When I was in high school, a chum told me that all bad things happen in sets of three. I thought about this on Sunday, while taking the subway from Astoria to meet a friend in Union Square. When I boarded the N train, I noticed a passenger throwing up against the wall. I couldn’t tell if he’d been there all along or had just left the train until the doors slide shut and I saw that he’d left a veritable wall of vomit on them. Needless to say, I dashed out (through another set of doors) at the 59th Street/Lexington station, and transfered to the downtown express.

I waited 15 minutes for the 4 train to creak into the station, only to have the announcer tell us that Grand Central would be the last stop. The train pulled into the uptown track there; I spied the downtown local and while running up the stairs to get it, I tripped on the last step, landed on my knees and skidded about a foot in front of a bunch of bemused passengers. Of couse, I missed the downtown local train – its doors pulled close right as I reached them, though it lingered in the station for a full minute more.

At that point, I was surprised at how angry I was getting. I wanted to start running up and down the track screaming obscenities at the conductor, kicking dents into the side of the train, bashing my bag against the windows, etc. I was even angry at that random dude who vomited, though it was probably not his decision to puke in the train. I never get this angry anywhere else; only the NYC public transit has that kind of power over me, and I’ve dealt with it for over six years.

Anyway, the evening got better once my friend and I went to dinner at one of those Indian restaurants on E. 6th Street. We picked the one with all the red chili lights, and during our dinner a cat who belonged to one of the tenants in the building kept escaping into the dining room, chased by hapless waiters. I caught a glimpse of it being led out by the scruff of its neck by a busboy; it had a look of resignation on its face, as if it’d finally came to terms with the fact that it wouldn’t be dining on samosa crumbs that night.

Perhaps that’s the stance I should take when it comes to my dealings with the subway which, after all, totally has me by the scruff of my neck. I mean, what else can I do? Buy a Razor and scoot my way to lower Manhattan every day? Sigh.