Subwayland (3 page)

The textbook train-buff photograph is known as a roster shot. To the outsider, one thing becomes apparent immediately about roster shots: there are no people in them. The aim is to show trains and only trains, with no passengers to block the view or scenery to distract the eye. (An Internet guide on taking roster shots counsels: “The main idea is to portray the locomotive in a very realistic and straightforward manner. Leave your artistic ambitions at home.”)

An authentic rail fan also devotes as much of his vacation as possible to riding on and taking roster shots of subways around the world. While Mr. Pinsker's slides flashed on the screen that night, Charlie Akins, the longtime president of the rail club, whispered about his coming vacation to Budapest, where he would spend a week checking out Hungarian subways with a group of fans from around the United States.

Mr. Akins, 54, a manager for the Social Security Administration, has also vacationed on subways in Hong Kong, London, Paris, Montreal and every American city that has one. (A rail-fan vacation guide warns about the pitfalls of taking nonfans on such trips: “If you want to be accompanied trackside by a spouse, child or buddy who doesn't like trains, in an attempt to enlighten them as to the mystique of the rails, then by all means do so. But be forewarned, you do so at your own peril.”)

Truth be told, even people who consider themselves fine amateur subway buffs probably could not handle it.

“Let's put it this way,” said Gene Russianoff, a lawyer for the Straphangers Campaign, the riders' advocacy group. “Transit advocates are from Mars and transit buffs are from Venus. They're really two completely different types of people.”

“I just can't sit there and hear about which cars are married pairs and which used a certain kind of lug nut,” said Mr. Russianoff, who has been an advocate and subway expert for more than two decades.

Over the years, the unusual ardor of rail fans has given rise to a long list of less-than-flattering nicknames. The most widely used term is
foamer
, which may have been used first by Amtrak employees to refer to rail fans who grew so excited when looking at trains they seemed to be rabid. Another theory holds that this term was adapted from the acronym FOMITE, which stood for “fanatically obnoxious mentally incompetent train enthusiast.”

Other names include
glazer
(eyes glaze over at sight of trains);
gerf
(glassy-eyed rail fan); and
flim
(foamer living with mother.) Transit Authority employees privately use a much stronger term:
fern
, in which the “r” and the “n” stand for “rail nut” and the “f” stands for what you think it stands for.

Many Transit Authority officials hold so dim a view of rail fans, in fact, that they do not like to comment publicly about them for fear that it will only encourage the more unstable, some of whom, officials complain, trespass into rail yards and risk life and limb to get pictures of trains.

There are even a few who cross the line into real criminality—fans who love trains so much that they feel compelled to take them.

Darius McCollum, probably the best known, began at 15, persuading a motorman to let him drive an E train. Over the years, he frequently impersonated Transit Authority employees, commandeered buses and, once, sneaked into a control tower at 57th Street and tripped the emergency brakes on an N train.

“There are people who are interested in subways, and then there are people who are crazy,” one transit official said. “They tend to show up at any event where we're rolling out new equipment or making any changes in the system. You always know who it's going to be. And they don't look like regular human beings.”

Rail fans hate it when the term
subway buff
is used in newspapers to describe someone who decides to steal a train. “Guys who do that are not rail fans,” said David Pirmann, a buff who maintains one of the best Internet collections of New York subway history, lore and facts (
www.nycsubway.org
). “Guys who do that are crackpots and vandals, and they should be locked up for a long time.”

In their defense, buffs point out that if it were not for buffs, many of whom are or have been New York Transit employees, many pieces of history now in the authority's Transit Museum in downtown Brooklyn probably would have ended up in a metal shredder. In his book, “The Subway,” Mr. Fischler relates the story of Frank Turdik, a transit employee who, in the mid-1960's, took several old cars that were about to be scrapped and hid them in an unused tunnel. The cars were preserved and are still around today, rolled out by the Transit Museum for special events.

“A lot of people ask me how I can be so into this,” said Mr. Pirmann, a systems management consultant in Manhattan. “And I say: ‘Look, it's a hobby. I mean, my parents collect little glass shoes. They must have seven hundred of them. This is what I do. You might think it's crazy, but I think it's cool.'”

The birth of the subway and of the subway buff were roughly coincident. But the obsession gathered speed when the Transit Authority began to scrap many of the first subway cars after World War II.

No one really knows how many serious buffs are out there now. The Electric Railroaders' Association has about 650 members in the city. Mr. Akins, the president, says a striking change over the years has been the growth in the number of members who are transit employees, apparently more emboldened now to admit that the subway is their passion as well as their job. The next largest club in the city, the New York Railroad Enthusiasts, whose interests extend to steam and diesel trains, has about 150 members. But there are thousands more buffs who are simply not joiners and will never be counted. They are scattered throughout the city, the country and the world, nurturing their fascination in solitude.

One such buff is Derek Nisbett, an intensive case manager for the state's Office of Mental Health. Mr. Nisbett, 44, is the man who has bought more than one hundred scale-model brass and plastic subway cars, costing about $500 each, and has been slowly turning his Fort Greene studio apartment into a miniature subway system. The crown jewel will be a set of elevated tracks that will circle his bed. “I collect only subway trains,” he said. “Everybody who knows me knows that.”

Another is Paul Kronenberg, 56, a math tutor in Sheepshead Bay. He is the man who has built the eerily realistic mock-up of a motorman's cab in his bedroom from old IND train parts. He said the idea came to him when he was working near a Coney Island subway scrap yard in the 1970's.

“Originally I just wanted the controller from a cab,” Mr. Kronenberg said. “Then I bought a brake stand, a door, a windshield, the brake boxes, the motorman's seat, a pressure gauge.” He built the walls out of particle board and painted them the exact gray-green color of the old trains by mixing Sears paint with pigment.

“Someone I knew saw it, and he said, ‘When you drop dead and the authorities come in here and see this thing, you're going to make the newspapers,'” he said. “And I just kind of freaked out when he said that. But most people who know me don't think it's all that strange. They know I don't take it all that seriously.”

Arguably the most isolated subway buff of all is a man named Michael Vincze. He is not, however, a loner by choice. He is incarcerated in South Woods State Prison in Bridgeton, N.J., where he dreams about the Polo Grounds shuttle of his youth and has built a substantial library of subway books in his cell. He is such a devoted collector, in fact, that he has bought all four volumes of Mr. Coppola's “Silver Connections,” and, like many of Mr. Coppola's fans from New York to Texas to Minnesota to Maryland, the inmate has kept up a correspondence with the author for a decade, even while being transferred from prison to prison.

“I really don't know much about him,” Mr. Coppola said the other day. “I've never asked him why he's in prison. From what I can tell he has a fine mind and a nice personality. He knows a lot about the story of the subways.”

Mr. Coppola wants desperately to tell him, and everyone else who is interested, the rest of the subway's story, if only he can find time to tell it, between his job as a printing press operator and the care of his 90-year-old mother, Mary, with whom he has lived since his father, Joseph, died in 1974.

The other day, wandering the empty, cathedral-like Chambers Street station on the J line, one of his favorites, he was asked to explain why he loves the New York City subway so much, enough to devote his life to it.

After all, he has spent nearly all his life in Maplewood, nowhere near a subway station. He never dreamed of growing up to be a motorman or a conductor. His father, who worked on Wall Street, hated the subway and avoided it whenever possible.

“Why did I pick the subways?” Mr. Coppola says, pondering for a long time. “Oh Lordy, that's a good one. I guess I felt like it needed a little public relations work, that's all.”

“I thought it needed a voice,” he said. “And then I just got hooked.”

Maybe a better way of saying this can be found in the handwritten inscription for Volume III of Mr. Coppola's life's work. Quoting from the Book of Luke, it says: “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”

Mr. Coppola certainly hopes that this is a true statement. At his current rate of publication, he figures he will finish his subway history at some point in his late 80's.

—ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED JULY 23, 2000

THEY STAND FOR CHANGE

On the bright side, you could think of it this way: John Del Signore and Victor Cretella are victims of their own success.

About a year and a half ago, not long after Mr. Del Signore lost his job as Santa Claus at Saks Fifth Avenue, he and his friend Mr. Cretella, an independent filmmaker, decided to strike out in a slightly new direction, career-wise.

They painted their faces silver. They squeezed into silver spandex suits. They thought up a silvery name for themselves: the Mercury Men. And they went down into the subway to work.

Silver people, apparently, work by doing pretty much nothing.

But this is not as easy as it sounds. The two men's performance involves them acting like mannequins, on milk crates, for hours at a stretch without moving a muscle, without so much as blinking. The only time they spring briefly into action is when someone plunks a coin into their bucket—oil, of a sort, for the rusted joints of these tin woodsmen. Mr. Cretella, 24, will bow, with robotic stiffness. Mr. Del Signore, 25, will smile and say, “Thank you,” and gesture like an android Noël Coward at an android cocktail party. And then the Mercury Men will freeze in place again.

Maybe it is something about silence and stillness in a place that is so loud and frantic. Maybe it is something about potential energy, about expectation, about the quality of subway entertainment in general. But when Mr. Cretella and Mr. Del Signore get up on their milk crates, crowds gather and people are transfixed.

They stop midstride and stare, with their mouths open. They laugh and point and take pictures and talk to complete strangers about what the two silver men are trying to tell us with their tranquillity.

“I think you guys are, like, beautiful,” said a woman in pink sunglasses who passed Friday at the Times Square station and blew a kiss.

But at least one group of subway denizens seems to have decided that the Mercury Men are not beautiful or entertaining or even particularly tolerable: the police. A few weeks ago, Mr. Del Signore was handed a $50 summons for “obstructing passenger flow” in Times Square. Five days later, Mr. Cretella was also fined $50, in the same station, for “obstructing ped. traffic.”

The tickets came, they said, after months in which the police at several subway stations seemed to take an increasingly dim view of their act, ordering them to move along, accusing them of panhandling and making disparaging remarks about mimes, which they are not, exactly.

They seem, they said, to have become the faces on the wanted posters for a new kind of crime in an overcrowded city: making it hard for people to walk. But others also do this—construction companies, film crews, other subway performers who are much louder and more disruptive—and the penalties seem to be handed out arbitrarily, Mr. Cretella said.

“MTV can draw a crowd on Broadway that cuts off the whole sidewalk and nobody does anything because they're Viacom and they have the money and the power to get away with that, right?”

It is not, of course, the first time the two men have had to deal with critics. “People have punched me, they've smacked me, they've poked me in the eyes, they've thrown things at me,” Mr. Cretella said. “They've pretended they're going to urinate on me.”

Mr. Del Signore, who usually wears a polyester tuxedo over his spandex, has had people take his pants down while he tried to stay still. He has had people pinch his rear end. Once, a man swung a tire chain at his head. Once, he chased and tackled a man who had punched him twice in the arm.

“You're silver and you've got to stand still,” he explained. “Basically, you're a target.”

Last Friday in Times Square, the crowd watching the two men, more than 50 people at times, was very respectful. But even so:

“Ooh, scary mimes,” said one woman, hurrying past.

“Mommy, why are they there?” asked a little girl, eyes wide.

“Get a job,” yelled an elderly man carrying a briefcase.

Then, just before 5 p.m., two police officers joined the crowd and one began to write something in his ticket book as the crowd looked at him with stony faces. Finally, he walked over to the two men and said, “Rush hour, guys. You got to move along.”

The men now say they have decided to move along for good. “It's just too much of a risk,” Mr. Del Signore said. “We never know if we're going to get a ticket, and $50 is basically a whole day's work.”