Nor will the last stops on lines like the C and the G, whose endpoints occur along other lines. From the marshy lowlands of Tottenville to the lush hills of Riverdale to the ceaseless clangor of Flushing, the end of the line manages to take in the entire breadth of the city beyond Midtown Manhattan.įor this survey, every last stop was visited, though not all those visits will be included here. There are subway lines that end, logically, where the city runs out of land lines that end, anticlimactically, where builders ran out of money even a few that fetch up in bustling downtowns of one sort or another. Yet to visit all the system’s extremities is to see that the last stop is not a single, monolithic place. Middle Village what is that, a jousting park? As it turns out, the end of the line, like most ends, is a place of abiding mystery. For those who get off somewhere else almost everyone the end is just a sign on the train. There are 24 stops on the New York City subway system past which you can ride no farther. The dead lie in rows uncounted, and the living mourn and wait and work and love and strum guitars on the front stoop, annoying the neighbors. An ancient sign in a boarded-up window opposite the platform reads “Wrestling Weight.” A stuffed bear mans a betting window in a struggling OTB parlor. Train cleaners wielding worn-sided corn brooms and generic spray bottles marked “lemon” or “Windex” amble onto the cars, rousting any sleepers and drunks unmoved by the conductor’s voice grating through speakers:īeyond the station gates, a priest dreams of a vineyard.
A few stragglers, or a lurch of homebound commuters, head for the street. At the end of the line, the subway creaks to a stop a few yards short of the yellow crash bumper.
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