The door groans. I skip down the cobblestone steps. The MacBook bounces and presses against my back. I stow my phone and pay attention.  An unadulterated product of affluent suburbanites, Forest Hills Gardens resembles a colonial village.  “Wrought iron street lights” and mature flowers line the block.  “Tudor exposed half timbers and red tile clay roofs” adorn houses. The scene is surreal, almost phantasmagorical. I hear that Peter Parker lives here. ¹

Ironically, the 20^thcentury commute between Forest Hills, Queens and Manhattan spanned twenty minutes, while current modes of transportation demand twice the time. Once affordable, the LIRR is not a viable option; daily fare totals nearly $15. ²

Economically savvy consumers (i.e. Mark Stone) leverage the subway and its comparatively cheap service.

Due in November, the MTA constructs an elevator on the Queens Boulevard South subway entrance. I cross to the north side and scurry down the steps. I yank my Metro Card from my left pocket and swipe feverishly. I cannot miss the 9:35 E. My neck tightens and my hands curl into puny fists. After  I convalesce, I swipe again and descend the next flight of steps. Just missed the train.

So, I catch the F.  I board the middle cart and hunt for unoccupied space.  No luck. I shove the portly businessman and inch my way near the metal pole. I read the advertisements for Dr. Z’s chemical peels and skin treatments. His patient is naturally unbecoming. His work does not work. I turn to my left, just as more riders storm in at Roosevelt Ave. If I see another pair of jeans hug the floor… I shut my eyes, shout silent profanities, and tune out.

“The next stop is Roosevelt Island.” The station is contemporary, with wood paneling and stylish metal beams. The layout seems inviting, but I have no business on Roosevelt Island. No one gets off. I grasp for my iPod, hit shuffle, and tune out.

“THIS is Rockefeller Center.” Half the occupants on the train desert me. Businessmen and pathetic schoolchildren locate the nearest stairs and run. Not my problem. I tune out.

I awake from my daytime nightmare and squeeze through the doors before the train can leave 23rd st. I float down 23rd until Madison Square Park, pause, laugh at those who meditate, traverse the park, and walk down 24th until Lexington. Oh hi, Baruch College.