The Conductor
I’m a subway conductor on the Number One line in New York City. I spend my days in the little conductor booth at the center of the train, announcing the stops and opening and closing the doors.
“This is the South Ferry bound One train, making all stops to South Ferry,” I say, “the next stop is 72nd street, please stand clear of the closing doors.”
It’s a tireless job. I spend all day in that booth, spanning the route of the Number One train, everyday from 242nd street to South Ferry. I get to see the best of New Yorkers; the side they show when they’re hurried, frenzied, late for work, and are running to catch a train. They tend to be a pushy lot. Sometimes a woman gets her foot caught in the door and curses me out with a passion.
“This is 72nd street,” I announce as the train pulls into the station, “transfer is available to the two or three trains.” And then there are the bewildered tourists who have never seen a subway train before. Sometimes they come up to me and ask, “Does this train go to South Ferry?” and I answer, “Yes, but you must be in the first five cars to get out at that station,” and then I have to explain why . . . oh tourists, sometimes I wish they would just go away.
“This is the South Ferry bound One train making all stops to South Ferry, stand clear of the closing doors.” The doors close with the familiar “ding-dong” noise, and the train proceeds along the route. I don’t know if I’m fond of my job, but I can live with it. I’m a little bit worried though; on some of the lines like the Number Two line, they’re replacing the conductors with computers who announce the stops in a cheerful, awkward sort of way; unlike me, the computer says “Stand Clear of the Closing Doors Please!” as though its job were the most exciting thing on the planet. But as long as they still need human voices on the One train, my job’s not over yet.
“This is 66th street, Lincoln Center,” I proclaim. It’s a nice station. “The next stop is 59th, stand clear of the closing doors,” I repeat my endless refrain with little enthusiasm. The doors close, but someone’s holding them, keeping them open. I poke my head out of the window. “Lady,” I yell, “lady, stop holding the doors! I’ve got a train full of angry people that are ready to kill you.” The woman is carrying a double bass, the largest instrument that one can carry. I don’t give her too hard of a time, because I know that the life of a bassist is hell. I mean, whenever they have a concert or something, they have to roll around these gigantic instruments that are taller than the musician. I don’t even know how she got it through the turnstile into the station . . .
“This is 59th street, transfer is available to the A, B, C and D trains.” The woman with the double bass comes up to me from outside my window, looks at me quizzically and says, “Excuse me sir, do you know where I can find the conductor?”
This woman must be from out of town. Probably came to the city to play in some orchestra, or maybe the orchestra came to town to play in some orchestra hall. “Uh, I am the conductor,” I say to her.
“Oh good,” she exclaims, “We really need you!” and with that, she rests the bass against a pillar, and rushes away, out of my sight. I sigh, not knowing what her deal was, and proceed with my duties. “This is a South Ferry bound One train making all stops to South Ferry, please stand clear of the closing—What?”, for suddenly, I find that the door to my conductor booth has been forced open, and the bassist is standing there panting.
“I’m so glad I’ve found you,” she says, “we need you,” and she grabs a hold of my arm and pulls me out of the train.
“What? Wait, stop!” I yell desperately as the woman pulls me along the station with her bass. “I have to conduct the train! I have to announce the stops!” She ignores me, pulling me through the turnstiles. I still don’t know how she got her bass through there, I was too busy protesting to take any notice. The woman however seems quite determined.
“Where are we going?” I yell, but she does not answer. She leads me out of the station into the daylight. I hadn’t seen the daylight in so long . . . I’m not sure it’s natural. It’s so different from the florescent lights in the stations and subway cars. It almost blinds me . . . I don’t spend much time outside. Most of my time is spent in the dark conductor’s booth. I only see daylight when the train goes outside, which is only during the end of its run up towards 242nd street.
The woman drags me through a side entrance into a building. Oddly enough, the building looks familiar . . . I have a peculiar suspicion that I know where I am, but I have no idea why I am here.
“Is this Carnegie hall?” I ask.
“Yes,” the woman answers. She leads me into an elevator, dragging her bass with her, “Come on, quick,” she says, “there isn’t much time,”
“Are you performing here?” I ask, looking at her bass.
“Of course,” she says, “you’re the conductor.”
And it dawns on me what’s going on. The elevator doors open, and she drags me out, completely ignoring my protests of “But I’m not that kind of conductor! I’m a subway conductor! I announce the stops and open and close the doors! I can’t conduct an orchestra!” She doesn’t hear me. I’m plunged into a crowd of musicians. Musicians! Now, as a subway conductor, I’ve seen my fair share of musicians. They come through the subway train every now and then with their guitars or accordions or drums, and their little containers out, collecting money. But these aren’t those kind of musicians. These are the kind that actually expect to get paid a decent salary, who actually play music written by great composers . . . composers who are dead now, but great composers nonetheless, I’m sure, I’ve never really heard of them, but still . . .
There’s the principal violinist, the violist, a gang of cellists, and sinister looking crowd of French horn players. They’re all dressed in flowing dresses or tuxedos, depending on the musician’s gender. I’m still wearing my blue conductor’s suit with the MTA logo on the front. I feel so out of place . . . surely they’ll recognize that they have the wrong guy . . .
The principal violinist shoves some papers into my hands. “Here,” she says, “you’ll need this.” I look at it, but most of it appears to be written in another language. There are staves and clef signs and notes and a whole lot of other things that I think I would understand better if I had actually paid attention during Music class back in high school. I am on the verge of panicking. The musicians all line up behind a door, and one by one take their places on stage. I can hear them warming up . . . a great melodious dissonance as all the strings and woodwinds and brass play at once. The backstage man gives me the cue, hands me a metal baton, and I walk out onto the stage, still dressed in my conductor’s uniform, the MTA logo shining faintly in the light. The audience applauds as I walk up to the podium. I have no idea what to do. I put the music on the podium and look at it perplexed. The only part of it I can understand is the title of the piece, and the name of the orchestra. I don’t even understand why they gave me a copy of the music, I don’t play any instruments, I’m just supposed to conduct. And how do I do that? Can’t be much different than conducting a train, really. So I begin.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say nervously into the microphone, “this is . . . this is the Aimes, Iowa Philharmonic Orchestra playing at Carnegie Hall here in New York City, transfer is available to the One, A, B, C and D trains at 59th. Uh, we’re playing two pieces tonight, this one is Fifth Symphony by Beethoven and the next stop—er piece is Kindertotenlieder by Gustav Mahler. Is everyone here? Good, uh, stand clear of the closing doors as we close the doors to this auditorium . . . um, you might want to be in the first five seats in order to get to South—uh to hear us properly . . . I’m the conductor by the way . . . uh . . . well then let’s begin . . .”
I raise the baton, and the orchestra bursts into action. I thrash the baton through the air, and the orchestra follows. I smile as I realize that I have no idea what I’m doing, and if they really thought I was an orchestra conductor, clearly they don’t have any idea what they’re doing either.
