Residents of Chelsea are noticeably thinner than the inhabitants of other Manhattan neighborhoods. Their sparse frames might be attributed to youth, exercise, and diet, however the cause of their weightlessness is a result of the paucity of M-23 buses. Every time I exited from the F train at 23rd Street to head west the the galleries by the river, the connecting bus stop is crowded with commuters. This evening was no exception. I stepped onto the street and studied the oncoming traffic. There was not a bus in sight. A glance in the other direction affirmed my suspicions that the 3rd term mayor of New York had targeted Chelsea for the first stages of public transportation cuts. The young were impatient with the wait. Walking home was faster than the bus and good for their circulation. The old and infirm had no choice other than to grimly tolerate the abysmal service. I was tired from a long day at work, but hoofed the four long blocks to 10th Avenue.
The paintings at the gallery were worth the hump, although the slog to 8th Avenue tapped the dregs of my reserve. I descended into the subway. The toll booth was not only unattended. It was gone. A white square of ungummed concrete marked the ghost of its existence. The platform was packed by travelers on the C Line. The train arrived several minutes later. I took a seat to rest my weary bones, thankful to be living in Fort Greene and not Chelsea. A bus runs in Brooklyn. In fact many of them. It’s a good place to be.
ps I like skinny girls