subway platform doldrums

I have decided that the subway platforms are the doldrums. At least, they will probably be the closest thing to doldrums that I will ever experience, since I don’t plan on living a sea faring life or finding doldrums simulacra at Disneyland in my lifetime (despite how successful Pirates of the Caribbean 3 may be).

I will explain my reasoning:

First of all, you immediately enter a world of stasis when you step onto the subway platform. It is likely that your train has not come, and there are always the same people that seem to be standing on the platform, as if they have always been there. There are the same puddles of urine, the same pieces of trash along the track, and the same pieces of blackened chewing gum that are making a pointillist composition on the floor. Stasis. Nothing changes.

The smell of the subway platform always seems the same as well. I can’t quite make it out – it's body odor without the odor. Just body. Humid body.

But it isn’t just the smell of the air, it’s the air itself that contributes to the platform doldrums. The air doesn’t move. It’s rather phenomenal – you can try and fan yourself desperately with your hand, and you still won’t feel a thing. J and I tried it last night. Maybe there is some molecular change in the air when it gets to over 120 degrees underground (that’s another thing, it is always hot on the platform too); the air suddenly becomes physically heavier and sluggish, deciding to resist any type of movement whatsoever. If there was such a thing as “couch potato air,” this would be it.

And then…the train arrives. Oh wait, it’s the train for the other side of the platform. This is the moment where the air begins to stir slightly, as the train whisks by, but wait…it’s gone. Doldrums again. Stasis.

When your train finally does arrive, and the car doors swing open, it is as if fresh life has once again come. My lungs always crave the cool, air conditioned air that bursts out of the subway doors. My sails fill, and all of the sudden I can move again. Everyone else begins to move too. “Everyone” includes all of miniskirt clad women who immediately spring into action, trying to avoid the skirt-effect that Marilyn Monroe had with sweeping subway air in The Seven Year Itch.

As I step onto the train, I often have been thinking of Milo from The Phantom Tollbooth, when he finally gets out of the Doldrums, leaves the Lethargians and moves on with his adventures. It is as if life has started up again. And oh, the air conditioning is glorious.