Dear Ma’ams and Sirs and Whom It May Concern at MTA:

This morning’s commute was kind of the worst commute ever. I mean, you guys really outdid yourselves. But until somebody rich buys a second public transit system or until we get jetpacks and can fly from place to place, you and I are kind of stuck together. Mostly I ride the F and that was what I attempted to do this morning at the Carroll Street station. A crowded mass stood and waited for 40 minutes before I became a leader and pushed the button that called your secret MTA headquarters. My question was simply, “Where’s the F?” The man on the other end said that there was a holdup at Church Avenue. I asked why an announcement hadn’t been made. He said that there were no speakers in our station. I asked why somebody couldn’t just yell an announcement if there were no speakers. He hung up on me.

I don’t like being hung up on. I don’t think it’s very nice. I’m certain that if I were to hang up on someone at my job, I wouldn’t have a job anymore. I’m pretty sure you couldn’t even get away with that at McDonald’s.

I yelled to the entire platform about Church Avenue and they all seemed very relieved and happy that they were given a reason for the holdup. Most of them mass-exited, but others stayed. About 8 minutes later, an F rolled up, but it was stuffed like a cattle car and I, for one, didn’t want to be a cow this morning, so I was stuck on the platform even longer. It took at least 8 more minutes for the next cattle car to show up, but this time a few of us were able to cram ourselves onboard.

The thing is, the situation wasn’t much better last week either. We stand and we wait indefinitely for 4 G trains to pass or no trains at all and nobody gives us the courtesy of telling us why there has been a hold up. Not even after we get on the train. And the train has speakers, so you wouldn’t even have to yell. Late trains happen. There are accidents and delays and we all know this, but there’s probably a little bit that the MTA could be doing better.

For starters, there should be announcements. Yelled announcements or speaker announcements. Preferably by somebody who speaks English and knows how to enunciate. Because that’s also a problem sometimes. You might also consider having Wal-Martish-type greeters at the turnstiles. Not to greet us necessarily, but to give warnings about possible hour-long waits and maybe even to apologize for the inconvenience. Saying you’re sorry goes a long way. People will like you more. I’m fairly certain that F passengers don’t want to be your friend after today, so maybe you could do something extra-special tomorrow to make up for it. It doesn’t have to cost money, although donuts and Coke products are always nice. It could be something simple like, a few extra trains that come within 5 minutes of each other or an announcer or yeller who will say they are sorry about what happened on Monday and all of last week.

I like the F and all of it’s 1973 glory. The fake wood-paneling and seats of orange and yellow are kind of nice. And I generally like you for not making us have to walk everywhere or take cabs or drive cars we don’t own. But I don’t like being hung up on. And I don’t like not being notified of delays and not given reasons. Lord, hear our prayer. I hope you have an excellent Monday and keep up the good work.

Since moving to New York over five years ago from Austin, Texas, I have experienced a wide array of living situations and roommates who have been sometimes cool and sometimes certifiably insane. While I enjoy the free entertainment, I feel it’s high time I bring a sense of normalcy back into my life–if only in my living situation. Behold the list of things I would never like to experience again:

Smelling so bad that I gag when you’re in the room or have been in the room.

Placing your dentures in a clear glass of room-temperature water and leaving them on the bathroom sink counter.

Having cats.

Having cats who are gross.

Having sex with a stray girl with your door wide open.

Bringing complete strangers back to the apartment.

Giving complete strangers keys to the apartment.

Sharpening a hunting knife in front of me in an effort to intimidate.

Hawking up snot on a daily or regular basis.

Dating a girl who sounds like Jurassic Park when you’re having relations.

Offering assorted creme-filled treats to God.

Keeping dead pet ashes in tins with Polaroid pictures of the pets while they were alive taped to the sides.

Having a voodoo doll.

Having imaginary boyfriends or girlfriends.

Not taking showers on a semi-regular basis, to where the bathtub is filled and then left coated in dirt after you emerge.

Smoking in the apartment.

Screaming like a girl if you see a fly.

Expecting your roommates to cook your meals.

Wanting to crawl into bed with your roommates if you get scared.

Digging through your roommates things when they aren’t home.

Running around in your tighty-whities while screaming like a girl.

Using the bathroom with the door open.

Going into the bathroom when somebody else is in there.

Talking to people who don’t exist in real life.

Laying on cat pee.

Long Island accent.

Making up a brother who is dying of cancer.

I’m a 34 year-old girl who is a freelance graphic designer. My other roommate is a 26 year-old male teacher. He only asks that you be clean, respectful of privacy, and have a job.

We’re looking for a third roommate to move in by November 1st. The room itself is approximately 7.5′ x 9′. Our last roommate had a double bed, dresser, and small table in there. It’s definitely on the small side and there are no windows, but the common areas of the apartment have pretty big windows that let in a lot of light. The bathroom has a shower and bathtub and we have a separate kitchen. Most of the living space is wide open. There is roof access, which is obviously not much of a perk during the colder months, but it does exist.

The apartment is on Columbia and Union in a neighborhood that is sometimes referred to as “Columbia St/Waterfront” and sometimes “Carroll Gardens” and sometimes also “Right by Redhook.” It’s very quiet down here and there’s not a lot of street/people noise. It’s safe and well-lit and a nice place to live. The B61 is right outside the door and we are nearest to the Carroll Street F, G, which is about 5 blocks up. Grocery stores, laundromats, dry cleaners, great restaurants, and movie theaters are all nearby and if you have a car, there’s always plenty of parking.

We’re both pretty quiet and very laid back. It’s important to us that the apartment feels relaxing and comfortable.

Please write to us with any questions and let us know when you would like to come by to meet us and see the room. Thanks and good luck with your search!

Stefan Sagmeister talks about the benefits of closing his studio every seven years to take a one year sabbatical. Along with being brilliant, he’s also one of the nicest men you could ever meet.

We walk around and in this city we mostly walk around and nobody looks up and if they do they don’t make eye contact and if they make eye contact they look away. It can come suddenly or not for weeks or months and maybe forever, but sometimes we crawl out of time and slow-motion our way onto otherwise sidewalks. I watched his eyes close and then open and maybe i just thought it up but his chest was breathing up and down and up and down, but it might have just been the fur in the wind with its side to side and back again. His little arms crossed over each other and his ear twitched slightly and his tail was perfect and I felt bad for thinking him into a pillow or a warm coat or worse yet, how he hadn’t suffered much physical damage, so what if a taxidermist came and got him and that way i could carry him around or mail him to someone or sit him on a doorstep and hide. Poor dead squirrel. Shut up, Myself.

Caw, Caw, Caw but not like a crow. Little noise. Little noise. Little noise. Caw. Caw. Caw. She was running as fast as she could. Up and down the fence, going right and then left and then right and then left. Little noise. Little noise. Little noise. Caw. Caw. Caw. My pillow was her baby. People began stopping with their strollers and walkers and I found myself providing more and more pretend details about this squirrel and his mom. “That’s his mom,” I said. My head bowed. My voice soft in reverence. “She’s trying to get help for him. I don’t think he got run over because he’s not smashed. Maybe he just collapsed.”

“He no collapse, he dead. I think so. He run in the trees. That his mother.”

The School-Crossing Guard very matter-of-factly.
She would know.

Little noise. Little noise. Little noise. Caw. Caw. Caw.
Little noise. Little noise. Little noise. Caw. Caw. Caw.

I couldn’t just leave him. What if he was alive? What if his eyes did close and then open and what if it wasn’t the wind on his fur, but his little heart beating inside?

“There a vet.”

Where?

“Right there. There a vet.”

She was pointing a few doors down to a blue awning and so I went in.

“Umm, this is kind of random, but there’s a little baby squirrel out there on the sidewalk and his mom is trying to get help for him and I don’t think he’s dead, but he might be, but he didn’t get squashed or anything, so maybe he’s still alive. Anyway, I don’t know if you can fix squirrels or not, but I felt bad to just leave him because the mom can’t seem to get any other squirrels to come help her.”

The floral-scrubbed, straight-outta-jersey-haired, yellowish-brownish tinted glasses lady finally managed an, “Oh” and then something about her being alone, but sending the doctor down to see the squirrel when he arrived, but she had gotten out of her chair at the same time and wandered to the door and I pointed to the small mound of fur and showed her his mom and she heard Little noise. Little noise. Little noise. Caw. Caw. Caw. “I’ll be right there” she said.

I figured she had to lock up, but no, she just needed a cigarette. Vet lady had already finished a quarter of her smoke by the time she got to me and the squirrel. It hung out the side of her mouth and she puffed in and out without the aid of her hand. “He’s dead. Oh yeah. He’s dead.”

“Really? You can’t save him?”

“No. He’s dead. I’ll go get something to pick him up with.”

And off she went. I told the mom I was sorry.
That I tried.

School Crossing Guard Lady Number Two was staring as I walked towards her and on my way home. “He’s dead,” I told her. “He might have just collapsed.”

“He didn’t collapse. His mom dropped him from the tree.”

“What?!”

“Yeah. He fell from the tree. She dropped him. I was watching her running back and forth with him and she almost dropped him two other times and I was like, ‘Whoa’, but she was trying to carry him. She loved him. You could tell she loved him. Carrying him real nurturing-like. Damn. That’s sad.”