Mornings on the "6"

I like to be alone in the mornings, take breakfast on my patio with chicory coffee and cream, “Ceci-Cela” croissants, the “New York Times.” An above-the-fold article, sugar, half-and-half in the mug, yeast and warmth in the air from “Vesuvio Bakery” several blocks away…

The waking hours are hopeful.

Fox News—and the overnight shift—didn’t allow me these quiet, expectant moments. Sometimes I’d walk from the News Corp. headquarters at 49th and 6th to Grand Central, trying to feel everyone else’s expectation and promise. But, I was already numb—the dark hours blended into the morning light. Gray.

Chignon unraveling, eyes dry and reddened from the dank, newsroom air, I boarded the subway for home. Professional New York was just beginning its day as I ended mine, heading home to an apartment with no curtains. Six fitful hours of sleep awaited me—my reward—until I had to wake up and do it all over again.

Hssssss. The “6” train opened and disgorged passengers onto the Grand Central Platform. I was unprepared. It was as if a steel artery had burst and the lifeblood of the city were rushing toward me, surrounding me in a hot, red pool of angst and excitement. Blue suits leapt up the steps two at a time. Head wraps, boys selling bags of M&M’s, folds of fat squeezed into tight blue jeans rushed passed my tired eyes.

(have to run to an appointment on the Upper West Side... will continue this afternoon!)