Ridin’ The ‘T’

Status: Quo Minus

by F. Theresa Gillard

Author’s Note: This column is being re-run for my beloved critic, Shelly.

BOSTON Massachusetts—(Weekly Hubris)—1/23/12—For all the right, practical reasons, I ride the ‘T.’ The ‘T’ is Boston’s answer to mass transit. Within is my inferno. I drive 25 miles to participate in this coordinated hysteria. I pay $95 monthly to park nearby, and $47 monthly to ride the ‘T.’

Gas to get there, well we all know how costly that’s been and, just for kicks, my VW accepts premium only, danke dir. (This I liken to my Balinese cat’s consumption of Science Diet with a side of Poland Spring.)

Mine is a 20-minute ‘T’ ride. Twenty theatrical minutes.

Opening scene, let’s call it Act I: November through May finds F. bundled in a shearling coat and gloves, scarf and stockings—my answer to Long Johns and snow boots.

In my commuter bag is my lunch, my shoes and, by all means, a book. One must have a book throughout all Acts. Reading is distracting. It keeps you from looking at the other strange commuters.

Act II: June through September finds F. sleeveless, donning a linen something or another with toe-me shoes. October is a free-for-all: it may or may not be cold.

Act III, our climax and diminishment of movement, finds F. surrounded by sneezers and coughers, none of whom seems to have control of their hands.

Men, who open their legs wider than the green giant, when everyone knows there is no anatomical reason to do so.

People, who sit down next to me, knowing very well that they need two seats, possibly three.

There are strange rules in this ‘T’-World. Here are the top three:

Rule Number 1: You never never look anyone in the eye. Basically, it is best not to even look in anyone’s general direction. What follows is a true story.

Last year, I changed jobs, involving a move from the suburbs north of Boston to Boston Proper. The very first day I ride the ‘T,’ I’m standing there waiting on the train and doing a very natural thing, looking up the tracks from whence the train will come. No one is near me. Just waiting and looking.

A woman comes and stands quite close to me, which makes no sense, as the platform is virtually empty. I don’t flinch. I’ve got my I’m-riding-the-T survival suit on.

She then starts to lean forward and then backward and I’m thinking, absolutely nothing, because in and amongst ‘T’ folk, all is normalcy.

It is obvious that she is staring at me, even though I’m looking straight past her.

She says, “Are you looking at me?”

I say, “No, I’m not.”

She says, “I believe you are looking at me. What the hell is wrong with you!”

Now, if you knew me, you would slowly and quietly move away, knowing that collateral damage may not in any way be intentional.

Lucky for her, my usual two demons, one on each shoulder, hadn’t had their caffeine, yet.

It’s people like this who make riding the ‘T’ therapeutic. It helps me to practice one of my self imposed rules: Thou shall not kick every idiot’s ass.

Now, if this is what happens when simply looking in the general direction of a fellow ‘T’ rider, you just imagine what would happen if you actually had a close encounter of the eye-kind.

This woman is pleading for a good wallop. Blessedly, the train is approaching. Although what I really want to do is just beat her back down the entrance stairs and right out of the ‘T’ station. Instead, I say, “You’re mistaken.”

Rule Number 2: You may not change seats until you reach your stop. This means that, as the train clears out from stop to stop, other less populated sections become available. Under no circumstances are you to move.

This is astonishing to me: the fact that no one actually moves. Even more so, is that I don’t move, either.

Rule number 3: You may not correct idiot directions. This happens when tourists or non-‘T’ aficionados ask for directions. Every single time, the person they ask tells them the longest most complicated route.

It’ll go like this: “Get off at North Station and take the Green Line to Park Street. At Park, take the C, D, or E train to Prudential, and you’re there!”

. . . when all they had to do is remain on the Orange Line, which is the train that they are already on, get off at Back Bay, which is only four more stops, and walk through Copley Place to get to the Pru.

The difference in time involved is at least 45 minutes plus, depending on the time of day, how the trains are running (and accounting for getting on one of those trains going the wrong way).

When I win the lottery, which I’m thinking is going to be really soon—except I keep forgetting to play—I will continue to work. Thus, I will still be riding the ‘T.’ It remains the quickest, most practical and greenest way to get work.

Albeit it comprises my personal circle of hell, I strangely relish the continual insanity of the initially-suspected sane.