7-4-6

In a New York City summer, heat, humidity, and haze—the 3Hs—are the norm from time to time in July and August. As are random subway cars without functioning air conditioning. Typically, you can tell which ones are urban greenhouses by the open windows. The narrow rectangular ones that are opened to let in a little real air—foul as it sometimes is—when Mother Nature and failing machinery do the summer tango.

Well, today was a 3H day—hot as hell—from the get-go. Riding the subway was therefore bound to be an adventure. And, right from the start, it was. Sitting in the first car at the Van Cortlandt Park terminal—the Number 1 train’s blast-off point—the temperature seemed on the high side. But, then, the doors were open and what was outside—unbearable and unhealthy clamminess—consumed what was inside.

When I originally entered the car the train operator was already in her cabin. I saw her peering out the cab’s small window. There I sat alone—if you didn’t count the unconscious rider leftover from a previous trip. Spotting me, she opened the cabin door and exclaimed in a not particularly friendly manner: “There’s no air conditioning in this car. I would suggest you go into the next one.” I took her advice.

The second car seemed pretty hot, too, but occasionally there were brief teases of cold air that I could feel. Mostly, though, it felt un-air conditioned, which inspired a never-ending parade of passengers playing musical cars during the trip downtown. That is, hopping from one car to the next in search of a little relief on a bad air-quality summer’s day in the muggy and malodorous underground.

Also on my morning train ride was this deranged fellow—unbowed by the weather, it appeared—whom I’ve seen on multiple occasions through the years. He’s benignly scary, I’d say, and his spiel never varies: “Excuse me. I’m hungry. Can you spare some change.” The man recites it in a demented monotone—over and over and over—as he dashes through the car without a cup, hat, or even his hand out. I always want to give him something, but he makes it extremely difficult because he never—even for a split second—hits the pause button or looks left or right.

Well, this uncomfortable morn, I stuck a dollar in front of his furiously moving body during an unexpected encore performance. He thanked me in his inimitable style and said he was going to play the numbers with it—7-4-6. Apparently, the empty stomach could wait. He confessed, too, to being an unrepentant gambler who would never give it up. And he expects to win a billion dollars some day! The strangest moment in our encounter was when the gambling man down under pulled a smartphone from his pocket and scrolled  it with some proficiency. He informed me, then and there, that he had twenty-seven minutes to reach his destination, where he would play 7-4-6. So, into the crowded and stifling Times Square station this curious straphanger went. I can only hope that if he wins a billion dollars, he’ll remember me. Because I suspect we’ll meet again. Both he and I are men for all seasons.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)