Big Apple Red (an ode to the roosevelt island tram)
I can recall my experiences riding the tram the way one remembers the words to their favorite song. I used to ride the tram two times a day, once in the morning to get to school, and once in the afternoon. When the sun has still not completely risen in the East, a crowd waits for the tram clad in blazers and blouses, scrubs and suits. These are the commuters who live on the Island but work in Manhattan and they know the conductor by name.
One time, when I was in seventh grade, and the turnstile metal was cold to the touch and the little grass field in front of the tram boarding station was filled with snow, my heart was warmed by the touch of kindness. I had boarded the tram as usual, and had sat in my favorite spot, a little step stool behind the conductor’s area.
That day, a cacophony of noise slipped through the crack of the closing tram door: the heavy sound of snow boots beating against the ground and a yell of, “Wait! Greg, can you hold it?!” My head lifted from the book I had been reading and swiveled in the direction of the tram boarding station.
A family that I always saw on school day mornings, a kindly looking dad with Harry Potter-esque glasses and his two middle-grade-aged sons stood with a look of snatched hope on their faces as the tram doors closed in front of them. The eyes of the morning commuters glanced towards the conductor, waiting to see his actions.
Without hesitation, he clicked a button on his control panel and the doors of the tram slid open.
“I’m so sorry,” the man apologized to Greg, the conductor that morning. “We were running late because someone couldn’t find his homework,” he shot his son a look that was simultaneously endearing and pointed. “But I have a meeting today so I just didn’t want to–” He was cut off by a chuckle from the man now closing the tram doors for a second time.
“Don’t worry about it,” Greg assured him in a thick New York accent and a casual wave of his hand. He had been operating the tram for nearly 47 years at that time, and when he smiled at the boy who lost his homework, his eyes crinkled at the corners. The son gave him a small smile in return before he stared at his rubber yellow snowboots while muttering an embarrassed, “Thanks.”
Unlike the subway system, in which people rarely see the exact same group of people everyday, the people on each morning tram ride are reliably the same. There are only two small trams, and their schedules are quite consistent.
As the tram begins to rise on a morning commute, a murmur of voices rises as well, many of which belong to people who have only met each other because they share the same beloved red vehicle everyday. Sometimes the voices converse in French, Japanese, Somali, Farsi, Mandarin, German, and other languages that I do not recognize. Many times I have seen the foreign language speakers with name tags on lanyards that have little blue globes within a wreath of olive branches, the symbol of the United Nations. There are also workers, with their heavy, dirt-scuffed tan boots, and their hands in the pockets of their cargo pants, speaking in Spanish or Russian. Most often though, I hear accented English, with American English sprinkled throughout. These voices often sing songs with lyrics anticipating what the work day will bring and the bridge of these songs is usually something along the lines of, “my daughter refused to eat her breakfast this morning,” and the chorus of these songs has recently been, “did you watch the Knicks game yesterday?” The harmonies created between the diverse array of the tram commuters in the early morning truly blend perfectly with those of the entire city.
In the afternoon, the tram ride is different. When one boards the Tram after four o’clock, the people are as crowded as sardines in a can. Added to the mass of commuters, especially during the seasons when cherry blossoms bloom, is a group of lost-looking folks: tourists. They are my endless amusement.
The conductor, instead of greeting them with their names, announces, “Please hold on to a hand rail or pole while the Tram is in motion.” As the Tram ascends in all its ruby glory, the tourists grip the poles with white knuckles and stare out the windows with wide eyes. Meanwhile, the long-time commuters stand in the middle of the tram, holding their purses or bags in one arm, and scrolling through messages on their phones with the other.
As the Tram passes the first support tower, it sways back and forth, and a collective “ooooh” always slips from the mouths of the tourists. When this happens, I feel the corner of my mouth lifting into a smirk. The most amusing comment I have heard on the tram was, “It’s like a rollercoaster!” How strange to think that my daily routine is a thrilling ride to a grey haired woman with a Texan accent taking a selfie with a random apartment building as backdrop.
When the tram reaches the middle of the East River, another collective “wow” rises from the tourists as someone points towards the Manhattan skyline. Soon a widespread turning of heads can be seen as every person reaches for their phones and stretches out their arms to try to capture a photo over the crowd of people clumped into the Tram. I giggle at this point of the tram ride and turn knowingly to my little sister as she whispers jokingly, “Get a load of these guys.” But then my eyes follow the fingers of the tourists I tease, and snatch at the sight of the City, like a thief. I am in constant awe of its enormity.
Look at all these lives, I think to myself when I ride the tram, packed into jagged glass towers and the skyline of dreams and movies. To be in the tram is to see a view that forces you to think, look at this wonderful place in which I live, even if you have already thought the same sentence a million times.
