Patient Zero

Welcome to the tunnels under New York where snot, spit, screams and sneezes are shared with strangers.

Illustration by Bill O'Rourke

I am generally pretty jaded about crazy subway stories. I’ve seen my share of car-clearing, passed out, incontinent, stink-so-bad-it-clings-to-your-clothing homeless folks; witnessed brawls in trains and on platforms; and have even been denied a seat and nearly pushed down the stairs when I had a broken ankle and shoulder. New Yorkers like to think of ourselves as a hardy, almost callous breed, unfazed by disruptions that would horrify people from more tranquil locales. I was secure in my hubris and inability to be shocked by the subway, especially after I experienced the shirtless, pantless guy swinging from bar to bar over a lumpy puddle of his own vomit on a downtown F train (I calmly made my way to another car at the next stop), and another incident involving what seemed to be a rather large piece of human excrement lying daintily next to a corner seat on a crowded 6. (People would walk toward the seat, begin to sit down, realize what it was and recoil…