Welcome to New York
Caution to readers - always look before sitting
Sometimes the things, the places, and the people you love the most are the ones to let you down hardest. Reader, you know I love New York. And maybe that’s why when bad things happen in the city, they sting more than when equally horribly things happen in other places.
On Friday afternoon, Taylor Swift’s album 1989 [Taylor’s Version] was ringing in my ears as I hopped onto the W train heading downtown. I wasn’t supposed to be on that train, but because I forgot to return a pair of shoes, there I was. As the album of my senior year of high school played through my headphones, memories of my youth filling my brain, I blindly sat on a corner seat of the train.
Immediately, something was wrong.
I gasped.
I sat in something.
I stood up, turned around and saw what was now spread all over my ass. A seat full of human shit. I heard murmurs on the train. People were whispering “I’m sorry” and “oh my god” and “I can’t believe that happened.” My heart started racing and my mind went blank.
I whirled around and yelled to those sitting near the human shit, “Why didn’t you say anything to me????? Why didn’t you tell me I was about to sit in shit???”
A man sitting directly across from the shit just shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’m sorry.”
The W train runs local, so I got off at the next stop, loudly telling oncomers that I sat in shit and to not get on that car so that they too would not sit in said shit. I stood in the subway, smelling of someone else’s bowels and sobbing harder than I had in years. My tears were a combination of shock, horror, humiliation, and laughter. I could not believe what happened and I didn’t know how to fix it.
I thought briefly, do I take my pants off and be one of those women in Manhattan that walks around in a thong? I couldn’t do that, I hadn’t shaved my lady area in a long time and I knew my thong wouldn’t cover everything. I thought, do I take off my sweater vest, tie it around my waist, and ruin it too? No, that wouldn’t work, and how would I even tie a sweater vest? I asked myself, do I just sit on the subway with my shit covered jeans? No, the smell is too rancid.
I called my friend Zoe, because I knew she lived in Manhattan and maybe she could run to help me. But, she was on a work call. So I called my mom, because even though she was in Missouri and couldn’t get the shit off my pants, I needed to talk to someone about it. But she could barely hear me between my heaving sobs and the subway cars rushing through the station.
Finally, Zoe called me back. On FaceTime she made me show her my ass. I hadn’t looked yet. I was too afraid for what I’d see. She said, “Oh no.” I asked her what I should do. She said, “You could get back on the subway,” but it was hard to convey just how bad the jeans smelled and how disgusting I felt. I needed the pants off me. Immediately. I couldn’t wait the 30+ minutes it would take for me to commute home.
After a manic five minutes of back and forth, I googled, “clothing stores near me,” and found a store I knew could help. My former employer, lululemon. Still sobbing, I ran up the subway stairs. I yelled at a woman who gave me a look that I sat in shit on the train. She just nodded. It was as if my inner person was compelled to ruin everyone else’s day because mine had just been upended.
With my hands in the air, tears streaming down my cheeks, and another person’s shit on my jeans, I ran down Fifth Ave yelling, “I fucking hate this city!”
The city I love more than anything, the city that makes me feel warm and cozy and excited and free, gave me the most disgusting moment of my life. And the shit wasn’t even the worst part. Sure it was nasty and I almost vomited the moment I realized what happened to me. But no, the worst part was that my fellow New Yorkers, my comrades in public transit, did not warn me that I was about to sit in human shit. My faith in the city was shaken. I scanned my brain for all the times I warned subway riders of yucky seats and askew vibes. Why didn’t those on the W train do the same for me?
Finally, I saw the stylized omega and knew I was safe. I ran into lululemon, beelined for the nearest educator (yes, lululemon calls their associates “educators”), and cried, “Hi, so sorry, I just sat in shit on the subway and I need new pants. Like now.” The first educator kindly directed me to the pants wall where I said, “Give me any black legging in a size 6.” Another petrified educator held up two pants as I yelled, “It doesn’t matter! Give me either!” I was ushered to the dressing rooms where a third educator - the entire store’s staff now knew about my shit covered ass - told me no rooms were open. I cried for the last time, “I just sat in another person’s shit on the subway and I need to change right now!”
As she looked at me in shock, a shopper asked if I wanted to sit down. For which I replied, “No!” as I showed her what was on my butt. The educator unlocked the staff bathroom, gave me a lululemon bag, and shut the door. I changed faster than ever before, carefully put the shit jeans into the bag, and immediately felt better. I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was bright red, my eyes puffy. I walked out of the bathroom and said thank you to anyone who could hear me.
The first educator, the one who initially heard me yell about the shit I sat in, checked me out. She and I chatted quickly about how disgusting New York can be sometimes, how she too was annoyed at the fellow subway riders for not giving me a heads up. I told her that the jeans were rentals, so I had to return them or I’d be charged $200. She shook her head, showing me that she too was horrified for what I’d been through. But mainly, I think she was just trying to remember everything about the last 10 minutes so she could tell her friends later. After the tags and security sensors were off me, she gave me a discount, which she called a “you just sat in another human’s shit” 75% off.
In just 30 minutes, this city threw shit at me and then helped me clean it up. In just 30 minutes, members of the New York community both allowed me to sit in human shit without even uttering a “wait!” and also comforted me as I heaved with sobs. In just a matter of moments, I saw the worst of the city and the best. And while I don’t wish this experience on anyone else, while I’m still scarred, afraid to ever sit down on the subway again, this is why I love New York. Not the shit covered subway seat, of course, but that I can rely on New Yorkers to be calm when facing controversy. I can rely on them to comfort me when the nastiest thing happens. I can rely on them to clean me up when I fall, to help me when I feel my lowest. To laugh at my traumas and to look away when I need privacy in a public place.
I walked out of lululemon with a bag of shit covered jeans, got back on the subway, leaned against the door, and thought to myself, welcome to New York, a place where you’ll sit in another human’s shit on the subway, and get a discount on leggings because of it
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