The Coney Island Run
by John Flowers

Abuse of alcohol and public transportation are both time-honored traditions in the Big Apple. And among outer borough penny-pinchers, no greater rite of passage exists than boozing it hard on a weekend night and — whoops! — waking up at the end of the line in Coney Island. It's the sort of trek that makes men out of boys and where a young woman can become a young broad.

Recently, a friend admitted — over drinks, naturally — to being such a broad and wondered whether I, something of an expert on the matter, had any advice for a novice certain to have a high recidivism rate.

Naturally, I did.

* "Does this make me an alcoholic?" is always the first question people ask. And the answer is simple: Shut up and stop asking stupid questions. These types of misadventures are rare and due only to the fact that highwaymen finally learned how much more profitable it is to own the carriage. Should a person tell you otherwise, that it does make you an alcoholic — and that it makes you a bad person for trying to enjoy yourself in New York City — simply inform him that the Museum for Wet Blankets is taking applications and that, if need be, he may list you as a reference.

* In my all experience at making the Coney Island Run, no one who collects a city paycheck has ever dared disturb Hooching Beauty. I have two theories as to why: One is that when the train leaves and you with it, you immediately become someone else's problem. And thus two: Would you, for what these guys probably make?

* When you wake up, it will be to a train standing very still and empty and with the doors open — much as if you'd fallen asleep in a display model. Now is the time to get your bearings and figure out where the hell you are. The first few seconds of a hangover are always the most confusing, and the last thing you want to do is get the wrong idea in your head about what happened last night and observe that you never figured Heaven to be so heavy-handed with the metaphors.

* To keep your spirits up, try to find the silver lining in this affair. Remember, you were smart enough to find a train; smart enough to board the train; and smart enough to stay awake a good while before you passed out on that train. You met with a lot of success, in fact, just not all of it. And you'll definitely be first in line to ride the Cyclone.

* Do not actually consider riding the Cyclone. In fact, do not leave the train at all. This is Wrong Think. You stink, and the line between You and "Indigent" right now is probably more negotiable than you realize. Moreover, you've got about a one-hour window before your body completely shuts down, because, for some reason, it considers a short nap in a slouched position, after eight solid hours of drinking, not a rejuvenating enough experience.

* When you finally piece together the series of events that brought you to this moment in time — a timeline that should end with the phrase "Let's do shots!" — your first thought is going to be, "I need to get up and go find the train going the other direction." WRONG. This is the last stop. This train is going to turn around and head back whence it came. And that means you're already on that train. In fact, you boarded it last night. It is a confusing concept, agreed, but only because you have reached the point where Newtonian laws break down and Quantum Mechanics take over. In fact, the only thing Einstein didn't predict on this matter was that at point, you would be near a Ferris Wheel.

* There IS one caveat to that rule, though. And that is: If you wake up on the F train but it is the Q train you need to get your smelly self home, then pick yourself up and find the Q train. Common sense, I know. But up to this point, that's something that's been in short supply. Don't make this morning any harder than need be: Remember, you're near a lot of trains right now — practically all of them, in fact. So once you've collected and reassured yourself that you are still very much a part of the Living, baby-step your way through the decision-making process of how to get home. If you have to vocally say "heel, toe; heel, toe; heel, toe," so be it. You'll thank yourself later.

* Contrary to what you may assume, the ride home is not going to be publicly embarrassing. True, there's no masking the dark circles, or the pasty skin, or the stench of booze and cigarettes wafting from every patch of You there is. But remember that, unlike most of New York, you're up at 6:30 on a weekend morning. And that the people riding with you are up this early because they have jobs shittier than yours and are about as together as you would be were you required to head to work at six thirty on a Saturday morning. Moreover, a lot of them are from the parts of Europe where they see this sort of behavior all the time (in fact, a good definition for the borders of what we call "Europe" is "anywhere east of Greenland you've got Caucasians with a drinking problem"). In fact, seeing you there, bedecked in such resplendent glory, may bring a tear to their eye and remind them of the tiny, backwater village they left as a child. Should they stand and begin to sing their national anthem, it's more than appropriate for you to do likewise, even if all you can muster is a hand over your heart as you hum along.

* If this is a weekday, disregard the previous rule.

* Finally, remember that you're probably not going to have this opportunity again, where you're up at six thirty on a weekend morning (at least, not for another week.) So take this time to call someone — anyone, really — whom you believe considers you to be an irresponsible, lazy and/or incompetent so-and-so. Someone who's got you pegged, in other words. It doesn't have to be a long conversation. You could just say you wanted to call them up to ask if they know where a person goes to buy a good pair of slacks — and remember to say "slacks," because adults don't wear "pants," they wear "slacks." And remember to preface your remarks with the line, "Sorry, I hope I didn't wake you," because this is the sort of ploy that works best with polite implications of superiority. Remember: this is your chance to fool them into rethinking their opinion of you: "What's John doing up at six thirty on a Saturday morning? I figured him to be passed out drunk somewhere. Maybe I need to rethink my opinion of John. Maybe he's not the irresponsible, lazy, and/or incompetent so-and-so I took him to be. He did use our code word — 'slacks' — after all."

I can't promise that by following these tips that you will have a pleasant return trip every time. But more often than not, you should be able to return home safely and enjoy whatever greasy comestible your stomach desires.

One last note: You may be asking yourself, "What is the etiquette for when two such people wake up on the same line and in the same car? Should they recognize each other as brothers in arms? Or does decorum demand that they maintain a polite distance from one another at all times?"

In all my experience, such an event never has occurred. It is the one area of New York where real estate is both plentiful and, at two dollars a ride, affordable.

In fact, with an iPod for all your entertainment needs, a backpack to hold items such as clothes and mementos, "her place" for any late night rendezvous and a library card so you may be seen reading the current "It" book, there is an argument to be made that a New Yorker no longer need rent, much less own, an apartment. Particularly when one can be had for an unlimited pass of $76 a month.

Sure, you'll have roommates, lots and lots of them. But like a lot of roommates with steady girlfriends, you'll never really see them at night.

E-mail John Flowers at johnflowers at gmail dot com.