emotions is the only real antidote for the boredom that is inherent in transportation.
In Orwell's 1984, everyone in Britain has to participate in the collective Daily Hate, and it gives the people a sense of purpose that sustains them. For tired, cranky people whose 9-to-5 jobs mash their brains into a pulp every day, the subway ride can be an outlet for our frustration at our lives of alienated labor, our private ritual of Daily Hate. We all hate slightly different kinds of people who may or may not deserve it, in ways that say more about us than the person who is sitting in ignorance of our silent loathing for them.
One of the people I've felt the most contempt for was this brooding talentless dude writing angsty poetry in a notebook. I saw him with a notebook and instantly knew he was producing the most banal, bullshit white boy drivel, so I obviously strained to read his handwriting and was not disappointed by what I found:
"...eyes darting
Trying to catch the glance
Of someone with answers."
Seriously, bro? You're still in the stage of mental development where you think somebody will just tell you the meaning of life? Jesus fucking Christ. People with that kind of suffocating aura of mediocrity always distract me from writing down my venomous thoughts in a note on my phone like a civilized person.
Hating a stranger is emotionally stimulating in that it takes energy and inventiveness.
Other targets of my casual hatred include obnoxiously handsome, impeccably-groomed couples in Balenciaga (mostly on the 6 between Spring at 96th streets). In my state of heightened hostility it feels as if they exist solely to remind me that I am neither breathtakingly gorgeous nor financially solvent enough to cop ridiculously trill alphets. Then there is the omnipresent, too jacked dude carrying a gym bag with excessive self-satisfaction and clearly a chip (read: boulder) on his shoulder—the kind of guy who always takes up two seats and sits with his legs just wide enough so everybody else has to budge aside for the sake of his nutsack's breathing room. And I always shrink away from the middle school girls talking about this bitch who thinks she's cute and how they're going to cut her. I am incredibly scared of them because I had a rough time in middle school.
One time I sat next to two people having a conversation in a language I didn't understand, but just felt based on the tone and facial expressions alone that one of them was a complete asshole. As such, I was completely distracted from making superficial judgments of others around me by my instinctive, baseless distaste for that person. And not understanding what they were saying made it almost unbearable because I had no concrete proof of that person's awfulness to latch onto.
But my worst enemy on the subway has to be my awareness that I'm just as detestable to someone as everyone is to me. I know that my habit of thinking scathing thoughts about people only means I'm probably a bad person, and that day after day it makes me a worse and more misanthropic person. But I'm not the only one. Hating a stranger is emotionally stimulating in that it takes energy and inventiveness. I analyze all the trivial things they do in a way that supports their absolute, contemptible being, thinking in great depth about the detestable kind of person her or she must be. It allows me to construct a story about them and this diverts me.
Forming these opinions of people is what gets me through the loneliness of the commute. I'm not interacting with people, I'm not sharing feelings with them, but I'm having emotions at them and that occupies my mind the way a social interaction does. Making superficial judgments about people around us is emotionally stimulating in that it helps us feel less alone during that hour or two of the day when we're encircled by hundreds of people all doing their best not to interact with each other. Or maybe we all just really need some coffee.
Emily Lever is a French-American writer who wishes she led a life of adventure. You can follow her on Twitter here.
