Mass Transit or The Hell-Ride
I live in Portland, Oregon and take a 30-40 minute transit ride to work each day on our fine light-rail system. This story will be familiar to those of you who bravely commute in a similar way.
Let me preface this story by explaining that the temperature is somewhere in the 90's, the humidity is on the wet side, and the high price of gas is encouraging more transit riders than normal, especially in the 'Fareless Square', where everyone rides for free.
I sit down in the middle of three empty seats. Clearly a mistake. You should always choose your close companions carefully.
A small woman, probably in her 40's, sits down next to me, and I relax for a moment.
I'm already reading, but she interrupts to inform me that she's a grandmother, that her daughter's 20, and the street light next to her house isn't working. She points out the daughter, and seven month, 3 week old grand-daughter (I know the age by now). For some reason, daughter is standing several yards away.
"Whatcha' readin'? Is that about Dr Who?"
I confirm that the cover of my book, which says DR WHO, and features David Tennant, is in fact about Dr. Who. The woman then endears herself to me marginally, by commenting, "He's a cool guy."
I agree with her.
On my other side, a teenager flops down. He's been jogging or indulging in some activity, and he…is…wet.
He has not been swimming. I can tell this by the smell. Said moisture is clearly derived from the sweat gland. I suspect that while he has indulged in violent activity, he has not indulged with water for a few days.
Small woman is worried. She's bought her ticket but isn't sure it's the one she needs to get across the bridge. She wants to know if she'll go to jail, if the fare inspector catches her with the wrong ticket.
Several riders explain the idea behind Fareless Square (that's one explanation after the other)--you don't need a ticket until you get over the bridge--so she's okay.
Now, she's frustrated. She must have wasted her money paying for this portion of the ride. Won't somebody buy her ticket--just for the Fareless Square portion--and give it back when we get over the bridge? She asks several times, not sure why there are no takers.
The person on the other side of her gets up, and works his way to the back of the car.
His place is taken by a strapping young man with Doberman-black pupils. I can see the whites of his eyes. He removes a pill container from a paper bag, and eats 4 or 5. Then he opens a second container and takes 4-5 of those. Then he takes more from a third container. I can only hope he's following the instructions on the labels.
"Whatcha takin?" the small woman asks.
The strapping young man rears back and looks down at her, like he's not sure where the voice is coming from. "Anti-psychotics," he intones in a booming voice. It might be the reflection from the windows, but I swear his eyes are whirling.
"You got anything for pain?" she asks, sticking her head almost into his lap in order to read the labels.
The young man replies obscurely that he doesn't know pain.
Meanwhile, the wet one on the other side is falling asleep. The seat on his far side is empty, but he drifts my way. Of course.
It is hot and muggy, but the cool touch of his clammy, fishy flesh does not soothe.
The train has filled and there is nowhere left to move. Not even to stand. At each stop, the new riders rush forward and trap those seeking to exit. Voices squawk, and murmurs of indignation swell. The odors intensify.
The wet one has slumped and snapped upright several times. Now his drenched, soggy armpit discovers that it fits nicely over my shoulder, and sucks me up into that hairy, fetid swamp. I rotate, trying to dislodge him, but the suction is too great, and we are held fast together.
To keep from sobbing, I return to the conversation in progress. The small woman is laughing because her daughter is waving frantically at her.
"Ha! She's telling me to stop. She's always telling me I shouldn't bum pills off people. But I left mine at home, you know. Don't have enough to get me through the day. I'm not picky about what I take." She looks eagerly at the strapping young man. "I'll take anything."
The young man doesn't speak. His smile has grown enigmatic, and I don't think he's quite with us anymore.
The wet one cracks a snore, a raspy, drawn out hack aimed directly at my ear canal. The train lurches to my stop, and I work my shoulder free with a sickening plop, and escape, not caring if the wet one falls down into the vacuum that I leave.
There's a bottleneck as I try to exit. Besides the incoming passengers pushing us back, no one wants to pass too close to the strapping young man.
The woman waves me a cheerful goodbye, and I give her what I hope is a smile.
I'm home now, writing this instead of watching the news as I usually do. I'm afraid to watch the news. Really I am. Who knows what happened on board, after I left, and I have to ride again tomorrow. And then next day.
And the next. *sob*
It isn't easy being green.
This is a true story with only slight exaggerations.
Let me preface this story by explaining that the temperature is somewhere in the 90's, the humidity is on the wet side, and the high price of gas is encouraging more transit riders than normal, especially in the 'Fareless Square', where everyone rides for free.
I sit down in the middle of three empty seats. Clearly a mistake. You should always choose your close companions carefully.
A small woman, probably in her 40's, sits down next to me, and I relax for a moment.
I'm already reading, but she interrupts to inform me that she's a grandmother, that her daughter's 20, and the street light next to her house isn't working. She points out the daughter, and seven month, 3 week old grand-daughter (I know the age by now). For some reason, daughter is standing several yards away.
"Whatcha' readin'? Is that about Dr Who?"
I confirm that the cover of my book, which says DR WHO, and features David Tennant, is in fact about Dr. Who. The woman then endears herself to me marginally, by commenting, "He's a cool guy."
I agree with her.
On my other side, a teenager flops down. He's been jogging or indulging in some activity, and he…is…wet.
He has not been swimming. I can tell this by the smell. Said moisture is clearly derived from the sweat gland. I suspect that while he has indulged in violent activity, he has not indulged with water for a few days.
Small woman is worried. She's bought her ticket but isn't sure it's the one she needs to get across the bridge. She wants to know if she'll go to jail, if the fare inspector catches her with the wrong ticket.
Several riders explain the idea behind Fareless Square (that's one explanation after the other)--you don't need a ticket until you get over the bridge--so she's okay.
Now, she's frustrated. She must have wasted her money paying for this portion of the ride. Won't somebody buy her ticket--just for the Fareless Square portion--and give it back when we get over the bridge? She asks several times, not sure why there are no takers.
The person on the other side of her gets up, and works his way to the back of the car.
His place is taken by a strapping young man with Doberman-black pupils. I can see the whites of his eyes. He removes a pill container from a paper bag, and eats 4 or 5. Then he opens a second container and takes 4-5 of those. Then he takes more from a third container. I can only hope he's following the instructions on the labels.
"Whatcha takin?" the small woman asks.
The strapping young man rears back and looks down at her, like he's not sure where the voice is coming from. "Anti-psychotics," he intones in a booming voice. It might be the reflection from the windows, but I swear his eyes are whirling.
"You got anything for pain?" she asks, sticking her head almost into his lap in order to read the labels.
The young man replies obscurely that he doesn't know pain.
Meanwhile, the wet one on the other side is falling asleep. The seat on his far side is empty, but he drifts my way. Of course.
It is hot and muggy, but the cool touch of his clammy, fishy flesh does not soothe.
The train has filled and there is nowhere left to move. Not even to stand. At each stop, the new riders rush forward and trap those seeking to exit. Voices squawk, and murmurs of indignation swell. The odors intensify.
The wet one has slumped and snapped upright several times. Now his drenched, soggy armpit discovers that it fits nicely over my shoulder, and sucks me up into that hairy, fetid swamp. I rotate, trying to dislodge him, but the suction is too great, and we are held fast together.
To keep from sobbing, I return to the conversation in progress. The small woman is laughing because her daughter is waving frantically at her.
"Ha! She's telling me to stop. She's always telling me I shouldn't bum pills off people. But I left mine at home, you know. Don't have enough to get me through the day. I'm not picky about what I take." She looks eagerly at the strapping young man. "I'll take anything."
The young man doesn't speak. His smile has grown enigmatic, and I don't think he's quite with us anymore.
The wet one cracks a snore, a raspy, drawn out hack aimed directly at my ear canal. The train lurches to my stop, and I work my shoulder free with a sickening plop, and escape, not caring if the wet one falls down into the vacuum that I leave.
There's a bottleneck as I try to exit. Besides the incoming passengers pushing us back, no one wants to pass too close to the strapping young man.
The woman waves me a cheerful goodbye, and I give her what I hope is a smile.
I'm home now, writing this instead of watching the news as I usually do. I'm afraid to watch the news. Really I am. Who knows what happened on board, after I left, and I have to ride again tomorrow. And then next day.
And the next. *sob*
It isn't easy being green.
This is a true story with only slight exaggerations.