The Beach to the Bronx: Views From the A Train

The Subway Surf Report is a monthly column that investigates New York’s most underground scene. Each installment captures subterranean snapshots of humanity at its realest and most randomized.

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I have nightmares like this: chugging along a rickety bridge, suspended like magic mere inches from an infinite stretch of rippled water. I—much like Azealia Banks circa 2012—am in the 212 on the Uptown A. Despite this being the precise setting of my haunting recurring dreams, it’s actually quite lovely: seagulls land. Planes take off. Marsh green. Jet Blue. Tugboats and tumbleweeds, choppy little waves and tipped canoes.

Someone has scratched “we here now! 💘” onto the window of the traincar. And here we are: it’s the Summer Solstice but the Rockaways are a ghost town, the Manhattan skyline but an afterthought on the horizon. Blade helicopters buzz over cargo ships anchored on the horizon. If you take off your glasses and squint your eyes to half-mast, you could pretend you’re in the Hamptons, if only for a moment.

A group of boys dances along the crosswalk outside of Beach Breeze deli, their shaggy hair blowing in the barbecue air coming from a man smoking meats next to a row of postal trucks. The flags of America and Jamaica and Brazil fly high above the laundromat. Cabs park under clotheslines in tidy backyard gardens. People lug suitcases to and from the airport. Two girls with matching tie-dye rainbow crocs have eyelash extensions so long they could fly themselves from JFK to LaGuardia.

There are oyster shells outside the Straiton Ave station. Couples tandem-bike along the boardwalk past rows of beige houses all awash with monotony: same pergolas and patios, same drab shiplap and dreary shingles. A baby boy wearing a tiny gray don’t make me call my auntie t-shirt screams SHARKS!!! each time we cross over the water. He swings at the flab hanging off his mothers arm like a punching bag. “Yo,” she cautions, before returning to her scrolling.

The last thing we see as we return to the underground is a graffiti tag that reads you just lost the game. (Sorry.) The Grant Street station is tiled with minty little rectangles that look like teal chiclets, making the orange seats of the traincar look like mango tic-tacs in comparison.

A man takes a sip from a Bacardi shooter at Broadway Junction. The girl sitting next to me gets a text from her mom: enjoy the concert. Be careful. I watch her tap through Instagram stories: cystic acne confessional; thirst trap selfie with flawless skin; golden doodle; engagement; two girls posing with Barbie dolls. A man in a spandex unitard sits next to an RN, idly skating his massive rollerblades back and forth, his blades the size of sturdy cheese wheels.

If you wanna know where your vintage Carhartt earned its wear and tear before landing on a rack in some incense-filled old vintage shop, then all aboard the A train. Their selection is better than Stella Dallas: paint-smeared jackets. Ripped-hem hoodies. Structured utility pants still dusty from a day on the job.