On a normally empty subway at 6:10am I was suddenly surrounded by people, 20-25 of them, mostly silent save for one woman I quickly assumed to be the troupe leader announce “We get off after Canal Street.” No words were spoken. Not many, at least. Tour group, I decided. Nothing to see here, except for me, apparently. The stares were bottomless and curious. I was reminded of someone I knew at Tower Records, a wealthy investment banker who took the minimum wage job at the record store as a sort of voyeuristic interlude, a window into those specimens of humanity that work the work, shuffle the CDs and cassettes, work their way to what? He would stare at me, listen to me like I was imparting authentic grit and gristle from the bottom ranks of working society. His visible reactions ranged from a sort of awe to a sort of obvious condescension. I don’t know what this tour groups’ stares were about. I don’t even care. Everyone in this group wore white clothing and white skin.
The elevator at Cortlandt Street is back in business. Instead of passing through the lily-white space of the Oculus I descend in a skunky, sometimes piss-stenched cube of space that sometimes opens to the sight of a homeless encampment or a bare human. Nothing to see today. The elevator might save 10 seconds off my passage to the Fulton Center versus wrestling with the recalcitrant doors into the Oculus and cruising down the short escalators.