Nina In New York: Elevator's Out Of Order? This Whole Court's Out Of Order!
A lighthearted look at news, events, culture and everyday life in New York. The opinions expressed are solely those of the writer.
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By Nina Pajak
As anyone who has done so knows, taking the subway with a baby in a stroller is not exactly fun. On the enjoyability scale of "Having bed bugs" → "Hawaiian vacation," it falls at about a four. To be clear, that's better than being stuck on a train car with a live rat or finding a pubic hair in your pizza, but worse than a trip to the DMV or forcibly binge-watching all of Michael Bay's Transformers movies in the manner of A Clockwork Orange. Seriously, have you spent much time in an MTA elevator? It's sort of like being in a sauna, except the water is pee and instead of being relaxed, you're trying not to touch anything as an elderly schizophrenic tries to squeeze in next to you with five shopping carts.
The voyage is made even less pleasant when one of the few handicap-accessible stations unexpectedly has criss-crossed caution tape in front of the elevator. At this point, you must either disassemble your carefully constructed bag-hanging-on-stroller-which-contains-child-and-forty-other-things ecosystem, sling it all over your shoulders, hoist the baby, and hoof it, or you can rely on the kindness of strangers. I'd say it's a 50-50 split on how often the latter fails to appear, and I'm forced to resort to the former. I mean, I get it. I'm not disabled, I'm not asking to be looked at with pity and I don't feel entitled to being regarded as an object of collective responsibility. But the children are our future and all that crap, and you or someone you love has definitely had to do this, and obviously I'm on the subway and not in a chauffeured vehicle by necessity. Also, your mother wears combat boots.
The other day, when I discovered that my subway station's brand new elevator was out of service, I was crestfallen. The next closest handicap-accessible station is a twenty minute walk in the wrong direction. Thankfully, on the way into the city, two incredibly lovely teenage girls happened by me and another stroller-bound woman looking stranded at the top of the steps. They each helped us down the stairs, and then when they were done, they headed back up. They weren't even taking the subway! Who says America's youth is ruined? I felt grateful, relieved, and imbued with good feelings about the future of our country and the efficacy of Queens schooling.
My way home was another story. After enduring a long, slow, crowded ride in which I and a handicapped man had to wait for seats until the car emptied out (and then I had to endure the handicapped man glaring at me and my daughter for the duration), I again found myself attempting to navigate the stairs. A man immediately came up and offered to help, and I offered my thanks many times. When we got up to the street, I tossed him another heartfelt expression of gratitude.
He smiled. "Maybe next time, you should check beforehand to see if the elevators are working at the station you're using."
A little taken aback, I stammered something about how it's not like I had a whole lot of options, and he shrugged and went on his way.
I couldn't help but feel like I'd been dissed! Was I dissed? I was totally dissed. I mean, it's not like I picked him out of a crowd and forced him to help me. He volunteered as I was setting about hauling my stroller backwards up the stairs, solo. Did he offer to help despite the fact that my plight annoyed him? Or perhaps because of it?If I'd have known the help was going to come at the cost of receiving a condescending and useless piece of advice, I'd have taken my chances without his gracious feat of chivalry. And how, precisely, does one check on an elevator's status? Shall I call up the ghost of stationmasters past who haunt the empty booth? Or should I check the MTA website to see if perhaps they've posted a screenshot of the handwritten sign hung on the elevator buttons with scotch tape? Dude, give me a break.
I try hard not to become one of those insufferable, self-righteous stroller moms who monopolize sidewalks and restaurants and expect mere, childless mortals to dive into the gutters as they roll along. But at the same time, we've got to get around somehow. And when you see a woman struggling to transport a baby for one reason or another, you can take a pretty safe bet that:
a) She's not doing it for funsies, and
b) She's probably put a little bit of thought into making it go as smoothly as possible, because see (a).
But thanks anyway. If there's anything a parent appreciates more than your help, it's your unsolicited advice. Ask anyone.
Nina Pajak is a writer living with her husband, daughter and dog in Queens. Connect with Nina on Twitter!
