I just watched the season finale of Girls for the third time last night. Admittedly, I didn’t hone in on this specific episode, but having been at a place with HBO, I got sucked into the Girls marathon and actually watched the entire season again and again. It’s an addiction, OK? I AM HANNAH. I kid… I think.
Unlike my buddy, Jamie Peck, who was able to accurately give her personal take on the series and its locations; as one who does not live in Brooklyn, I came up short. The only episodes to which I could relate, on a personal, environmental level, was the Bushwick party one, because a former love of mine lived in those McKibben lofts and, after too much to drink (I don’t do crack because that shit’s whack) I, too, have raced down those streets probably sans pants as well; and the final episode where Hannah fell asleep on the F train. Falling asleep on the subway was a bad habit of mine that I have since outgrown… which means I haven’t done it in almost six months. Maturity is so hot right now.
I have fallen asleep, or rather passed out, on the subway too many times to count. Each one was usually the end result of a falling out with the aforementioned love, so while I was able to get to the Manhattan bound L train, it was relatively safe because some kind soul would always wake me up somewhere around the Bedford stop and ask me if I had to get off. From there, I was just one more stop away from Manhattan, so if I cranked up my iPod, I was able to stay lucid enough to get off on 14th Street and head downtown toward my apartment. Nine times out of ten I have been lucky enough not to stay asleep past the 14th Street stop preventing me from ending up on the west side. Whoever said New Yorkers lack heart, have never been here.
Although my incidents on the L train have always been positive, it’s the F train, like Hannah, where I have had some issues on two occasions. And considering this is the train I take most often (it’s half a block from my apartment and does lead me to The Gloss offices after all), I can’t help but be bothered by the fact that what I consider my neighborhood transportation is pretty fucking shady after hours.
The first ocassion involved me heading out to a friend’s place in Park Slope for her daughter’s birthday party. Afterward, a bunch of the single and child-free people headed to a bar where we proceeded to drink our sorrows away. Some drank because they didn’t have a husband or a baby, while I drank because it was Sunday and I was pissed that I didn’t have Monday off. I made it to the Manhattan bound F train, looked at my watch (it was 230), and headed home. Somewhere around 5am, I woke up. I was still on the train and by some bizarre miracle, I was in Brooklyn headed back to Manhattan with my stop being the next one. Had I not fallen asleep, I would have been home from that original location in less than 20 minutes, but the vodka shots got the best of me and I missed my stop lord knows how many times. My bag was still on my shoulder, and despite the grogginess and confusion that came with emerging from a subway tunnel as the sun came up, all was well. The second time was less subtle.
It was last July. My friend Michelle who has been dating a lovely Frenchman for a couple years now, had a Bastille Day party. As a Julliard grad, Michelle lives quite close to the school, and this means she’s pretty much off the F train if you fancy a wee bit of a walk. I had attended the party without the inclination to get drunk, but having been in the sun all day and aching from head to toe from both lack of hydration and a sunburn, I popped a couple Advil. Or rather I thought I was popping Advil, but actually took Advil PM by accident. Why I walk around with Advil PM in my pill case is something I can’t explain other than the fact that I’m an idiot. Combine those with a very conservative three drinks, and you might as well have had six martinis.
I don’t remember leaving the party. I don’t recall how the hell I got to the F train, all I do recall was being smacked repeatedly by a stranger on the subway as she screamed and yelled that she “wasn’t a fucking pillow!” over and over again. Having been shaken out of my black out by this screaming woman, all I could deduce was that I must have eye-spied her lap and thought it looked like a swell place to get some shut-eye. After being smacked several times and being confused as fuck, I jumped off the train and ran for a cab. At this point, I had gone back into black out mode so where I got off the train is anyone’s guess and how I got home is another miracle in itself. I do know I woke up face down on my kitchen floor at 9am, and there was no beach or wedding cake in sight.
The lesson is that falling asleep on the train whether from alcohol or because you’re emotionally spent after watching your boyfriend get hit by a van is never a safe idea. If you’re not robbed, there’s a good chance you will be assaulted by someone yelling at you that they are not a comfy item from Bed, Bath and Beyond. There will be no cake or an empty Coney Island when you finally come to, because in this weather an empty Coney Island doesn’t exist, I don’t care what time you end up there. There is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, people, just a raging headache and the embarrassment that comes with thinking those cold, hard plastic seats are your bed. And that’s indicative of a whole other slew of issues.