Judge Not—But Don’t Hold Up the Line, Either

Oh, good. Now there is a screaming toddler on the train. That makes the evening commute just perfect!

Actually, it doesn’t bother me. Well, not that much, anyway. I’ve sat a row ahead of many a screaming child on airplanes going much farther than the Red Line. You have to forgive a baby. By definition, they don’t know any better. They have no idea how close they come to making the working stiffs on the train break a window to jump into the dark tunnel and onto the tracks.

What really gets me are the adults. The adults who should know how to behave, and yet don’t.

Public Transit Means...You Are in Public

I was running late again. And it was snowing—lightly, but enough to make the bricks on the walkway outside Davis Square station slick and treacherous. So, despite not being as early as I had hoped, I walked slowly. I’m at that age where falling on brick might very well break a bone—not an expected break, I’m not that old. But the kind of a break—like a wrist or an elbow—that can make a person sit up and realize that time is passing, the body is not as resilient as it once was, that all that extra padding on hips and backside is in fact a disguise for the skeleton that withers within.

Finding Zen on the Red Line

There are people who like to be busy all the time. I even know some of them. They travel, go on bikathons, play in bands. Other people, like me, really need quiet time. 

Safety First on the T

The MBTA introduced a new video today to encourage people to follow safe practices while riding public transit. I give it mixed reviews.

Yeah, it's important not to fall off the curb...but what about holding on while you're singing and dancing on the bus?  

Buying Time on the T

I haven’t written in some time, mainly owing to sloth and the lack of anything interesting to say (not that the second has stopped me before). Partly I have been thinking a lot about time, and how I spend my time. Lately at least, this random pondering about commuting doesn’t seem to be worth a whole lot of anyone’s time.

I’m at the point in life where time is more precious to me than almost anything else, because I’ve got so little of it left. I haven’t been diagnosed with a terminal illness or anything, but both of my parents died in their early seventies, and that’s only twenty years down the road for me.

So for me, it’s been both good news and bad news that the T has installed LED signs—electronic billboards or, in the T’s terminology, “countdown clocks”—that announce how many minutes before the next train arrives. The signs have been installed on a rolling schedule, beginning with South Station in summer 2012. As of June 2013, the MBTA reported that “51 of the 53 stations on the Blue, Orange, and Red lines” have the devices.

Reports suggest that, by and large, commuters love them, and the T management positions them as a small touch to help reduce stress on commuters.

Moral Crises on the Red Line, Part II

Anyone who knows me knows of my tendency to look at life and its various situations with a “worst case scenario” eye. While waiting for the train, I’ve occasionally wondered what I would do if someone pushed me onto the tracks. I stand well back, even when its not too crowded.

For someone like me, though, there’s a similar question, a moral dilemma: What would I do if someone fell or jumped from the platform while I was standing there? Would I be the kind of person to help? Or the kind who watches while others help? Would I offer a hand? As my friend Michelle says, “Not bloody likely.” And that makes me feel like a worthless human being.

Certainly, it seems as though people are tumbling into the pit and onto the tracks with some regularity. For its part, the MBTA says it is not more common than it ever was, but our endless news cycle makes it seem as such.

In a recent editorial, the Boston Globe applauded the MBTA for releasing videos of people falling onto the tracks.

“Other cities shy away from releasing surveillance footage that has the potential to embarrass, unless there’s a compelling reason like needing assistance in solving a crime. But with all the recent attention given to people who fell or were pushed in front of oncoming trains in New York, the T’s policy is important for public safety.”

The editorial went on to say that the MBTA should go further, by instructing riders as to how they should respond when someone wanders off the platform. “Jump in after them” is the wrong answer. The right answer is: Alert a T official (good luck finding one when you need one), but more important, the Globe said, “onlookers should encourage those who have fallen to rush to the end of the platform — away from the direction of any approaching trains — to climb up ladders.”

Now this is great advice, and I feel so much better after reading it. Because lives can be saved. And it solves one of the many moral dilemmas we face each day as we ride the Red Line.

Moral Crises on the Red Line, Part I

Every now and then the ride to work provides a glimpse into my innermost psyche, a snapshot of the person I truly am, and it’s not always pretty. Take this week, the week following the great blizzard of ’13. As one might imagine, the T was pretty crowded this week. One day, as I sat with my nose in my magazine, a man sat next to me. As we all know, the seats are kind of tight together, and while he wasn’t a terribly large man, I certainly was cognizant of someone landing there. He had a bag that he put on the floor between his feet, then he put his hands together and clapped them, silently but rapidly, much in the way someone might if they had, for example, a mental illness.

I didn’t think much of it. As I said, I was concentrating on my Harper’s. Although it pains me to admit this, I didn’t really pay much attention until I smelled him. You know the smell: eau de homelessness. Now, there is a part of me—my heart—that goes out to someone in that situation. A part of me that cannot believe we live in a society where some people do not have a roof over their heads on some (most?) nights.

But then there is also that other part of me. The selfish part, the part that doesn’t want any trouble. The part that, for an instant, looked across the aisle at empty seats and actually thought, “Should I move?”

I didn’t move, but not because I am a good person. I didn’t move because I didn’t want to be obvious. I didn’t want to hurt the guy’s feelings and I didn’t want my fellow riders to see what a lowdown, selfish, elitist snob I am at heart. He got off the train at Park Street, after some additional unusual behavior involving his hands.

Oldsters and Cool Dudes

Just before Christmas, it happened for the first time. I didn’t exactly run for the train, but when I entered the station and heard the familiar announcement—“The next Red Line train to Braintree is now approaching”—I knew I had a chance to make it if I walked briskly.

I was one of the last people to step aboard, and despite my earlier-than-usual schedule (I was going inbound, to work), no seats were to be had in my car. I walked down the center aisle a few steps just to see if there might be some empty space somewhere, then retreated to reclaim my original position near a pole and a door.

A young woman (by young I mean, twenties) sat in the first seat, just to my left.  Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed her look at me once, then a second time. I glanced down and my gaze met hers. The sweet young thing looked up at me and asked, innocently, “Do you want to sit?”

Do I want to sit? How the hell old do I look? That’s what I wanted to ask. But instead, I said, a bit too quickly, “Oh, no, thanks. That’s okay.”

And so passed my first experience on the train as an old person.

Looking back, I have had young men offer me a seat here and there from time to time. But this was the first instance of another woman sensing my fragility and offering some comfort. Part of me wanted to sock her. The other part really, really wanted to sit down.

The whole incident made me reminisce about my own youth, and the many times I offered my seat to an elder (but, man, is it scary to think I'm an elder).  Rarely did anyone accept the offer, and now I sort of know why. No one wants to appear needy or vulnerable. No one wants to owe anyone anything, or be indebted to them. 

Which is why I will always regard the cool dudes as the most kind and generous souls on any form of public transportation. The cool dudes don't ask; they just get up. They are sitting right there in front of you, so you are the only person who can possibly take their seat. They stand up, their ear buds hardly shifting, there is absolutely no eye contact. They lightly grip the pole near the door, like they are going to get off soon, anyway. They don't need to speak, their aim is true. Long may they ride.

A New Revenue Stream for the T?

Okay, so it's been a while. I admit I wondered what more I really had to say about the Red Line. I admit others were saying it better. But does that mean I should quit? Well, perhaps. But I haven't quit. Not exactly. I've just been taking an extended break. I'm back with some new insight (or at least a warning to my fellow T riders).

Today's tale began a few months back. Heading home after another exhilirating day at the office, I swiped my T pass at South Station and noticed that instead of the usual message--valid through March 31--the fare box displayed something along the lines of "$10.90 left on card."

Hmmm, I thought. What's up with that? In addition to purchasing a monthly bus/subway pass, I keep some cash on my card, in order to pay my fare on the rare occasions when I take the more costly express bus. I didn't want to waste time on my way home from work that night, so I didn't stop to inquire, but on my way in the next day, I approached a T representative at South Station. He seemed reluctant at first to get involved, but then he came out from behind his desk, swiped his card at the pass purchase machine, then swiped my card. He was able to see all activity on my card and confirm my story. Although he couldn't reimburse me, he did give me a one-ride pass. I accepted this as a reasonable solution, figuring I can give that to my spouse or a friend to use.

I didn't think much of it until it happened a second time, at Charles/MGH. This time, the nice T person had a form that needed to be filled out, which she graciously did for me, in painstaking detail and with utmost care (three trains came and went while I waited for her to turn over the form to me for completion and mailing). I sent in the form, and the T mailed me yet another single-ride pass.

This week I had another such experience at Davis. The T person on duty really didn't want to get involved, and never heard of any form. He did swipe his supervisor card along with my own card, and verified what had happened, but he merely let me through the gate, he offered nothing in the way of resolution other than "you have to go to Downtown Crossing" to get your money back.

I'm beginning to wonder if this is perhaps a secret ploy by the T to generate additional revenue. The fare boxes are like those voting machines in Florida--subject to malfunction and not to be trusted.

Riders beware.

Happy Birthday to the Red Line

There has been so much going on lately with the MBTA, what with fare increases and service cuts, public meetings, unfair debt burdens--it's just been all too much for the Sphinx to keep up with, which explains why I haven't written in a while.

I couldn't let today pass however (although technically it has, being as it's after midnight), without saying Happy 100th birthday to the Red Line.

What runs daily at 100 years old? T’s Red Line

Happy New Year?

So it is 2012, and the best commuter news of this winter so far is it hasn’t snowed. Well, not since the Halloween storm, anyway, which technically was in the fall. I worked the week between Christmas and New Year’s, and it was amazing the difference in the traffic and Red Line ridership. I trimmed from 10 to 15 minutes off my commute every day, and that actually started before Christmas, as I think many people take time off to shop or begin their holiday travel. One day last week I zipped in on Route 2 from Lexington and didn’t tap the breaks until I got to Route 16. I remember thinking, “this is how I thought it would be.”

Ah yes, last year at this time the hell of commuting had yet to commence. I was still full of the excitement of starting a new job. I told my boss when she hired me that I didn’t want to give leave where I was to just do the same thing someplace else. Sadly, that seems to be what is happening. I gave up 11 years of seniority, only to be hitting my head against the same wall. I commiserated with a friend on the phone yesterday who assured me that it’s not me--it is the nature of the working life today.

I have started to measure out my work life in increments: this week only four days. Next week will be a full week, but then it's MLK day, and another four-day week. Then I'm out of town for a few days, come back, short week, next thing you know it will be Groundhog Day and, worst-case scenario, only six more weeks of winter.

One good thing that will happen in 2012: Now that one of my major projects is past phase I, I will be working at home one day per week. I didn’t feel I could do it while supervising interns, but the last intern leaves this Thursday. I will miss her, but I won’t miss riding the Red Line on Thursdays.

Giving Thanks

It's been awhile since I've written, partly because I've been busy and partly because I realized there was just too much going on with the T for me to stay on top of it all. Let it suffice to say there will be a "gap" in my reportage, but c'est la vie.

Life has been a little different for me lately. Two weeks ago I traveled to Seattle on business. No, I didn't try the Seattle public transit system (I had only one free day, wherein I rode the Monorail, a shameless tourist). My point is, that week I commuted only two days. I flew on a Wednesday and came back Saturday, limiting my time on the Red Line to a manageable dose.

Then last week was Thanksgiving, so I only worked three days. I was indeed thankful to once again cut the commuting time short--and it was positively joyous to have four days off in a row and not have to travel anywhere.

In the coming weeks, with the holidays upon us, I should be taking some additional time off. It makes a huge difference; nothing is as bad if you don't have to do it every day.

In the meantime, on the Red Line, they have started busing people between Alewife and Harvard on the weekends. I feel sorry for anyone who works weekends and has to deal with it. I ran into my former colleague, who lives on the street where I park. She tried taking the T from Davis the first weekend of the busing, and it took her an hour and a half to get to Park Street.

The T is spending the weekends doing some fairly critical maintenance work. (I read one Boston Globe article wherein one of the authors of a report on the system said he wouldn't ride the T past Harvard because the threat of derailment was so real).

Of course, in typical T fashion, they really didn't give people much notice. Why should they? Ridership is booming, according to recent reports. If a few people give up in disgust, good riddance!

Red Line as Microcosm

On the T, as in life, there are all kinds of people, each with his or her own perspective. There are the runners, those who advance through the turnstiles and down the steps at a trot, with not a glance to the left or the right. Like racehorses with blinders on, they see little after the gates open save for their own approaching path and the reward awaiting at the finish.

Then there are the sprinters. They may approach the T stop at a businesslike pace, entering the gates without distress. But if they hear an announcement of a train "approaching" or (a bigger challenge) "arriving," they will dash like mad, knocking over small children or the elderly if necessary to join the runners and get on board.

The moderates seldom change their approach. They may walk at a good pace, but they do not bother to ever run. Is it their faith that sustains them? (I know there'll be another train right behind that one.) Or is it resignation (You win some, you lose some.) Perhaps they, like most moderates, are just too damn tired.

Dawdlers are rare. These are the people who seem to not be totally sure where they are going. They actually consider not getting on the train when it arrives, engrossed as they may be in whatever text-message drama or game is diverting them. (Now, where am I going? Ashmont? Or Braintree?)

Yes, it takes all kinds. And you cannot change any of them. They are what they are. Like our siblings and spouses, our friends and neighbors, they will soldier on in the only way they know how.

July's Whopper Breakdown

I'm a bit late in reporting on this, but two months after the infamous two-hour delay, it happened again, in July. The passengers were remarkably calm and forgiving. The Boston Globe was outraged.

Hundreds stranded below in another T breakdown - The Boston Globe

The guy who runs the T got promoted: Read the Boston Globe story.

Lessons from the Red Line

It's been almost seven months now since I started commuting on the Red Line. What I've learned so far:

• T Alerts or overhead announcements are not to be trusted:  A couple of times recently, I received T Alerts warning of delays on the Red Line, only to get to Davis and jump right on a train that zipped into town. The same goes for the announced delays. If you hear one, don't immediately despair, because it might not really affect you. Only your reality counts.
• Your reality often sucks: In May, during my infamous two-hour delay stuck in the tunnel between Porter and Davis, I remember thinking, "Wow, when I get out of here, I'm going to have, like, a few dozen T Alerts about this." In fact, there was none.
• If you can take a break from the Red Line even one day per week, it can save your sanity. This week, I took the 504 one day. Next week, I plan to drive in one day. The following week I plan to work at home one day.
•  Beware of the best seat. For me, the best seat is the one in the corner, because you don't have lots of people passing by all the time getting on and off. There is no door there, so it's a little more tranquil. Unfortunately, the Red Line trains have a tendency to sweat, and there is often water dripping on those seats.

Summertime, and the Commuting Is Easy

Is there any sweeter feeling than speeding down the turnpike in the 502 Express bus while your BlackBerry buzzes with T alerts bringing news of delays on the Red Line? Is there any happier morning than when you’ve got a 10 am appointment and you get into town at 9 and have time to sit at the bagel store and sip an iced coffee while watching the world rush by?

That is, essentially, today's report. My work life--and commute--does not get any better. I had a meeting in the Back Bay at 10. I started out quite early at the Watertown gym at about 6:15. Took my time getting ready, and bought an iced coffee on my way out of there, just in case. I never dreamed I'd be in town so early, but that 502 was bookin' it, baby. I was reading an old NYTimes magazine I had in my bag (the Globe delivery was not early enough today, alas), when the BlackBerry started buzzing with the news of those poor fools on the RL.

Of course, it helped that today was a gorgeous New England summer day, with brilliant sunshine and cool breezes. Had it been raining, it would have been a different story altogether, because rain in Boston brings utter gridlock and mayhem in the streets. The bus probably would have been sitting for hours. And the people riding the RL would have been laughing their asses off at the pitiful souls on the "Express" bus.

But I digress. Luck was with me today. And it's all about living in the moment and appreciating the good things in life. Yes, indeed.

The only downside--okay, one of the few downsides--was that, on my way to the office (near South Station), I encountered the strange person I mentioned in a previous post. I've decided she is for sure a woman. With a large backpack. Who shifts around and talks to herself. Who acts, in fact, very much the way I imagine a suicide bomber would act. She was with me at Copley (Green Line), then transferred, as I did, to the Red Line at Park.

But I hardly cared. I let one Green Line train go by, because it was too full, and I saw there was another train coming. Then I helped two ladies from Australia who were trying to get to the MFA. And it always makes you feel better to help someone, just a little bit, right?

Multitasking Nation

A few weeks ago, on my way home from work, I sat across from a young couple who appeared to be on their way to a Red Sox game. They had the hats on and the shirts. The young woman was drinking a Pepsi or a Coke, I don't remember the specific brand of drink. Anyway, the point is, she was so not into her date. I mean, it was obvious, even to a casual observer sitting reading the paper after a long day at the office.

She sat down next to a worker bee kind of guy. He was wearing jeans and a plain shirt, and he had a kind of canvas bag with him--clearly also on his way home after the workday. The girl was looking around, doing everything possible to avoid looking her date in the eye, and she dumped her Coke on this poor schmoe sitting next to her. Yes, he was wearing jeans. It's not like he had on a $500 suit, but still--I felt bad for the guy. She apologized and all, but what could she do? He had wet jeans, and she had an empty can. More Coke would be had at the ballpark, no doubt, and I guess he'd have a washing machine at home. But I remember thinking: Glad she didn't park herself next to me.

This is what I thought of last Thursday morning when, on a fairly crowded T day, a young woman sat next to me with a travel mug (which I assumed contained coffee). Yes, those mugs are sort of "spill proof," but she was not only sipping coffee, she was also fiddling with her ipod and reading a book.

That's when it occurred to me that this is what life has become for the average commuter--or possibly the average worker. Our free time is so precious, our private moments so rare, that we have to squeeze everything in. She was going to make the most of her ride. I, on the other hand, was wearing light-colored pants, and more than once I glanced away from my own newspaper to check the status of the cup.

On the Lam from the Red Line

Addictions often begin innocently enough. Your friend has a bit of pot, for example, so you go ahead and try some. The next time it happens, you really can't say no, I mean, they gave it to you. As a gift! You have to do it. By the third time--the third consecutive day--you begin to wonder if you are developing a habit. You make the first attempt to make a change. Maybe you even start hanging with a new crowd.

So it was that my own life of criminal activity began. The first time, it was completely unexpected. I was approaching the gate in South Station, T pass in hand, when there before stood the open gate. It wasn't closing. So I did what any red-blooded commuter would do: I walked through. Without swiping my pass. I  felt it was recompense for the two hours I spent stuck in the tunnel in May.

The next morning, at Davis, I sensed the absence of T personnel, who actually do sometimes supervise the morning activity. Oh, they are never there when the monthly pass fails, triggering the rapid-fire honking and the alarming message on the screen: SEE AGENT. But when you don't need them, they are there. Anyway, I happened to notice, after a woman passed through the gate ahead of me, that the message on the screen was "ADMIT THREE." Now, I don't know what that's about, I readily admit. But there surely was only one of her. And the gate was still open, so I passed through.

I think I mentioned in a prior post that I lost my T pass in the middle of June. No, that's not as bad as losing it June 2, but I was stung by the lost money and the need to buy a temporary, pay-as-you-go pass. That second time, I felt I had it coming to me.

That evening, on my way home from work, I was actively looking for my opportunity, like a thief looking for a weak victim. I didn't see any T personnel, and I just walked behind a man who had passed through. I said to myself, this gate is going to close right on me, and it started to, but wouldn't you know, it sensed a body and opened up again. I had my T pass in hand, and I was actually constructing a fiction in my head in case someone stopped me after the fact. I scampered down the stairs to the platform, but now the exhiliration was gone. I felt like a common criminal, jumping the turnstile (as we used to say back in the days of turnstiles).

Although no one was around, I worried that there might be cameras. I saw myself as the Whitey Bulger of the Red Line, a grainy image hunted by authorities. So I scrammed. Today I took the Watertown Express Bus, and was treated to a two-hour commute courtesy of a rain storm and terrible traffic downtown.

So, it's true: All criminals pay in the end, one way or another

If You See Something, Say What?

The commute has certainly seemed easier since the days have grown longer, the college students have largely fled, and vacation season has kicked in. The weather has pretty well sucked, but that seems to be the pattern of the last decade in Boston (2010 excepted). I have gotten by so far by wearing a slicker and a baseball hat on those blustery, wet walks across the Summer Street bridge.

Today, after I left my car at my parking spot and began my walk to the Davis Square T, I walked right into an encounter with a former colleague who lives on the same street where I park. This is the first time we've actually run into each other, although I saw her at Christmas and mentioned my new situation. I considered hiding behind a bush or returning to my car until I knew she had passed--not because I didn't want to talk to her, but because I didn't want to talk to her all the way to Park Street (which is where I figured she'd get off the train).

As it turned out, when we got to Davis, she took the escalator down, and I said I was going to take the stairs. "Okay," she said. "Have a good day."

So, great, I figured, she wasn't in a chatty mood, either. I boarded the train, which was unusually empty. At Porter, when it began to fill up, an unusual person got on board. She (or he?) was one of those people whose gender is ambiguous. She (I finally decided the person was a woman), had on gender-neutral clothing, some kind of light black jacket and black pants. She had short dark hair, and was carrying an enormous backpack. When she boarded the train, she seemed to be trying to look for a seat. There were still a couple left, so sensing her movement out of the corner of my eye, I assumed she was trying to decide where to sit--or whether to bother, given her heavy burden.

She was holding onto the post across from me, then crossed over to my side. She kept crossing back and forth, turning herself around, looking up and down the car. Then she walked down the length of the car and continued the dance at the other end.

I have to admit, the phrase, "If you see something, say something," did come to mind. What if that gigantic backpack is a bomb and this person is a suicide bomber looking to take down a bunch of Red Line commuters? Should I get off at the next stop and report her? But then I'd be late, whereas if I say nothing, I could be...dead? Worst of all, if she were a bomber, well, that would certainly screw up the rest of the morning commute for my fellow riders!

I thought of my former colleague, who I was pretty sure was seated in the next car over. Perhaps she would be spared. Or, perhaps the terrorist was waiting until the train was on the Longfellow Bridge, and she was hoping to take down the bridge as well.

When I got to work, I reported the incident--to my significant other, who usually receives an e-mail from me shortly after I arrive at my desk. "I've heard there are a lot of nuts who ride the Red Line," he wrote back. 

Yes, the imagination runs wild on a Friday morning in summer. As you already know by my being able to write this, she (he?) was no terrorist, just a run-of-the-mill Red Line kook. I made it to work and back safe and sound, with the only tragedy being I seem to have lost my blasted T pass.

So, if you see something, say something. Or, as others say, if you fear something, you'll see something.

Ah, Spring! Time to Shop?

Spring is probably the best season for the Boston commuter. The early light makes it easier to wake up in the morning, the traffic has let up a bit with the college year over, and the crowds on the T seem a bit lighter--perhaps people are already taking vacations? Spring fever days? Calling in sick because of the awful allergy season?

It helps that this week I worked only three days. Monday was a holiday, and Friday was a "comp day" for me (because of my employer's conference the week before, wherein we all worked 14 hour days).

And the T has been in the news. Ridership is up again (although the economy appears to be tanking), and the T has hit upon a new way to make money: Selling tchotches. No, the MBTA does not have the cache of the London Tube, but for some reason they are thinking people will be willing to fork over real money for things like an Orange Line sign or a Blue Line mousepad. Check out the NECN story on this.

I'm not sure this is the salvation that the T's finance director really needs. Though, now that they've caught the counterfeit-T-pass guy, that should help the bottom line. This is the guy who worked for a company that issued T passes. He figured out a workaround to the system and was authorizing bogus passes that people were buying on Craig's List.

Which begs the question: When figuring those April ridership numbers, did they count the bogus rides?