Twentyfive Twelve Stop Program

We've chronicled numerous twentyfive moments here on the site. You know, those moments when you make certain decisions or behave in a certain manner in which, in hindsight, you ask yourself if you're too old to be doing that kind of shit. Shit like losing your briefcase or purse at a bar, being unable to recall where you were the night before and how you got home, or wandering into a live subway tunnel to urinate.

We've also chronicled a number of New York City moments. Moments like watching a bootleg CD merchant get thrown to the pavement and cuffed by undercover cops (to the dismay of a jeering crowd) while you're 15 feet away buying a bootleg video of Adam Sandler's Little Nicky. Or yelling "I'll take it" to the landlord of the most dingy and cramped apartment you've ever seen through a two-way radio being held up to your face by the Spanish-speaking ten-year-old who is showing you the apartment. Or again, wandering into a live subway tunnel to urinate.

A few weeks ago, I was confronted with a confluence of both types of "moment" so tantalizing and so representative of the respective phenomena that it seemed to have been arranged by fate. And as usual, the New York City subway system and urine played starring roles.

OK. Fourth Avenue and 9th Street N/R station. Brooklyn. About 1:30 a.m. I had just come from a moderately alcohol-soaked outing with some friends in Park Slope and was waiting for a train to zip me up to Times Square and my desired connection with the 1/9. Naturally, I had to pee.

Although I had just broken the seal a mere half hour earlier, I figured I could make it home without having to stop on the way. Besides, I didn't really know where to go in Brooklyn for such a purpose, especially at that time of night. And the train was taking forever. If I did get off the train somewhere, when would the next one come?

The urge was building, however. I tried to distract myself by rereading the posted schedule to make sure that I wasn't waiting for a train that wasn't coming. It was still little unclear to me, so I scanned the platform for a dark corner or crevice into which I could release my frustration. Instead, I spotted an MTA cop. Shit.

I began pacing back and forth on the platform in an attempt to ease the pressure – both mentally and physically. This effort expanded into a steady oval circuit, encompassing about four columns (25 yards or so). After about five minutes of this, I decided to turn the cop into an asset by asking him about the train. At least it would allow me to expand my circle without looking like even more of an asshole. The cop told me that the trains were still running and, as if on cue, a Queens-bound R train rolled into the station.

The train was dotted with riders, about two or three per car. I took a seat toward the end of the train and prepared myself for the waiting game. By Union Street (the next stop), I was standing, doing a subtle rendition of the twist-with the added twist of an agonized grimace. I looked like I needed either a couple of morphine pills or a bicycle helmet. Despite this fact, the middle-aged black man at the other end of the car paid no attention to me. Ah, the beauty of New York. Inspired, I renewed my decision to ride it out.

By DeKalb Avenue, that decision seemed to be a poor one. The pressure in my nether regions was becoming unbearably intense. My twist had turned into ring-around-the-rosy with one of the poles in the car. A familiar refrain returned to my mind: How old am I?

But then something remarkable happened. When we pulled into Lawrence Street, the guy at the other end of the car got out -and no one else got on. I had expected the number of riders to grow as we neared Manhattan (we were only two stops away at this point), but now I was completely alone. A devilish design began to take shape at the outskirts of my consciousness. Perhaps there was a way I could exit this predicament without exiting the train after all.

Thanks to a sudden swell of pressure and the slightest squirt, I had barely begun to contemplate this new opportunity when the train rolled into Court Street, the last stop before Manhattan. But miraculously, again nobody got on.

The stage seemed to be set by fate: an empty subway car on one of the city's most well-traveled lines. An extended ride between two boroughs. One man with a searing need to pee. It was perfect. I could easily go down to the other end of the car, piss in the corner (going between the cars would put me in view of the passengers in the other car), and stroll right back down to my seat-relieved in every sense of the word. The people who got on at Whitehall (the first Manhattan stop) would assume that the urine was the work of some bum, not the business-casual-dressed white boy who had obviously smelled something funky and had placed himself at the far end of the car.

Emboldened, I set out for the opposite end of the car, striding evenly against the momentum of the train, which sped toward Manhattan and home. But when I arrived at the other corner, I grabbed the pole, turned on my heel, and swung back in the other direction. I mean, Jesus Christ! How old am I?

Too old. Or was I? I mean, what is age but a state of mind? Ugh, what a horrible cliché. I deserved to be peed on for that one. But by the same token, five years ago I'd be finished and zipping back up already. Recognizing a twentyfive moment in the making, I spun back around and headed for that all-too-familiar mix of humiliation, relief and the vaguest hope that I may be learning something about life.

Again I turned back, though. Of course when I returned to my side of the car, I didn't have to go any less. What was I afraid of? This is New York City, goddamn it! Of all the things that make the city what it is, perpetual filth certainly ranks near the top. And in the absence of the kind of wealth, status or fame necessary to make my mark in a more meaningful way, this invitation that the city seemed to be extending to me to join in the soiling was nearly impossible to ignore. It was simply the kind of thing that can be-no-is done in New York, New York. Another step in my evolution as a New Yorker beckoned.

So I turned toward the far end again. Then peeled off again. Jesus! Can I do this? Should I do this? I had to be getting close to the next station, where the jig would be up. Time was getting tight. Was I going to fulfill the promise of these concurrent twentyfive and NYC moments? Was I going to take fate's bait?

Amazingly enough, however, the pacing that was fuelling this inner duel felt good – just as it had back at the station. So I continued. There I was, frantically pigeon-toeing my way up and down the length of this subway car in my own little traveling purgatory, zooming under the East River and the city's 16 million feet.

Fuck it. I ain't going. I suppose I was taking a much bigger chance. After all, if I were to fail...well, let me put it this way: If there's one thing that would be more childish than pissing in a subway car, it would have to be pissing in my pants. But determination had supplanted desperation as my primary motivator.

Whitehall came and went, as did Rector, Cortlandt, City Hall, Canal, Prince and 8th Street. Each time not one person boarded the train. Each time the dilemma was renewed. It was remarkable, this tenacious temptation. But I did not waver. And when the hippie couple with the faded jeans, bandannas and green military duffel bag boarded at 14th Street, breaking the streak of solitude, I knew I was going to make it.

Back at my apartment, I let loose a laser beam that I feared would cut the toilet bowl into perfect parting porcelain halves. But ten minutes later, when I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my chest, I took a moment to reflect on the adventure and smiled.

I am 26 years old. And from out of town.