Riding the bus or taking the metro to get around this city has its advantages and disadvantages. Using public transportation takes care of the hassle of worrying about parking, traffic, and vehicle registration. It also gives one the inflated sense of self-righteousness that’s associated with being “eco-friendly.” And then there are the problems. Besides the buses running behind schedule, escalators permanently being out of order, and your occasional staircase collapse during high traffic periods, there are other even worse issues that I have had to deal with. The two tales that I will describe through two different blog entries are non-fictional narratives about my experiences using the DC transportation system. The first takes place on the bustling (and very cleanly) DC rail system and the second on the sporadic and unreliable public bus. Don’t let this happen to you.
My Friend Max
One early weekday evening, I was riding the metro on my way to meet up with some friends. I seldom ever take the metro, choosing the bus instead especially during peak hours, because there are a lot of people in a very little area. My luck would just have it that not only did I choose to take the metro… during rush hour… but I also (in my infinite wisdom) decided to bring my bike along. I got out of the first train car at the heart of all metro activity. Weaving the bike through groups of people and occasionally hitting the backs of peoples’ heels with my front tire, I made my way through the Chinatown metro. When arriving at a platform bike in tow, I must plan my entrance onto the next car with precision and grace. When one wants to get on with a bike, they have to recognize that they are perceived by everyone else as a dickhead for bringing that thing onto the metro at this time of day. The animosity and the dog-eat-dog approach that normally characterizes commuting makes timing and spacing crucial to an effective entrance onto a car. As the car approaches and screeches to a halt, I found the door with the least amount of people at the end of the train (there is more people density at the middle of the train than at the ends) and made my move.
So I have successfully made it into the car and had found an empty seat to boot. The difficulty was behind me, I thought. All I had to do was ride this bitch all the way to Tenleytown and enjoy some beers with some close friends. As we pulled into the next stop, Metro Center, a large amorphous blob of people quickly stacked their way into the car; one on top of the other. It was then that I noticed that the floor lights were blinking (indicating that the doors were going to close) and a mother and son were just entering. Like a knife through a chia pet (shitty analogy, Daniel), the doors closed separating mother from son; leaving a smashed bag of retail goods half in and half out of the doorway. The mother screamed and banged on the door, trying to find some way to get on or perhaps get her son off of the damned car. As it began to move, the mother mouthed “go to the next stop and wait” (at least that’s what I heard). That was a heart wrenching minute or so. I thought the ordeal would soon be over as the adolescent would heed his mother’s advice and get off at the next stop.
The next stop approaches and EVERYONE gets off the train… except for the little kid. The doors close and the car begins to move onto the next stop. Again, the kid does not move… He doesn’t sit down and he doesn’t get off… He was frozen to the floor. It was then that I got up and went over to the nervous boy and said “Dude, I think you were supposed to get off a while back.” To which he replied, “I know… I just didn’t know what to do.”
So I tell him to get off at the next stop with me and we would have to figure out what to do next. I have seen enough episodes of “How to Catch a Sex Pervert” and Fox New’s segments regarding how all strangers want to molest your loved ones to know that I wasn’t going to take this kid anywhere. So we sat on a bench outside of the car. His name was Max. Max was a nine year old kid from Maryland who came to DC to go shopping before they went up to Virginia for one of his hockey games. One could tell Max was nervous by his anxious gestures and inability to sit still. But he was trying to cover it up and luckily for both of us, knew his mother’s number. When I called the number, I didn’t get any reception. There is never any service in the metro. So I texted her.
About ten minutes passed and still no word from Max’s mother or father. Twice over the PA, we heard a station manager shove marbles in his mouth and announce “Max, your mother is waiting for you at {incoherent mumblings] station. Please wait there.” Even though that was no help, the fellow commuters were. Probably three different cars passed by and at least 6 different groups of people got off and ran up to us saying something to the effect of “Are you Max? Thank God! Your mother is worried sick! She’s on her way though. WAIT… HERE!” And sure enough, his mother did show up. Arms wide open, Max ran into her warm embrace. She picked him up, while weeping for joy. She then came up to me, gave me a hundred dollars and a kiss on the cheek, saying thank you. I replied while tipping my hat “It’s really nothing. All in a days work, ma’am.” After my heroic gesture, I jumped on my bike, turned around and gave Max a wink (and not in a creepy “get in the van” sort of way) and rode off into the sunset.
Those last couple lines are pure fabrication but you get the gist. The metro is a hot, sweaty, mass of people trying to get home form a hectic day of work. In the process of this commute, bad things can happen. It’s funny that nothing that the metro system had set in place kept this kid and his mother safe. The doors closed ON them (yet at stop before, the doors had opened at least 4 different times at the behest of the conductor), the PA system did not help locate either parties, and because there was no service down there, we were unable to communicate with Max’s mother. In the end, it was the commuter that helped both the mother and the child. It was those strangers, which we are constantly told to be deathly afraid of, that exhibited the compassion and sympathy through their assistance. It was quite heartwarming to see how many people were demonstrating genuine concern for Max’s welfare. It was a good feeling. It was also a good feeling when I got to the bar and had a beer and a story to tell. Later that night, I received a text saying “Thank you soooo much for your help. You don’t know how much we appreciate it.” I replied, “No worries. Tell Max, good luck at the hockey game.”
