Anyone who’s ever lived near 14th Street in Manhattan or Williamsburg in Brooklyn knows that the L is a cruel mistress. She’s never there when you want her to be, she arrives late, and she will run right past and snub you. She won’t explain to you why she does what she does. No calls, no notes taped up to tell you she’s taking a different route today. She knows she’s the only game in town, and knows you can’t do anything about it.
Even if you tried to break away from her steely clutches, the alternatives are no better. If you live in Williamsburg, you could hoof it over to that growth-stunted, ghetto shuttle, the G train. But that’s a cure worse than the disease. Riding a bus would work but only if you loved scenery more than arriving at your destination on time.
No, you need the L but she sure as Hell doesn’t need you. She’ll get you where you need to go, but only when she feels like it. Bribes don’t work, and showing up early doesn’t work. The MTA is trying to break her shrewish spirit by automating her, but it won’t be long before she turns on her keepers again. All you can do is curse her under your breath, and shove that little old lady out of the car so you can squeeze in and make it to work on time. All’s fair in love and rush hour commuting.
Being the former This is 14th street blogger, I completely agree. In fact, I’ve spent many a night crying into my pillow at the unreturned love I seem to have to live with from my beloved L train. It hurts. Badly.