Training Day

Oh Metro, you have foiled me again.  I shake my fist at thee, reviled foe. 

For those of you who do not live in the DC area, you may not yet have experienced the joy of riding our subway system, the Metro.  Let me inform you now that this will undoubtedly be the first in what will be a long line of Metro bitching posts. 

It’s fine enough for leisurely travel when getting to a destination at a certain time is not a priority.  That’s why so many tourists rave about the system and claim they wish they "had something like it back home.”  But if getting to a meeting, work, doctor’s appointment, or even a happy hour before the deals end is of importance, Metro is simply not the way to go.

I’m not even going to delve into the high cost of riding and gross safety violations (some of which have led to deaths) in this post.  There’s plenty of time for that in the future.  Today I’m focusing the grumbling on the lack of timeliness of the trains and the annoying nature of my fellow Metro riders. 

But let me get back to the beginning.  I mentioned being foiled.  First, I have a confession to make.  Like most of the journalists in my building, which is one block from the U.S. Capitol, I have milked the system for parking.  In a city where parking is at a premium, yet my pay is not, I just cannot afford to shell out $20 per day in parking fees.  Once the journalists in my building receive our Capitol credentials, we can sign up for a special press parking pass in the Senate lot directly across the street, allegedly only to be used when at the Capitol on “official business.”  Unfortunately for others with legitimate reasons to use the spots, our “official business” is that we don’t want to pay the exorbitant parking fees or be left to brave the Metro.  Alas, the powers that be have now caught on, and a letter was circulated this week saying that too many people are parking in these spots for unofficial reasons.  The number of parking passes is therefore being slashed, and enforcement will be more fierce to ensure the spots are being filled by journalists actually working inside the Capitol, not our building.  Free parking: fail.  Metro: win.  Katie: depressed.

An average Metro car, before the recent influx of riders.

Right now the Metro is packed to the gills because so many people who live far out in the suburbs have found (surprise, surprise) that their hour-plus commute in those giant SUVs is actually pretty expensive when gas prices rise.  That means the normal crush on the trains has become downright oppressive, and fighting for seats has become even more of an art.  It also means that trains have been more delayed due to keeping doors open longer for these scores of people who are unfamiliar with the Metro and take their sweet time loading the trains. I thought scoring a seat would be the end of my worries one morning a couple weeks ago.  Boy, was I wrong.

After being mashed in unimaginable positions for 15 minutes (should have been 8 minutes, but of course there were delays), I gratefully took a seat from a passenger who was getting off the train.  I moved in and sat next to the window, happily reading my newspaper.  Even the group of loud teens shouting their latest sexcapades didn’t phase me.  I had procured a seat.  I was golden.  That was, until Stinky von Drunkerson sat next to me. 

Yes, it was 9:30 am and the man hobbling over to occupy the vacant seat next to me was clearly drunk and emitted an unsavory odor, but he was also homeless so I wasn’t about to judge.  The man walked with difficulty and had to use a cane.  Unfortunately, because of his appearance, or perhaps because of their self-centered natures, no able bodied person in one of the handicapped seats would give up their position.  The man exclaimed loudly about this as he plopped next to me.

Picture an older, scrubbier dude and a packed train.

Once in place, he could tell through his drunken haze that the teens near us were getting rambunctious, and he wanted to better listen to what was happening.  So he slowly worked to turn his body to the side, positioning his back to me and his legs out in the aisle (yes, despite the full train), and he leaned as far forward as he could in his seat without falling over, straining to hear the sordid details of the teen skanks.   As I watched this man’s   laborious undertaking,  I realized my stop was coming up next. I thought I should probably ask him to let me out soon, as I was trapped next to the window and he clearly takes a while to make a move.

As the train driver announced the next stop, I began by saying softly, “Well that’s me.”  Of course, the man’s back was to me and he was engrossed in Teen Skankfest 2011, so he didn’t hear me.  The train slowed and I gathered my belongings with much theatrics, thinking surely he would have to sense the movement.  Still, there he sits, now laughing and mumbling incoherently, back still to me.  As people begin to move toward the opening doors I thought it was a good thing it was the one day this week I wore pants instead of a skirt, because I may just have to climb over this dude. 

I realized each request of “excuse me, this is my stop” was being ignored, despite my ever increasing volume.  Finally, I gritted my teeth and started tapping and poking the man, asking him to move, but he wouldn’t even turn around.  I'm not sure if he was ignoring me or simply oblivious because of his level of drunkenness, but my guess is the latter.  My window for escape was narrowing as I figured the doors would shut in about 5 seconds.  Miraculously, that’s when Mr. Drunky decided he needed a better listen at the teens’ conversation, and leaned as far over in his seat as he could, without fully standing up.  That’s when I struck.

OK it wasn't quite as high of a leap as this, but close.

I held the chair in front of me, leaped over the homeless man’s back like an Olympic vaulter, and made it off the train just as the bell was dinging for the doors to shut.  Let’s just say this is a little too much action for me at that time of the day, before I’ve even arrived at work and faced the day with a coffee.

Although I fully understand this particular incident was not Metro’s fault, per se, I blame the system anyway.  It’s true, all the glaring faults Metro exhibits have tainted my view of the entire service, thus rendering the DC Metro my scapegoat for all things foul.

I have had a recurring dream in my 3 years living here:  I dream that one of these days Metro won’t win.  I dream that the morning commute will not be jammed with rude people who appear to have no concept of personal space or manners.  I dream that on said day, I will get a prime seat and nobody sits next to me.  I dream that my ride will be short and actually get me to work on time, and maybe even in a surprise move, a bit early.  Then and only then, when all of these things happen in a glorious confluence of events, I will raise my arms to the sky as a symbol of a small, yet very significant victory as I exit at Union Station.  Then, my friends, and only then, will I finally have won.