On Time

I wrote an anecdote for the New York Times’ Metropolitan Diary (“On the N,” 11/26/18) — Here’s the unedited/original version of that.

Everyone existed in their own isolation on the mid-Sunday N train. A guy in the two-seater near me was slouched over, head hung over an open book, seemingly deep in focus. I was standing with my headphones in, staring into whatever “space” exists in a subway car, eager to get where I was going.

My music cut out with a loud and sudden thud: the familiar sound of my phone finishing its three-foot free fall from my fumbling fingers to the floor. This happens often, always accompanied by a rush of embarrassment at the clumsiness I’ve exhibited and the obnoxious noise I’ve made — so I immediately got defensive as the reader next to me said bluntly, “Thanks for dropping your phone.”

“What?” I asked, trying to digest what I detected to be sarcasm. Was he bothered by the sound I made, or just mocking me?

“I said, ‘Thanks for dropping your phone,’” he repeated.

Sensing my confusion, he elaborated. “It woke me up. I dozed off. I would have missed my stop.”

I laughed, figuring my few seconds of shame were worth it to help a fellow rider stay on schedule — a goal that is harder than it sounds to achieve in this city.

The man disembarked at the next station. As far as I know, he got to where he was going on time.

I wouldn’t be so lucky. A speaker in the subway blared many a New Yorker’s least favorite words: “Due to signal problems…”

I texted my friend: “I’m going to be late.”

I pride myself on punctuality, so nothing frustrates me more than falling off schedule. But there’s a small level of pride in knowing you got someone else where they needed to go on time.

Sometimes that’s enough.