This Is Happening.

       The core of my self-concept revolves around my being an open-minded and tolerant person. Living with Tourette Syndrome and being on the receiving end of many judgmental looks and rude comments, I’ve always felt a heightened sense of empathy for those I see being stereotyped or stigmatized. That’s not to say I haven’t participated in my share of lunch table gossip. I’m as guilty as anyone of making a snide remark here or an exasperated comment there, but in general I pride myself on getting to know a person before I formulate opinions about him or her. That all went out the window - or through the tunnel, as it were - one post-9/11 day on the N train.

       It was the Sunday before Cinco De Mayo in 2008. My best friend Katie had been visiting from Pennsylvania for the weekend and we were headed to Port Authority with our other best friend Kelly to put Katie on a bus back home. As we boarded the subway near my Astoria apartment we began to recap what had already been an interesting weekend involving Crystal Light and rum and runaway purses (I still miss that lip gloss…) and commenting on how we each had a strange feeling that there may be more interesting-ness to come, but decided that since we were just a subway ride away from its conclusion we were probably in the clear.

       No sooner had we begun perusing my copy of People magazine than our train jerked to a halt. At the time I was three years in to my NYC residency and familiar with the subway’s tendency to stop suddenly and without explanation, but I had never felt the train stop in its tracks with as much urgency as in that moment. It was as though the train had not only braked, but simultaneously been pushed backward. After a few seconds it attempted to lurch forward, but halted violently again as though it was a rat being held by its tail.

       I glanced at Katie and could see the anxiety on her face. I was anxious myself, but immediately went in to “big city vet” mode to assuage her concerns. “Katie, do not worry. This seriously happens ALL the time. It’s like, nothing,” in the most jaded voice I could muster. Meanwhile I was thinking about the time we flew to Disney World when I was twelve. It was my mom, sister and my first time on a plane and there was terrible turbulence. My dad, an experienced traveler, maintained an expression that would indicate he was watching paint dry while assuring us that the turbulence completely normal. The minute we touched down on the tarmac in Orlando he exhaled, turned to my mother and said, “Man that was the WORST turbulence I have EVER experienced! I was pretty scared. Glad we made it!” It was a wonder we ever got my mom back above the Mason-Dixon line.

       I glanced up at the LED information screen and saw we were somewhere between 5th Avenue and 57th Street just three stops away from our destination. I was surprised at how fast my heart was beating. Why did I have such a feeling of dread? This DID happen all the time! How many hours of my life had I spent sitting on a stalled subway train? The number was too astronomical to even fathom. What was it about this delay that felt so ominous? Was it that we had psyched ourselves out with our “interesting weekend” musings? Was it the abruptness of the stop?

       I refused to admit to myself that my fear was in any way related to the terrorism terror our nation was still gripped with seven years after September 11th. I had always been a proponent of the ‘If we stop [insert daily activity]-ing then the terrorists have won!’ mentality. I refused to live my life believing that every bump in the night was a bomb about to go off. Still, I had to admit that being trapped under the streets of Manhattan for just these few seconds had evoked a inexplicable feeling of panic in my gut.

       Finally we heard the telltale ‘bing’ of the conductor initiating a one-way conversation. “Ladies and gentleman,” he sputtered. “Please remain calm.”

       The three of us glanced at one another, our expressions communicating the fact that we all understood it was time to panic.

       The conductor continued: “Someone has pulled the emergency brake. We are investigating the situation and will be moving as soon as it is resolved.”

       At first I felt a wave of relief that we hadn’t hit an impenetrable force field and/or weren’t about to embark on a ‘Back To 9/11’ sequel, but then a second wave of alarm washed over me as I realized: “Doesn’t it take a really long time to get the train started again after someone pulls the emergency brake?” I asked out loud. “Yeah…I think so…” Kelly answered nervously.

       Then I had an even worse thought, but this time I did not say it out loud: Why would someone pull the emergency brake unless they WANTED us to be stopped underground for a really long time? “

       I pushed the thought away and turned back to Katie. “Well at least we know what happened! Worst case scenario you miss your 3:00pm bus and hop on the 4:00p, right?” “Right…” she replied uneasily.

       I felt equally - if not more - uneasy than her tone revealed, but felt like I had to keep morale high. Just as I was attempting to distract us with my People magazine again when conductor binged back in:

       “Ladies and gentleman, please remain calm. The train has gone off the tracks. I repeat: The last three cars of this train have gone off the tracks. We are awaiting instruction and will provide you with details as we receive them. Thank you.”

       I sat frozen on the cold, plastic seat. I was approaching a breaking point, but still trying to keep it together especially since in true New York fashion no one else in our car seemed to be reacting. One girl had still never looked up from her Time Out magazine. Did they not hear?! OFF the TRACKS, people! Total opposite of what should be happening. Kelly and I kept reassuring Katie that everything was going to be fine and that the worst thing that was going to happen today was that she was going to have to stay with us for another night, but I was growing more fearful by the minute. Visions of people climbing out of subway windows into the tunnel to evacuate during the 9/11 attacks flashed through my mind. I was terrified watching someone even THINK about hopping down on to the tracks to rescue a fallen iPod. The thought of actually clawing my way through the dark tunnel back to the platform was enough to make me dry heave.

       As I contemplated how to entice some of the other passengers to get out and push, the door between our car and the car in front of us swung open. It startled us because it was the first movement that had occurred in what had now been about fifteen minutes of stand-still. A young man of Middle Eastern descent emerged and sauntered down the aisle. He stopped in front of Kelly, Katie and I and turned to lean against the double doors directly across from us. I don’t know which emotion was stronger: my genuine terror or my shame that I would allow this man’s mere presence to elicit such a feeling. Regardless, I couldn’t deny my intense, visceral fear.

       Suddenly we made eye contact. My stomach flip-flopped. He smirked. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone.

       This was it. He is going to detonate something with that phone and we were going to be nameless victims in the nation’s next terror attack. I knew without turning my head that Katie and Kelly were having the exact same thought. I held my breath as he flipped open the phone. I closed my eyes.

       Bing!

       “Ladies and gentleman, they are sending us a rescue car. We will begin to evacuate the train starting with the last car and move in to the rescue car which will be pulled directly up to the last car. You will not have to enter the tunnel. You will walk directly out the back of this train into the front of the rescue train.”

       As we emerged on to 5th Avenue we found ourselves in the center of a brigade of ambulances, fire trucks and police cars. We put Katie in a cab and she caught the 4:00pm bus back to Lebanon, PA. I walked directly to the Tasti-D-Lite on 49th Street. 

       “Welcome to Tasti-D-Lite, miss!” the Middle Eastern man behind the counter greeted me cheerfully. I mumbled my order uncomfortably while staring at my feet, too embarrassed to return his friendly gaze. I grabbed my dessert and hurried out the door.

       It was later suspected that the conductor was under the influence of alcohol at the time of the accident.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jd7n3iUgFpk

[I’m cheating this week and posting something that is not a true story nor a currently relevant one. It’s something I wrote back when I dabbled in keeping a short-lived, unpublished current events commentary blog. So please enjoy the below which was relevant circa July 2009. I promise to write something true again next week about whichever of the following topics receives the most votes via replies on this post (follow me!) or FB/Email: Emergency Landings, Defamatory Websites, Stalled Subways]

A new study revealed that blue M&M’s have the power to heal spinal injuries. WHAT!

Yes.

Science-type people decided to see what would happen if they pumped rats with spinal cord injuries full of the blue food dye used to color M&M’s. The result was not immediate death as anticipated, but miraculous healing as the paralyzed rats treated with the blue dye regained the ability to walk!

The rats also turned temporarily blue, but I think we can all agree that’s a small price for a rat to pay to transition from a hopeless life of immobility to just a regular hopeless life.

Here’s the clincher: The dye is presumed to have a similar effect on paralyzed humans! M&M World better beef up its wheelchair accessibility, pronto.

This makes me wonder how many other candy-related products have undiscovered healing powers. I’d like to see scientists harness the power of nougat. Nougat is definitely harboring secret curing capabilities. A lot of people would probably say caramel, but I think it’s obvious that caramel is just a decoy.

So if you’re a rat looking to no longer be paralyzed and don’t mind turning blue send a trusted, mobile friend to the nearest bodega or 14-yr-old-on-the-subway’s basketball uniform fund raising kit and cop that candy!

Humans: I’d hold off until science figures out the turning blue deal unless you don’t mind giving up your ability to wear black. You may not think it’s a big deal, especially in exchange for your independence and quality of life, but then what are you going to wear to that thing you have next week that you’re not really sure is business formal or more regular formal?

In the meantime, I’d be eating as much nougat as possible. I’m just saying, it can’t hurt.

       At age 16 I was a total goody-two-shoes and I wore my badge proudly. I never had a curfew because it was assumed I would be home at an appropriate hour. I plotted out my school schedule meticulously each semester to ensure I would have taken the highest level of every course offered by graduation. If I was involved in an activity I was also an officer and/or captain of said activity. I think “treasurer of show choir” sums up my high school persona pretty well. So when it came time to finally get my driver’s license I knew I was going to be the safest, most defensive, by-the-book driver to ever hit the streets of Clarion, PA. My hands were going to be permanently glued to 10 and 2, except when removing them to signal safely, of course.

       In the spring of 1999 I drove around the neighborhood with my parents and learner’s permit as much as humanly possible. I studied diligently to pass the written exam. I even took the optional driver’s safety education class my school offered over the summer. Finally the big day came and I headed to the Clarion Mall with my dad in tow. I’ll admit, I was a little bit nervous about parallel parking, but - nailed it. Then we hit the road and although I was chastised for not staying enough to the left while driving down Pine Street (a street barely wide enough to accommodate the full width of one car let alone two - unfair!), I passed with flying colors. I was a licensed driver at last! I couldn’t wait for the first time I could tell one of my friends to “put on your seat belt or get out!”

       As soon as we got home I asked if I could take the car out for an inaugural spin. My parents obligingly handed me the keys, no doubt thrilled that they would no longer be in charge of carting me from student council meetings to jazz band practices anymore. I hopped in to the shiny, black Ford Taurus and headed for town. I decided I would treat myself to a french vanilla cappuccino from Uni-Mart, a local convenience store. Clarion has a population of about 6,000 people, so if you wanted cappuccino it was coming from a mechanical dispenser adjacent to Twinkies and lottery tickets. As I made my way to Main Street I tuned to my favorite radio station, Pittsburgh’s B94, and heard NSync’s “Tearin’ Up My Heart.” That was totally my jam! I cranked it up to a responsible level and thought, “I am so good at driving!” I made the turn in to Uni-Mart parking expertly between a motorcycle and a mini-van, dispensed my french vanilla cappuccino, and started back home.

       As I made a left turn on to Liberty Street, a one-way, residential road , the unthinkable: my cappuccino was falling out of the cup holder! Reflexively, I dove for it with my right hand, but was unsuccessful. I grabbed the now-empty cup and looked back at the road to discover that my other hand, still gripping 10 o’clock, had pulled the wheel to the left.

I WAS ON THE SIDEWALK.

(A lot of you may be reading this from New York City and don’t drive often or at all, so to bring you up to speed the sidewalk is the opposite of where you want to drive the car.)

       I was so shocked and panicked that instead of gently guiding the Taurus back on to the road I jerked the wheel to the right and consequently rammed the passenger side in to a tree. I was now back on the road, but there was a tree-size dent in the passenger door and a cappuccino-scented stain on the passenger seat and floor, so I decided now was probably a good time to pull over.

       I sat for a minute still in shock. And then: meltdown. I began to cry hysterically. I couldn’t believe that I had not only had an accident, but I had an accident on the first day during the first hour I had a license! Could I be any more of a Disney family sitcom cliche right now?! And - I HAD DRIVEN ON THE SIDEWALK! Thank god there wasn’t a child or animal or stray lawn ornament! When the reality sunk in that I literally could have killed someone I completely lost it.

       I was starting to hyperventilate, but my hands were still grasping 10 and 2 for dear life. I was gripping the wheel so tightly that I noticed a couple of my fake, silver nails leftover from prom had popped off. EVERYTHING WAS GOING WRONG!

       I finally collected myself enough to call my parents. My dad answered and I have know idea how he understood a word I sobbed, but somehow he and my mom appeared to collect me and the poor, mangled Taurus and transported us home.

       I was inconsolable. I wasn’t even afraid of punishment. I was just mortified that I had failed so supremely. Truth be told I was never punished for the event. I assume my parents decided I was at a psychological breaking point and were afraid to push me over the edge.

       They did have to decide, however, how to deal with the tree-size dent. Every option seemed futile:

-They didn’t want to tell the insurance company I was driving because I would be virtually un-insurable as a 16-year-old driver with an accident on day one.

-They didn’t want to lie to the insurance company and say one of them had been driving.

-They definitely didn’t have the money to repair the enormous, tree-size dent.

       It was a huge disaster. Not only had I failed at driving, but I had put my family in a terrible financial position. I was devastated. My dad said we would just have to drive the car around with the dent for awhile until he could figure out what to do.

       In the meantime I had to figure out what I was going to tell my friends when I rolled up in my busted Taurus. I couldn’t possibly tell them the truth, so I concocted a story that I, for some reason, thought was less humiliating than the fact that I had driven on a sidewalk: I told them I had grazed the mailbox backing out of the driveway. Clearly the dent in question was not created by “grazing” anything and unless the perpetrating mail box was the size of a jungle cat zero parts of this story made sense, but my friends either bought it or didn’t care to force the issue.

       Still, my shame and depression grew every day that I had to face my tree-size failure. I didn’t know how much longer I could take it.

       Finally one day several weeks later I had just finished cheering the Clarion Bobcats basketball team to a win in the high school gymnasium. As I bagged up my pom-poms I saw my dad hurrying down the sideline toward me. He had a funny look on his face that I couldn’t decipher:

“Chelsea… Mom was in an accident,” he said.

“What?! Oh my gosh! Is she OK?! What happened?!” I gasped

“She’s ok, don’t worry. The other driver was at fault and is in pretty bad shape, unfortunately. But she’s fine and at home resting.”

“Thank God.”

He began to smirk.

“What?” I asked.

He was grinning now.

“The Taurus was totaled.”

       When I landed my dream job at MTV’s Total Request Live I was thrilled as a girl from a small town to think that a national audience was going to witness things I was doing! Millions of people were going to see MY work on TV! What didn’t occur to me at the time was that this also meant millions of people would be witnessing my biggest failure.

       TRL was a seminal MTV show in the late nineties and 2000’s that counted down the top 10 videos in the country as voted on by viewers live every weekday. In 1998 I voted for NSync’s “Tearin’ Up My Heart” religiously. If the Backstreet Boys’ “All I Have To Give” ever usurped the daily title my afternoon was ruined. As the show grew in popularity it began to include celebrity guests and performances until it eventually transformed into a daytime talk show that I watched everyday without fail.

       I was obsessed with pop culture and live TV and it was my dream to one day move to NYC and work for a show like TRL. In college I did everything I could to make myself stand-out: I co-founded the campus’ weekly news show, co-wrote, produced and edited a full length movie, and was an officer of every communication-affiliated organization. I also have a pretty mean case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and knew I had the attention to detail required to work in the fast-paced environment of live TV.

       My OCD paid off and after graduation I landed an internship in NYC at HBO. I soon found out that one of my supervisors had a connection at TRL! She promised to pass along my resume, but warned me that the staff had a very low turnover rate. A few weeks later, though, TRL called. One of their staffers had just put in her two weeks notice. I was in!

       My first day on the job was like an out of body experience. There I was standing in the TRL studio - the same one i watched every day from my living room - and now I was going to be a part of making the show happen! I was convinced that I was going to be the best staff member in the history of TRL. I wasn’t sure if there was an award for obsessive attention to detail, but I knew that if there was I would be carrying that trophy home.

And polishing and disinfecting it for hours.

And putting it amongst my other trophies in its proper alphabetical position.

       One of my duties as a TRL Production Assistant was to research and write the fun facts that appeared on screen during each video. An example of a fun fact would be “Did you know? Justin Timberlake’s favorite ice cream flavor is pistachio!” or “Christina Aguilera loves turtles! She buys a turtle souvenier in every city she travels to!” FYI, I can’t vouch for either of those facts, but that was the fun fact gist.

       My fourth day on the job I found a fact that I thought was especially cool and interesting: Shakira (Columbian bombshell, her hips don’t lie) has an IQ of 160! She’s a certified genius. I jotted the information down proudly and took it along with my list of 9 other facts down to the control room where I handed them to the chyron operator, the person who re-types my facts into the machine that scrolls them live on air. After the chyron operator re-typed my facts it was my responsibility to proofread which, of course, was my OCD forte.

       I waited excitedly for the Shakira video to roll because I was sure someone would comment on what a particularly fascinating fact it was. Finally Shakira flashed on to the screen - hips blazing - but to my horror the fact that scrolled across the screen read:

“Did you know? Shakira has an IQ of 60!”

       My supervising producer whipped around to face me with such vehemence it seemed as though an invisible force had punched him from the opposite side. If the hatred that I saw in his eyes could have manifested itself into a tangible entity it would have shattered my imaginary obsessive compulsive trophy.

       I stood frozen against the control room wall imagining my fate. Would I be fired? Killed? Would I have to personally apologize to Shakira as she sobbed on the other end of the phone line about the slanderous things we had written about her?

       The reality was worse than any of those scenarios. After the show my producer pulled me aside and closed his door and said “Chelsea…it’s your first week so I’m going to let you off the hook, but… you HAVE to learn to pay more attention to detail.”

       If there was a silver lining in this experience I would like to think of it as this: Maybe somewhere out there is a little girl with an IQ of 60 who now believes she can grow up to be the next Shakira.

         As I stared into the crystal blue eyes of the guy who was potentially about to become my first one-night stand, I wondered if I could go through with it, but I knew I had to make up my mind quickly because he was taking off his pants.

        In 2005 I was the kind of girl who asked you to come back to my place to watch a movie because I’d really like to enjoy a film with you. I don’t really possess what you might call sexual prowess. The reason for this most likely stems from two reasons:

1)  I attended an extremely conservative college in small-town Pennsylvania where guys and girls could only visit each other in their respective rooms during very specific hours on weekends. During this special visiting time we would abide by the motto “Four feet on the floor, A shoe in the door” (i.e. No sexy time). I spent more Friday nights baking cookies than tending to booty calls.

2) The second reason is that I live my life in a sort of Obsessive Compulsive Matrix, if you will, of which the focal point is my extreme fear of inadvertently contracting The Babies. It’s a rich tapestry of anxiety, but accidentally becoming pregnant is a main concern. So I’ve never been the most sexually adventurous of young ladies.

        After graduating from the college of conservatism in 2005 I moved to the most opposite place I could: New York City. Baking was put on the back burner as I discovered that these places known as “bars” and “clubs” did not employ any rules about shoes in doors or feet on floors. I also noticed that it was perfectly acceptable for ladies to be… well, slutty, and that they were seemingly having a fantastic time doing it. I was intrigued by their stories of blurry, tequila-filled nights stumbling into the back of a cab with a guy they’d only ever know as Billy Town Tavern and waking up in Bushwick to take the so-called walk of shame with last night’s heels in hand. It all sounded so dangerously exciting! The more I listened to their tales the more I started to feel as though maybe I wanted a story, too.

        One summer night I found myself at a friend’s party in Williamsburg where I started chatting with a friend of a friend’s roommate. He had messy brown hair and blue eyes and couldn’t have been more than 19 (to my worldly 22). To this day I cannot for the life of me remember his name, but I’m pretty sure his first name started with a ‘J’ and his last name was something adorable like “Blue” or “Love” or some similarly charming word that would indicate he was on track to become the next teenage YouTube sensation. I told him about my recent move to the city and he related his tortured struggles as a doorman by day and aspiring skateboarder by night while I listened intently pretending to be able to relate to his strife. The majority of conversation consisted of him asking me first-day-of-school survey-esque questions.

Josh: “So… what’s your favorite color?”
Me: “Lime green.”
Jake: “Cool. So… what’s your favorite food?”
Me: “Baked goods.”
Jason: “….Cool.”

        Finally we got to “What’s your favorite movie” and when I named “Wet Hot American Summer” he said, “No way, me too!” I blurted out, “No way! I own it we should totally go back to my place and watch!”

        Now my reason for my spontaneous invitation was because I was genuinely excited to enjoy my favorite movie with someone who shared my love for cult comedy. But I instantly realized that he surely thought I had other intentions. And who could blame him? We were two or three Tecates in and it was approaching 1:00 a.m. My first thought was, “Oh my gosh he thinks I’m inviting him over to fool around!” And my next thought was, “…Maybe I’m inviting him over to fool around…” Maybe this was going to be my blurry night. Maybe this was my story!

        When Jon and I got to my place in Astoria I showed him to my room and popped in the movie - which I was still convinced was the majority of the reason we were there. I dimmed the lights a bit and, trying to be a good hostess, went to the kitchen to put some cookies on a plate for us. We settled in to begin the screening. The opening credits hadn’t even finished rolling when he made his move. We started to kiss and before I could even decide whether or not I was enjoying myself he started to disrobe.

        Half of my brain was cheering me on: “Yeah! You’re a woman of the world, Chelsea! This is your night! Let’s do this!” But the other half was screaming “YOU DON’T HAVE HEALTH INSURANCE!” Could I go through with this? Outside of my what my favorite movie is and, now, my apartment number, what did this kid even know about me? He didn’t know my hopes… my dreams… the name of my CareBear… 

        Finally, I pushed Jonas away. “I’m sorry - I just don’t think I can do this,” I said. “I mean…you don’t even know me.”

        He stared at me stunned and I could see the wheels start to turn under his shaggy hair. “But…. it would be totally awesome,” he insisted. “I have no doubt that it would be, Jonas, but I still think it would be best if you left,” I said.

        The wheels turned again. “Ok, well why don’t we just go to sleep. Let’s just sleep,” he said as he turned on his side and attempted to nestle in to my pink-striped comforter. “Uh… no…,” I said as I gently nudged him toward the edge of the mattress. “I think it would really be best if you went home.” The idea of sleeping with a stranger was bizarre enough, but the idea of a stranger just sleeping beside me was even stranger to me at that moment.

        Finally, Jerry made a last ditch attempt to sway me. “JUST SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP AND LET’S GO TO SLEEP,” he screamed.

Now, just as a public service for any guys who are reading this, you should know that if you’re trying to convince a girl to sleep with you the words “shut up” probably shouldn’t enter the exchange at any time unless they’re followed by the words, “You did NOT bake these amazing cookies! They taste incredible!”

        At this point I was not only annoyed, but also a little bit nervous that I was never going to get Jack out of my apartment. I wedged my arms under him and finally managed to pry him off the bed. He glared at me for a minute and then started to huffily collect his personal affects. As he pulled on his JNCO jeans - or whatever aspiring skateboarders wore in 2005 - I leaned back against my pillow, relieved and excited to finish the movie solo. As he opened my bedroom door to leave he suddenly turned back and started scanning the room like he was casing the joint or something. Then he made eye contact with me. I was frozen, and beginning to freak out.       

Suddenly, he lunged at me. But before I could react I realized he wasn’t lunging at me; he was diving at the last cookie on the plate beside me! He snatched it off the ceramic and bolted back toward the door. Before leaving, he turned around one last time, brandishing the cookie contraband and yelled, “I’m taking this, bitch!” and fled.

        I stared at the open door in disbelief. “UGGHH! I really wanted to eat that!!” I screamed after him. But he was gone. I glanced longingly at the crumb-covered plate and then around at all of the other items he could’ve swiped: my iPod, my phone, my purse. I couldn’t believe that in his moment of fury, he knew that taking my last cookie would hurt me the most. As I lay there on my bed, astonished, angry… hungry, it occurred to me… I guess he really did know me after all.