Congestion Pricing Oh My!!

I used to have a monthly Metrocard, but then I got a Mini Cooper.  My transformation from straphanger to road warrior didn’t happen with a single trip to the dealership.  There was a two-year gestation period, which began when I was evicted from an illegally subletted rent-controlled apartment in Manhattan and ended this past June when I picked up my shiny black 2005 Mini with Hawaii license plates at a auto shipper’s depot in New Jersey.  With a dark golden tan and every intention of “driving with Aloha,” I jumped into my tiny chariot, stuck my new EZPass on the windshield and headed for the Holland Tunnel.  

“You’re a long way from home sweetheart.  Why did you ever leave?” commented a Port Authority Officer, as I rolled through the toll at the Holland Tunnel with my windows opened.  

I smiled at the question.  Pizza, family and a fear that my skin would soon turn into a leathery hide were the short answers.  The long version involved my desire to have a different future that what was available to me living in middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Nine months and thousands of dollars in parking tickets and gas later, I was still zipping through the tunnel and up and down the streets of New York.  Due to work and financial reasons I was living in Jersey and though I still had a Metrocard, I used my E-ZPass more.  Each time I popped the car into third instead of taking public transportation, I could feel my carbon footprint swelling.  I knew Al Gore was disappointment in me, but it wasn’t convenient to take the train.  I once cared about air quality and our dependence on oil, but my interests shifted when I learned to drive a stick shift.  Had joining the car culture resulted in bankrupting my civic duty?

I thought about this as I drove to Brooklyn on Tuesday morning to dogsit a German Shephard for the next week.  Was there any hope for me?  What would it take for me to change my ways?  And then I heard it on NPR… Congestion Pricing.  Mayor Bloomberg’s plan to charge most drivers $8 to enter a zone below 60th Street had been approved by the City Council and now the bill was headed to Albany.  Oh my God!!  I certainly couldn’t afford this additional tax.  I was going to have to do things differently and the sooner I transitioned the better.

This was my motivation for leaving my car in Brooklyn later that day and running my errands the old fashioned way.  By the time I boarded the M14 crosstown bus I was exhausted.  I boarded the crowded bus on Avenue B and was grumpy that this would be the first of many legs on my long journey back to Brooklyn.  Luckily, I spied an unoccupied seat in the back of the bus.  I was impressed that I hadn’t lost my ability to maneuver through a maze of straphangers holding large shopping bags and generally not interested in moving towards the back of the bus.  I didn’t even flinch when one older woman dressed completely in leopard print nonchalantly flicked a cockroach off her bag.  Please that thing was tiny, in Hawaii those buggers could fly.  Finally, I made to the empty seat. I took my bag off my shoulder, loosened my scarf and prepared to sit when my would-be neighbor stopped me in mid squat.
    
“No, No!” he warned, pointing out the mysterious red liquid splattered along the edge of the seat. 

“Oh, thanks,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief and annoyance that I was saved from staining my clothes, but I was out of a seat.

“Here take my seat,” he offered. 

I smiled and said, “thanks.”

I was overcome by the kindness of this stranger.  His refusal to stay quiet had made a difference.  I very easily could have been wiping red gunk off my rear while trying to stem the rage bubbling within.  Instead, the warmth of appreciation filled my heart as I looked over the crowd on the bus.  I had been missing so much while I motored around in my protective solitary bubble of steel.  Sticking to my schedule had removed from experiencing the magic of New York - connecting with the people.

I settled in and began to read the paper, something I was unable to do while driving, when I was forced into action as a young man, with a large oak paddle, tried to sit in the contaminated seat.

“Don’t sit.  Look!  There’s dirt,” I warned. 

The paddler smiled, but I had no time to acknowledge his thanks for I was warning another passenger.  My euphoria for the loving citizens of New York faded as I realized my knightly neighbor’s gift of a seat was not strictly chivalrous.  By taking the seat, I had unwittingly accepted a new responsibility.  It was now up to me to explain to passengers that the empty space, which looked so good from afar, was really a mirage. I very easily could have returned to reading my paper and never uttered a word of caution again.  However, I could not accept that I was a person who would knowingly allow someone to sit in grime.  Even though I yearned for the carefree days of driving solo in my own car lost in my thoughts, I felt compelled to carry on.

As new passengers boarded the bus at Second Avenue, I prepared to alert all potential sitters to danger.   A man in his sixties, carrying several arrangements of flowers that I assumed were for delivery, headed straight for the empty seat.  My warning was met with a look of doubt.   He removed his glove, ran his right index finger over the mystery droppings and rolled the residue between his fingers. 

“It’s greasy,” he announced, giving the final word on the state of the seat. 

All the surrounding passengers nodded in agreement.   His desire to sit seemed so great that I offered him my seat.  He immediately declined and it became clear that he was not interested in taking any on any more responsibility.

My involvement with the dirty seat came to an end as I prepared to exit at Seventh Avenue.  A previously warned man, holding a McDonald’s bag, took my seat and carefully laid out
napkins over the offensive area.  Once again, the torch had been passed and perhaps through the innovation of the napkin coverlet the dirty seat saga would come to an end.  I left the bus relieved that there were no victims on my watch. 

As I got off the bus and headed to the 2/3, I was relieved that underneath my gas-guzzling exterior I was still community minded.  I passed through the turnstiles and hurried down the stairs to the uptown train.  All the transfers were an inconvenient truth to my reality, but driving all the time cost me more than the tolls and taxes.  It kept me from experiencing the true New York moments that kept this city from becoming just another strip mall.  Though I knew I wasn’t about to give up my precious Mini, the environment, my wallet and my sense of humor had given me all the reasons to shift to a more responsible way of getting around.