The Siren Song of the Subway

Our expert White Boy, Seth, spent more than two decades preparing for his first adventure riding alone on the subway up to Harlem. Here is the story of what happened when he finally did it:

I was in a hurry. Our broker had convinced the landlord to give us the keys to our new apartment a few days early so I could get a head start moving in. The only catch: I had to get there by 3 pm. It was 2 o'clock when the broker called me. So I rushed out of work early and jumped on the uptown 2 train to Harlem. I'd visited the apartment once before, but I'd never gone up alone. The adventure started the moment I stepped on the train at 72nd street.

A homeless black man in an over sized coat and torn khakis walked behind me onto the train carrying a blue electric bass and a child-sized wooden stool. He sat down by the doors and put the bass on his lap. "I'm gona play some music for y'all today on your journey. I hope that's alright," he said. A few of the passengers glanced passingly at him and then returned their eyes to the floor.

One midly attractive woman sitting a few feet away caught the bassist's eye. "This first song is for the lady in red," he hollered. She looked mortified that he was singling her out. All anyone in NYC wants is to go unnoticed on the subway. So she tried to hide her face behind her friend. "Oh lady in the red dress, you look so fine. So fine in that red, red dress you got on," he crooned over a slow bass groove. A few passengers laughed while the lady's face turned red, too.

The train stopped at 96th street and I noticed for the first time what my friends and I have since labeled the 1-2 switch. The few white people riding the express train uptown above Columbus Circle jump out at 96th street and transfer to the 1 train to Columbia University. Meanwhile, more black people pour in for the ride up to Harlem and the Bronx on the 2 (or 3) express train.

I looked around and realized I was the only white person on our subway car. The moment I realized this, the bassist singled me out, as though he'd been waiting. "This next song goes out to the White Boy," he hollered again. Everyone in the car turned my way and I tried hard to maintain my cool. "Play that funky music white boy," he sang and the entire train erupted in laughter. He didn't appear to know all the words so instead he just repeated that damaging chorus over and over. Finally, even he couldn't stop himself from laughing.

"Okay, okay," he said. "Now, if anyone can guess who wrote this next song, I will go over there and kiss that White Boy on the lips." My jaw nearly dropped. I heard some muttering behind me and one guy whispered, "Oh shit," to his friend. "The hell you will," I shouted back at him. The bassist ignored me, rubbed his hands together and then started to play a riff without singing.

I knew the song immediately and so did everyone else. One guy about my age leaned in and whispered, "It's Stevie. You are fucked, son." The bassist was playing "Superstition" by Stevie Wonder. After repeating that famous riff a few times, he stopped and asked the crowd, "Okay, anybody want to tell me who wrote that song?" A few people laughed but no one answered. "Come on, I know y'all know it." Still, no one answered, so he resumed playing the song again.

We passed 116th st. and I moved towards the doors of the train. My stop was next and I was eager to leave this scene behind. Finally, an older woman standing on the opposite end of the train shouted, "It's Stevie's song!" The bassist threw down his instrument and leaped to his feet, shouting, "Where's that White Boy? Where is he?" He saw me by the doors and hurried my way, but just then the train stopped at the station and I escaped unkissed.