Every weekday at 6 p.m., the city’s pulse quickens as 3.6 million New Yorkers pour into subway stations — especially at Columbus Circle, Penn Station, and Times Square — which are the heart of the living metropolis. The echoing train station halls are filled with murmurs, tapping feet, and tired faces. From there, they surge outward, carried by trains coursing through cement veins: the E to Forest Hills in Queens, the 1 to Washington Heights in Northern Manhattan, and the A to Brooklyn Heights. The system is imperfect, its rhythm often faltering, but like a beating heart, it keeps New York alive.
Inside each car, commuters sway in unison with the jolts of the train, under buzzing fluorescent lights, and there is not an empty seat in sight. The day isn’t over yet — in fact, for some, this is the critical hour. “Hit a beat!” a voice cuts through the hum of the train. Everyone knows what’s coming, but still, the question rings out: “What time is it?” And from the other end of the car, an eager reply: “Showtime!” For one electrifying minute between stations, the train transforms into a stage — pulsing with rhythm, spinning bodies, and fearless energy. Presenting before an audience composed of apathetic locals staring at their phones, slightly anxious riders in seats, and a few smiles, the performers focus on maintaining their momentum, clinging on to any attention they may have elicited from the crowd.
The performative sector of the train people society has to make a living off of carefully charming commuters, requiring a delicate balance of in-your-face-look-at-this and not being obscenely irritating. According to dancers and musicians, this requires a thoughtful selection of performance space, music, dance, and ‘wow factor.’
Station performers and subway performers take two very different approaches to their craft. Station performers, often at bustling spots like Penn Station or Times Square, have to keep the energy flowing nonstop. It’s a game of endurance, where the crowd’s passive engagement is key, and the success of a performance often depends on adapting to who’s watching and when. They rely on the steady stream of tourists and commuters who shuffle past, snapping photos and occasionally lurking around for a few minutes. Their performance isn’t about a defined act — rather, they creatively come up with performance as they go, aiming to emit a ‘vibe’ that will make people stay a while in awe of the charismatic performance.
Palo, a salsa dancer at Penn Station, thrives in the vastness of the station’s platform. “It may seem like I’m doing the same thing back and forth for a few hours a day, but when a kid passes by, I do a funny move, or pretend to trip a bit,” he said. “It’s not just dancing — it’s owning the space around me, making sure people feel that presence. I think the people stick around because of my bright-colored clothes. Yeah, I got a lot of music and color, and you know instruments going on. So there’s a lot of stuff to look at.” For Palo, the open space of the station allows his performance to flourish. His spins and dances fill the area with energy, drawing an audience that can’t help but stop and watch. His show is a spectacle — a one-man dance party amidst the daily rush. It’s a brief escape, dazzling to the eye and carrying a hint of romance. The vastness of the station gives enough space for people to feel part of something larger, creating its own culture that Palo sets up so it can’t be found anywhere else.
Subway performers, on the other hand, have to nail a two-minute routine that jumps out at commuters so much they have to look. Their show is compressed and urgent, a quick pitch for your attention as the train lurches forward. They perform for a captive audience — there’s no leaving the train midway — and the goal is simple: make an impression, get a dollar. They pour everything into those two minutes, knowing that with every stop, their chance to make a living fades. It’s about speed and precision, with no time for fluff.
Marcus Richards, a contortionist dancer who pairs up with a partner for subway performances, does his act in the tight space of the train car. “You know I can tell when the moms are a little nervous, you know, when I start spinning the pole and kicking my legs in the air,” he said. “But getting real up and close is immersive.” The subway car’s design plays into this. Its rectangular shape brings everyone close, making the audience feel like part of the show, as they sway together with the rhythm of the train. The poles, though meant for balance, become props — perfect for spins and stunts that wouldn’t work in the wide-open spaces of a station.
Accordingly, the on-train performances make some people uncomfortable. “Yeah, getting kicked in the face by a teenage acrobat while having my ears exploded by four speakers is not the ideal way to take the train to work, just starting my morning,” an anonymous rider told me. However, from what I gathered in a brief poll, the average performer is satisfied with $3-4 per performance, meaning even if only a few people in every packed train car enjoy their performance, they can still achieve success.
While train performers rely on spectacle to earn their living, others take a quieter approach — offering small, everyday goods to commuters. A commuter is either in need of M&Ms and a pack of Trident gum or they aren’t — but the impression of the seller still influences the purchase. On the A line, running from the top of Manhattan to far eastern Queens, many women move from car to car, offering boxes of treats, usually priced between $2 and $5. Notably, most of them have a baby strapped to their back or a toddler leading the way, helping to sell the candy.
I’ve often wondered about this. Do these women have no one to watch their children? Are they making commuters aware of their responsibilities so that the transaction takes on a charitable aspect? Perhaps both.
Since the women I encountered only spoke Spanish, I wasn’t able to interview them directly, but their habits and strategies stood out. Their sing-songy calls—“chocolates, candies, chocolates”— carry a warm, almost comforting rhythm. As they move through the car, they lock eyes with nearly everyone, especially the children. As a 16-year-old, I always receive a stare that lingers just a few seconds longer.
Many women who sell snacks on the subway also set up shop on the platforms, though their approach differs. Instead of weaving through crowded train cars, they station themselves by stairwells, benches, and columns, often beside makeshift carts stacked with fruit, churros, and a fried, savory snack that I’ve never tried. Unlike the mobile candy sellers, these vendors sell at a single station with permanence, even within the transient space of the subway. Their carts are arranged neatly, and their goods are displayed in order to catch the attention of commuters rushing past.
I once observed a woman at the 181st Street station, her cart filled with plastic cups of freshly cut mango and pineapple, each dusted with chili powder. She had a toddler strapped to her back, occasionally patting his small hands against her shoulders as she handed change to a customer. One woman said, “If I walk the train, I might sell more,” she said. “But here, I can be ready for the people who already know me” (translated from the Spanish).
The psychology of her strategy made sense. Commuters who buy on the train often do so impulsively, drawn in by direct eye contact, a singsong voice, and the urgency of the seller moving to the next car. Platform vendors, however, rely on a different kind of marketing — familiarity, consistency, and the appeal of fresh food over pre-packaged sweets. While a bag of M&Ms can be a mindless purchase, fruit or churros feel more deliberate.
Another vendor, an older woman at the 125th Street station, was selling churros dusted in sugar, the scent drifting across the platform. “You need patience here,” she told me. “Some people see me every day before they finally buy something.” She laughed. “Then they come back the next day for more” (translated from the Spanish). Her method relied on repetition — people trust what they see regularly. Psychologically, this plays into the mere exposure effect: the more often we encounter something, the more likely we are to perceive it as safe, familiar or even desirable.
Despite these strategic choices, the lives of these women remain largely invisible to the commuters who pass them. Many of them are immigrants, working without permits, supporting children, and often juggling multiple responsibilities beyond their time in the subway. Their presence in the system is a quiet testament to survival, resourcefulness, and the ability to carve out a living in a city that rarely slows down long enough to notice them.
On the New York train, the imperfect harmony manifests through confrontations between commuters, performers, and workers, and in the struggles of hustlers across the city. But the subway’s environment is definitive of the city, showcasing the quirks, hardships, and artistic nature of all that New York has to offer. The train society may not be the first matinee that tourists look to when planning their trips to New York, but it’s one they’ll inevitably experience — if only once.
On the New York train, the imperfect harmony manifests through confrontations between commuters, performers, and workers, and in the struggles of hustlers across the city. But the subway’s environment is definitive of the city, showcasing the quirks, hardships, and artistic nature of all that New York has to offer.