No Pants 2010
Improv Everywhere’s ninth annual No Pants Subway ride was today, and since my New Year’s Resolution involves actually showing up to things I tell my friends I’m going to show up at, I dragged my carcass out of bed and headed to Maria Hernandez Park to meet up with one of this year’s multiple starting points.
The exact pedigree of hipster one would expect to find at an event like this was in attendance. Despite this being the ninth year for the event, nearly all of the participants from Bushwick were first-timers, myself included.
A tall, long haired, bearded, largish-nosed fellow with a stocking cap referred to himself once as “The General” and so that’s what I will call him here. He began to shout instructions into a megaphone and divided us into groups based on the last digit of our telephone numbers. Happily, this landed me in the same group as my girlfriend, but scattered the rest of my group to the four winds. This was by design, The General explained. Although he would- of course- be unable to enforce the rule, the purpose was to make new friends.
We located group three, which was led by a tall fellow who was closer to 40 than most. He quickly explained that his sole qualification for being made captain was having attended the ride several times in the past. He asked who wanted to be first, and before my brain had processed the question, my hand shot up. I did my best not to mirror the surprised expression I noticed on Liz’s face about this.
The plan a bit more complicated than I had envisioned. Each group was assigned to a subway car, which we would enter together at DeKalb avenue. The first person (me) would remove their pants immediately and then at the next stop (Jefferson Ave.), exit the train, alone. The second pair would remove their pants and exit the train at the following stop (Montrose). The people of the third group would do the same and exit at Morgan and on down the L line. We would all separately await the next train and enter, going about our business.
This meant that for a period of time, I was to be the only pantsless person in two separate subway cars. It was totally the best part and I’m so glad I volunteered to be first. If anyone reading this plans to attend next year, I can advise you of only one thing- volunteer to be first. The glee of being the person to start this whole thing off is something that doesn’t even dawn on you until later- although the adrenaline hit of forcing yourself to disrobe in a semi-crowded (and fully clothed) subway car is also instantly pretty sweet. For a few shining moments, you have the joke all to yourself, succeeding or failing on your pantsless merits alone.
We were under explicit directions not to deviate from our normal routines at all, apart from the fact that we were wearing no pants. We weren’t to take photographs or explain to the other passengers what was up with our attire. If asked why we weren’t wearing pants, it was suggested that we respond that our pants were “uncomfortable,” “too hot” or that we had simply forgotten them that day. For me this meant wearing headphones and staring furtively at the copy of “Born Standing Up” by Steve Martin that I had received for Christmas. Most of us had the same coping mechanism, and checking out what people had chosen as their no-pants reading material turned out to be one of my favorite things to do.
At Eighth Avenue - the end of the line - we all exited the train. Hundreds of us pantsless stone-facedly ignored each other and awaited yet another train going the opposite direction, which we boarded together. There was obviously some discussion going on, but I couldn’t tell you what was happening around me. I expect most of my fellow riders would tell you the same thing. We were all, together and separately, furiously ignoring everything going on around us, silently sworn to one another not to break up the performance.
Then I felt it. *tap tap tap* I turned to see an old homeless lady very deliberately tapping on my hand. I was so intently studying the life of Steve Martin that I hadn’t noticed her approach until it became a direct attack on my sovereignty. There she was, staring into my soul, mouthing toothless words in my direction.
I was mortified. Although being approached by the homeless is a joy that each and every Bushwicker learns to appreciate in their daily commute, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to retain my composure under direct questioning. I would laugh, I would spill the beans, and the whole car would hate me- so close to the finish line. Things had been going so well!
I affected my best scowl as I peeled off my headphones, “What.” (It wasn’t a question.)
“DOES THIS TRAIN GO TO CONEY ISLAND?”
The fact that the L train is one of the few New York City trains that does not terminate at Coney Island didn’t enter my mind, I suddenly couldn’t even remember what train I was on. This woman wasn’t concerned with the status of my pants, nor did she seem to perceive the pantslessness going on around her.
“I.. I don’t think so,” I sputtered, nonplussed.
The doors opened at Union Square and scores of the pantsless and one oblivious homeless woman poured into the station
