This is the Way the World Ends...

... Not with a bang, but with budget cuts.

I've lived in New York City for a long time.

And -- though I've seen it through some pretty dark days -- when it comes to the subway, I'm a True Believer.

Even through the days of graffiti-riddled, screeching cars of the 70s, the stalls, break-downs and surprise reroutings of the 80s, and let's not forget the days of waiting forever on a freezing outdoor platform, with no signs or announcements, only to learn -- by asking the guy in the token booth -- that no train was coming ... through all of that I always felt New York had -- or could have -- the best subway system in the world.

For a century it has tied the diverse neighborhoods of the city together. And, let's face it, when it's working properly, the subway really is the fastest way to get around.

And over this past decade, the MTA has really stepped up.

Schedules have been available, and many trains have actually managed to stick to them. When service is diverted, there have been signs, announcements -- paper and electronic -- even shuttle buses that actually appear within five minutes!

Yes, for a brief shining moment, we have really had The Greatest Subway System in the World.

And now we have budget cuts.

What does that mean? Fewer people running the trains, managing stations, hanging signs. And those that remain? Barely competent -- if we're lucky. And surly on top of it, because the system is screwing them too.

Some signs of the MTApocalypse?

A downtown V pulls into 42nd Street in the middle of the day, pauses for the requisite 30 seconds -- and then pulls out again! Doors don't open; no one gets on or off the train.

I and a bunch of other passengers run to the conductor at the next stop. He tells us to screw ourselves.

Trains are rerouted for trackwork, but there are no signs, no announcements on the platform. If we're lucky there will be one sign posted -- but on a wall on the other side of the turnstiles -- like people stop to look at the walls when they're running for a train.

A Manhattan-bound Q at DeKalb pulls in on the local track. There are no signs on the platform, of course. I run to the motorman and ask if all trains are rerouted. "Yes," he says -- just as the conductor, who never once poked his head out of the window to check the platform, closes the doors.

The motorman laughs at me and pulls out of the station.

An uptown C pauses at each station for nearly a minute after the doors have closed, while the signal is green.

I peer into the engineer's booth -- she is reading a paperback! So I bang on her door. "Green means go!" I bark.

"Shut up!" she yells back.

A lovely New York moment to amuse the tourists.

Well, there was one bright spot in all of this.

A few weeks ago on my way to work, an expensive bracelet fell into the tracks at Times Square.

An orange vest near the Shuttle platform told me to "let the booth know." I dashed to the booth and gave the attendant a description of the item and location and ran back to the platform -- hoping against hope that someone would arrive quickly.

Minutes later, I saw two track workers walking near where the bracelet fell. I ran up to them and asked if they had been sent to help.

They had no idea what I was talking about (of course). But they were extremely kind and got the bracelet for me anyway.

And what about the person(s) dispatched to help me?

They are probably just getting there now.....

Holiday Cheer -- New York Style

Or "How to Make the World Your Personal Soup Kitchen..."

So.

I've been nursing this nasty cold and finally drag myself down to Europa Café for some medicinal chicken soup.

I pay at the register with a $20 and the gal behind the counter bags my soup and gives me change in the dumbass way everyone does these days -- putting the bills flat in my outstretched hand, and dumping the coins on top. I try to tip the coins into her jar, but they spill on the floor.

So I bend over to pick them up, and when I stand up to retrieve my bag o' soup -- IT'S GONE!

"Where's my soup??" I ask counter-girl.

She shrugs.

"That woman took it," a man pipes up from the other side of the counter.

"What?" I blurt, "What woman? Where?"

Some other customers bleat out agreement, "Yeah, her, she took it."

At first it looks like they're pointing a pair of suited execs at the table nearest me, so I'm figuring one of them grabbed my bag by mistake.

"Them??" I ask.

The man shakes his head "no" and guides my eyes with his finger, one table over....

"That homeless woman!"

Almost as though she were emerging from my blind spot, I suddenly see this enormous straw-haired raggedy blob slurping down my soup.

"You??!" I splutter, "You took my soup??"

She looks dead in my face and says, "You gave it to me!"

I turn back to counter-girl.

"You let her take my soup?!?"

She shrugs.

I repeat, "You let her take my soup?!?!"

She shrugs again, implying that it was my fault.

After all, I suppose, once money had changed hands -- even on that very counter -- she no longer had any responsibility where theft was concerned.

Now, maybe it would be another story if she had stealthfully grabbed the bag and run. But she was sitting right there, and had effected the crime in front of multiple witnesses!!

I barrel down on this inept creature: "You have to replace my soup."

"I can't do that."

"Yes you can. You can and will give me another soup."

This goes back and forth for much longer than it should have -- so now our homeless culprit gets both lunch and entertainment -- until counter-girl finally sends me to the soup station just to shut me up.

Really.

These jerks should take a lesson from Starbuck's where, every once in a while, some douchebag grabs a paying customer's drink.

And they replace it on the spot.

No questions asked.

So.

Soup in hand, I gather a bag and napkin (apparently guess-who got the last spoon), turn to the homeless woman and say, "Merry Christmas."