Grand Central Station and the Red Queen Effect

“Look at us. Running around, always rushed, always late. I guess that's why they call it the human race.”

This line from The Switch crossed my mind as I walked through Grand Central Terminal one evening.

Ah, Grand Central. Where trains are missed, films are made, and time is lost. That’s what no one seems to have there. Time. Unless of course you’re a tourist who wants to get a quick selfie in the Main Concourse, suitcase still fused to your hand. Then apparently you have all the time in the world.

Fortunately, I had time.

When you have the time to wait you notice the simple things. Not simple as in plain, but it’s the everyday actions you witness. Walking towards the train to get home, you realize that everyone passing you is headed towards the open door leading to the train. There are other perfectly working doors right next to it. The only difference is they are all closed. They choose the one that’s propped open because they don’t have to slow down.

Why won’t anyone use these doors? Are they lazy? Do they think they’re locked? It would certainly be easier to walk through a door you pushed open yourself rather than force yourself through one with a stranger.

Isn’t it?

If we’re going by that logic, it would then also be easier to simply look where you’re going when walking. Right?

Clearly, I have firsthand experience with this kind of thing. And I gain a new one literally every time I walk through Grand Central. It’s like people do not have any peripheral vision, or they just decide not to use it.

On Left: Me, On Right: Nahja

I walked through the Main Concourse with my twin sister, Nahja. We make quite a team, her and I. We had already gotten about three double takes in the last five minutes. Our destination was the Dunkin Donuts on the other side of the terminal by 5th Ave. As we walked, a woman in an all-black power suit came at us from our 3:00. She looked determined to get to wherever she was going. She sped up her pace, it seemed, as she neared my sister at a right angle. It was sort of like watching a car accident. I was just far enough to take it all in, yet I couldn’t do anything about it. At the last second, the woman missed my sister by a hair—and I do mean a hair—and then proceeded to jerk backwards in shock that she almost knocked into someone else. No peripheral vision.

I absolutely wanted a donut now.

On the way back through the smaller passageway near 5th Ave, I had a chance to talk to the manager of NYC Racquet Sports. He has worked at Grand Central for a total of 36 years. I only know him as Mark, a guy I wave to when I walk past him every day. I walked up to his station and asked:

“Ok, when is the busiest time in the terminal?”

He got straight to it.

“So, the busiest time in the terminal is from 7:30 to 9:00—9:30 basically—and everybody’s going through the 45th street passageway here on their way to work. The next group of people that would come in is usually 12 until 2 cause they’re on their lunch break. They’re running, dashing, going to get lunch, maybe going to drop their racquets off if they couldn’t make it in the morning. Then the people from 4:00 in the afternoon until 7:00 is busy. It’s bustling. Everyone is running to their train basically.”

“Do you ever deal with rude customers during that time period?”

“You may get one out of 10. It’s rare, it’s very rare. I treat them like I want to be treated, so I treat them with the upmost respect.”

“And what do you observe about people in Grand Central, just daily that is always constant?”

He contemplates for only a moment.

“Always rushing. Either going to work or running home. They run faster going home then they do going to work, that’s for sure. Everyone who is going home is like a track star.”

His coworker, Eusebio chimes in.

“Even with heels, even with heels.”

They were absolutely right, because in that time just standing there, a woman wearing what I can only describe as Pippi Longstocking socks with heels was sprinting through the passageway. I wondered if her momentum would be deterred by the stairs once she made it pass the Subway and Dunkin.

I said goodbye and goodnight to Mark and Eusebio. My sister and I continued back through the passageway to take the shuttle home. As we passed the area where people are usually stumbling and pushing their way through to catch the train to Long Island, there was just a group of people standing stock still. I was perplexed. Walking through them, I noticed one blonde woman wasn’t even holding her phone, she was just staring straight ahead. It was like that feeling in Inception when the projections of your subconscious realize there is someone else in the dream besides you. A sense of unease washed over me. In a place that has constant movement, it was strange to see people stand as if rooted to the spot.

I tapped my sister.

“Why is no one moving?”

“Because they’re waiting for the train.”

So uncomplicated. I just had never seen anyone waiting for the train to leave the city. I always seemed to catch the instant when people had only a few moments left to make it in time.

As we made our way down the stairs to the shuttle to Times Square, we hit a wave of folk trying to do the exact same thing. Personally, I am fine with waiting for the next train rather than feeling congested in a space where I can only stare at the new advertisement for Via car rides.

So we waited, and as the train was closing, a woman with curly brown hair and blinding white shoes tried to squeeze into the last available space. She quickly gave up and Matrixed her way out before the doors chomped down on her arm. All I could think while watching was her was something an aunt would say to her niece when she told her she was into a guy 15 years older than her.

Be mindful of the gap.

I went to the terminal again by myself to really look around a bit more. I’ve been getting to know Mark the past couple of times I’ve passed through the 5th Ave passageway, and it has piqued my interest surrounding how people in Grand Central spend their time. No one is watching anybody else because they’re too busy with themselves. It was the perfect opportunity for me to observe.

It was easy to find a spot in the Main Concourse. I just had to find a space without rushing patrons.

Before I began my observations, I looked up. People barely look up here. Yeah, there’s no sky with a myriad of stars, but there is a zodiac mural, so practically the same thing. I found myself relaxed as I stared at the sky that was fixed in place.

You know when people say time is relative? Grand Central is the epitome of that saying. All in one minute, someone is sprinting across the perimeter because they’re already 15 minutes late for their doctor’s appointment, while someone is patiently waiting by the stairs to the dining area below since they have arrived early for their family dinner at the well-known Oyster Bar. I think that is the beauty of the city in general. You can be anywhere and nowhere.

It just all depends on how fast you walk.

I would like to cough it up to the Red Queen Effect. 

My dear,

Here we must run as fast

 As we can just to stay in place.

And if you wish to go anywhere

You must run twice as fast

As that.

It is the effect of the city, and it doesn’t just apply to you walking outside with a crowd of people you will most likely never see again. No, it travels with you indoors as you keep up with that crowd of people you will most likely never see again. You must keep up.

The city pushes you to push harder. It is not like a quaint suburban town with neatly cut lawns and a backyard. If you happen to see that here, it’s a mirage.

The city is clean, yet dirty.

It’s rushed, but slow.

It’s beautiful, but flawed.

And when I took in the people I saw in my quiet corner of observation, I saw it in them too. I saw it in the red-blazer-wearing madame secretary look-alike walking purposefully next to what looked like a hitman. He was wearing a black suit with a grey and blue striped tie and black leather gloves.

It was the gloves that tipped me off, of course.

I saw it in two elderly woman who were both rocking striped crew tops and khakis proudly listening to their Discmans and nodding their heads, probably listening to “We Didn’t Start the Fire” by Billy Joel.

It really made me want the Discman that my Dad gave to me in my single digits.

They’re all headed somewhere is my point, and I think The Red Queen Effect galvanizes us to make it to that somewhere; however, the real query is, do you make it? Can we keep up with the crowd? That beautifully flawed crowd.

The answer lies in the riddle “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

To which I would say:

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”