“T” is for “Terrific”

I recognize that public transit systems are imperfect beasts. In Paris, the trains are not only crowded, they’re filled with beggars roaming the aisles talking about how they need money to buy medicine for their sick babies, when you know they’re going to turn right around and spend it on art supplies and nice cheeses. Luckily, I can listen to their spiel, smile and say, “Boy, that’s great! I don’t speak much French, but congratulations on your lottery win!” If it turns out they speak English, I say I’m Japanese.

It’s no better anywhere else. In London, the stations are all located near the earth’s core in case the Germans act up again. In New York, a token now costs $83.50 and the trains are filled with New Yorkers. Detroit has an excellent monorail that connects lots of places that you wouldn’t go on a dare. So in the context of other public transit systems, the T isn’t really that dysfunctional. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

I rekindled my T hatred one recent morning when I was forced to ride the Green Line into work. I normally walk, but that particular day I found myself joining the crowd at St. Paul Street on the C Line.

After a long wait, I was happy when a train finally showed up. How naive of me. This train made New Delhi look sparsely populated. It seemed as if, when the doors opened, people would just explode out onto the ground in a pile, gasping for air and blindly stumbling around in search of an escalator. But I was determined to get on that train, even if I was going to be the last pair of Hanes in the Samsonite.

I squeezed my way in at the very front, barely making it to the top of the stairs. It’s good that I made it that far, because this was the second section of cars, the one that includes a driver who doesn’t actually get to do anything except yell at people for standing on the stairs. “Move into the car!” she bellowed. “Clear the stairs!” All this earned her was stares from the stairs, as nobody could move any further into the train without violating both the laws of physics and several public-decency ordinances.

Soon the doors closed and the train was moving. At the next stop, about 30 feet away, a few more optimistic people climbed aboard. Hey, who needs oxygen? The non-driving driver seemed happy to have some new recruits to yell at, and everyone else seemed happy to ignore her. Everyone, that is, except for one short, mousy woman, who was hellbent on getting off the stairs. She put her head down, dug her elbow into my side, and made one of the strangest noises I’ve ever heard from a human being. She didn’t even open her mouth, yet she produced a determined mewl, not very loud but quite insistent. “Erreeewwwww!” she said, jabbing my ribcage and pushing toward her mental goal line. “Rrrrruuuuuuwwww.” She sounded like a muskrat in heat trying to do yogic breathing. I stared longingly at the “pull here if you can’t stand to be on this godforsaken train for one second longer” emergency handle above the door.

At the next stop, a woman had the unbelievable gall to try to get on the train carrying a gigantic cooler. Needless to say, this endeavor received little encouragement from anyone. Unless she popped open that Igloo to reveal a couple of kidneys waiting to be transplanted, she wasn’t getting on that train, and even then she wouldn’t have been given a seat.

Finally we made it into the tunnel heading for Kenmore. Here’s something I don’t understand: Why must the train lurch so much once it’s in the tunnel? I can see if we’re up on the street and cars and pedestrians cut the train off, but how many surprises are there down in the tunnel? What is the driver thinking? “Dum de dum, driving the train, driving the train. Hey, I wonder what I’ll have for lunch? Pastrami would be nice but I had that yesterd—Oh my God the station!” [Screeching brakes, sound of passengers whumping against the front of the car.]

Since I was surrounded by flesh, I braced myself by pushing up against the ceiling. By the time we got to Copley, this constant overhead press had my shoulders on fire. People were sneezing like they were auditioning for a NyQuil commercial. I was late. Someone on the train hadn’t taken his or her Beano. When the doors opened I bolted up the stairs and out into daylight, finally free from soul-crushing, dank tunnels and the mass of sweaty, coughing humanity.

It is a good deal for a dollar, though. ∂