Quite a few signs forbade one from spitting, and had, perforce, the opposite effect. The closest one ever got to sex were the remarkably unflattering photos on the posters for the annual Miss Subways Contest. And for the straphangers of tomorrow? After completing my brief survey course of Subway Erotica , I looked down at young Pierce grinning and gurgling in his seat. But the truth is that the Transit Authority has inflicted a whole new realm of prurient product lines on its captive audience.
And then there were the sex ads. There is a mini-series that asks the question: Of course the MTA would deny such a charge, invoking the usual blather about free speech, entrepreneurship, and the need to maximize ancillary revenue. Times have changed, though I only noticed quite how much after becoming a father. The closest one ever got to sex were the remarkably unflattering photos on the posters for the annual Miss Subways Contest. But he soon delighted in the warm vibrations beneath his seat and began to enjoy himself immensely. I was lulled into a sense of some security—and then my eyes inched upward. There were Spanish numbers for gambling info, soap opera updates, and lovelorn advice. Or, in the heat of summer, all the way out to Far Rockaway, and the blessed beach. Quite a few signs forbade one from spitting, and had, perforce, the opposite effect. In yesteryear, if memory serves, soliciting was a crime, even on the subway. One of my oldest friends began making this trek on the IRT from 96th Street unaccompanied by an adult at age six. Then, as now, there was a peculiar symbiosis between subway trains and advertisements for hemorrhoidal relief. You can call numbers a cunning ploy since many commuters will do so, if at all, from work, and thus pass the exorbitant cost of such calls onto their public or private sector employer. Hemorrhoid ads are still very much with us. The opportunities are endlessly on parade. Exhortations to smoke and drink are on the decrease, however, perhaps in part because of the stiff competition from anti-smoking, antidrinking and anti-drug ads. Our fellow riders were unfailingly kind, rewarding my every clumsiness with a smile of indulgence. At that moment, however, I was happy that my baby could not yet read. Miss Subways seems to have abdicated altogether. And for the straphangers of tomorrow? Downtown to buy fireworks in Mulberry Street, or uptown to the Stadium for a Sunday doubleheader, rooting for Mantle to connect from either side of the plate. There were condom cartoons advising one what to do were one sleeping with a man, provided, that is, one were a man also. Once aboard the train I concentrated on my immediate concern, holding my three-month-old son in his baby seat on the floor of the car. There were additional cartoons advising passengers what to do if involved in various other sexual or narcotic promiscuities. The raciest ads were for one or another brand of beer or cigarettes. In the weeks since, imagining the conversations we are in for while riding underground five or six years hence has been enough to make me wish he never had to see the inside of a subway car again.
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