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Dear Jon; Love, Jon
In which a young Romeo pens verses of true love -- to himself.
By Jonathan Poletti
[02/14/00]

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[02/10/00]

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[02/09/00]

Goodbye forever
A mother signs away her son.
By Beth Broeker
[02/07/00]

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You can go an entire day, including commuting, without once being hit up for money. And the long lines at subway token booths are being replaced by long, but faster-moving, lines at MetroCard dispensers. Whether Giuliani, with his hammering attack on panhandling, deserves credit for this trend (or will just take credit for it regardless), the New York subway system has cleaned up its act and cleared the way for romance.

Sure, the next time I take the train, I could witness a fight or another bald man jerking off in my face. And, yes, the subway is still at base a matter of transit -- transport in the mechanical sense. I don’t take the 6 from East 77th to Grand Central every morning just for fun. Nor is it entirely a joy ride when I take the 1 or 9 uptown to Zabar’s for a quick fix of smoked salmon or to my boyfriend’s, on Riverside Drive, for a quick fix of everything else.

We still use the subway for the same pedestrian purpose of getting from Point A to Point B. That said, the emotional thrust of the ride is changing. The subway is blossoming beneath our feet -- coming into its full sexual powers.

Last week, a painter friend of mine received a business card from a man on the subway she didn’t even notice. He had to say "excuse me" as they were leaving the station to hand her a card identifying himself as the CFO of some computer software firm. The back of the card had a handwritten note: "Meet me for lunch tomorrow?" She didn't take him up on his offer and apologized to me for having no more stories. But she suggests that the Bedford Avenue station, the first stop on the L in Brooklyn coming from Manhattan, is "where the real action is."

And Kate, an editorial assistant where I work, is dating a graphic-designer type she met on the N/R line. She’s a smart, sexy woman who has her choice of men, but she chose one from the fine gene pool of subway riders. She was leaving our offices for Black Book, a terribly dense culture magazine on Prince Street, to drop off some freelance editing. She had her work with her.

"Are you a teacher?" asked the man next to her, who was heading to SoHo for shoe shopping during New York’s first tax-free week this year. He was wearing good shoes.

"No. But sometimes I wish I were."

"Oh. I just saw you correcting those papers."

"I’m fact-checking a story on the woolly mammoth. Did you know that scientists use hair dryers to defrost them?"

A rich dialogue about woolly mammoths followed; the tension was incredible. "Have you ever had a conversation where you’re on the verge of laughing the entire time?" Kate asked me later. "It was like that."

The Friday night after their first encounter, he took her to the Museum of Natural History, to see the woolly mammoths no doubt. Now, two weeks later, they’re still on the verge of laughing. He calls her at work in the afternoons. She returns his calls. And, what’s more, he just came clean and admitted that his roommate is now engaged thanks to a chance encounter on a train. She was carrying an antique table. He offered a hand. The rest is the stuff of wedding toasts. Kate insists, however, that her date is not merely matching or one-upping the roommate. This was his first time -- and hers -- meeting someone on the subway.

As for my boyfriend, I met him last year the old-fashioned way, at a dinner party. Our introduction, over cold sesame noodles, was completely rigged by friends. But now, when asked how we met, I’m likely to lie. I'm likely to say we met each other on the 6.
salon.com | Feb. 14, 2000

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