Viral Missed Connection gets witty response from ‘Q train mystery girl’

Craigslister claims she is the old woman on the train for 60 years in response to viral story. / Craigslist.com
One Craigslister claims she is the old woman on the train for 60 years in response to viral story. Credit: Craigslist

We’ve all seen this heart-wrenching Craigslist Missed Connection of a lost subway love. You likely spent spent several minutes this morning scrolling down the screen, waiting for the Q train man to utter a word to the beautiful woman in the 60 years they spent riding up and down the rails.

Well, he didn’t, and now another witty Craigslister has jumped at the chance to call bullsh—t on the intense love story, poking fun at just how unrequited love can be — especially when you’re living off Skittles and reading the biography of Lyndon Johnson (without turning a page) for the 312th time.

Here’s the letter in full:

I am the old woman on the train for 60 yrs!

I still have those ole’ boot earrings and I do remember you, too. I read the biography of Lyndon Johnson 312 times in those 60 years. When we arrived at Coney Island the first time, I almost asked why you were staring at me. It was going to be my pathetic attempt at instigating a conversation.

But I said nothing.

It saddened me over the years you never once said, “Bless You” when I would sneeze. I would often fake a sneeze, hoping, just hoping you would give the universal blessing, but to no avail. You only sat staring at me.

I too memorized the folds of your body. I watched as your hair follicles slowly fell out of your head and a patchy bald spot would emerge, only to grow larger over time. After about 54 years, I was unsure if you could still even see me. I would sense you staring, but unsure if your eyes were still able to focus. At this point, we both had to be in our mid 70′s.

Your soiled pants never bothered me, because mine were too. I admired your will power to remain on the train to stare at me for six decades. The one time you saw me cry? I assumed you thought it was because of the glancing at my neighbor’s paper, but that was not true. I was crying because I wasted nearly 60 years for a bald mute to speak to me.

So I had to leave.

When I held on to those rails with difficulty from sitting so long, I only hesitated hoping you would be a gentleman and help me walk. But you said and did nothing, only to watch me slip through the closing sliding doors.

Truth is, I’ll never know you like I learned to know Lyndon Johnson; and I was really tired of eating Skittles.

In case you missed the original Craigslist post, which has now gone viral, the text in full is below:

I saw you on the Manhattan-bound Brooklyn Q train.

I was wearing a blue-striped t-shirt and a pair of maroon pants. You were wearing a vintage red skirt and a smart white blouse. We both wore glasses. I guess we still do.

You got on at DeKalb and sat across from me and we made eye contact, briefly. I fell in love with you a little bit, in that stupid way where you completely make up a fictional version of the person you’re looking at and fall in love with that person. But still I think there was something there.

Several times we looked at each other and then looked away. I tried to think of something to say to you — maybe pretend I didn’t know where I was going and ask you for directions or say something nice about your boot-shaped earrings, or just say, “Hot day.” It all seemed so stupid.

At one point, I caught you staring at me and you immediately averted your eyes. You pulled a book out of your bag and started reading it — a biography of Lyndon Johnson — but I noticed you never once turned a page.

My stop was Union Square, but at Union Square I decided to stay on, rationalizing that I could just as easily transfer to the 7 at 42nd Street, but then I didn’t get off at 42nd Street either. You must have missed your stop as well, because when we got all the way to the end of the line at Ditmars, we both just sat there in the car, waiting.

I cocked my head at you inquisitively. You shrugged and held up your book as if that was the reason.

Still I said nothing.

We took the train all the way back down — down through Astoria, across the East River, weaving through midtown, from Times Square to Herald Square to Union Square, under SoHo and Chinatown, up across the bridge back into Brooklyn, past Barclays and Prospect Park, past Flatbush and Midwood and Sheepshead Bay, all the way to Coney Island. And when we got to Coney Island, I knew I had to say something.

Still I said nothing.

And so we went back up.

Up and down the Q line, over and over. We caught the rush hour crowds and then saw them thin out again. We watched the sun set over Manhattan as we crossed the East River. I gave myself deadlines: I’ll talk to her before Newkirk; I’ll talk to her before Canal. Still I remained silent.

For months we sat on the train saying nothing to each other. We survived on bags of skittles sold to us by kids raising money for their basketball teams. We must have heard a million mariachi bands, had our faces nearly kicked in by a hundred thousand break dancers. I gave money to the beggars until I ran out of singles. When the train went above ground I’d get text messages and voicemails (“Where are you? What happened? Are you okay?”) until my phone ran out of battery.

I’ll talk to her before daybreak; I’ll talk to her before Tuesday. The longer I waited, the harder it got. What could I possibly say to you now, now that we’ve passed this same station for the hundredth time? Maybe if I could go back to the first time the Q switched over to the local R line for the weekend, I could have said, “Well, this is inconvenient,” but I couldn’t very well say it now, could I? I would kick myself for days after every time you sneezed — why hadn’t I said “Bless You”? That tiny gesture could have been enough to pivot us into a conversation, but here in stupid silence still we sat.

There were nights when we were the only two souls in the car, perhaps even on the whole train, and even then I felt self-conscious about bothering you. She’s reading her book, I thought, she doesn’t want to talk to me. Still, there were moments when I felt a connection. Someone would shout something crazy about Jesus and we’d immediately look at each other to register our reactions. A couple of teenagers would exit, holding hands, and we’d both think: Young Love.

For sixty years, we sat in that car, just barely pretending not to notice each other. I got to know you so well, if only peripherally. I memorized the folds of your body, the contours of your face, the patterns of your breath. I saw you cry once after you’d glanced at a neighbor’s newspaper. I wondered if you were crying about something specific, or just the general passage of time, so unnoticeable until suddenly noticeable. I wanted to comfort you, wrap my arms around you, assure you I knew everything would be fine, but it felt too familiar; I stayed glued to my seat.

One day, in the middle of the afternoon, you stood up as the train pulled into Queensboro Plaza. It was difficult for you, this simple task of standing up, you hadn’t done it in sixty years. Holding onto the rails, you managed to get yourself to the door. You hesitated briefly there, perhaps waiting for me to say something, giving me one last chance to stop you, but rather than spit out a lifetime of suppressed almost-conversations I said nothing, and I watched you slip out between the closing sliding doors.

It took me a few more stops before I realized you were really gone. I kept waiting for you to reenter the subway car, sit down next to me, rest your head on my shoulder. Nothing would be said. Nothing would need to be said.

When the train returned to Queensboro Plaza, I craned my neck as we entered the station. Perhaps you were there, on the platform, still waiting. Perhaps I would see you, smiling and bright, your long gray hair waving in the wind from the oncoming train.

But no, you were gone. And I realized most likely I would never see you again. And I thought about how amazing it is that you can know somebody for sixty years and yet still not really know that person at all.

I stayed on the train until it got to Union Square, at which point I got off and transferred to the L.

Follow Julie Kayzerman on Twitter: @juliekayzerman



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