one-way phone conversations, Chicago
Did you sleep?
Go back to sleep, and I'll wake you in a little bit.
--Our cabdriver, to his son, making plans to watch the pre-dawn filming of Transformers 3 on Michgan ave.
Just tell 'em to put it in play mode.
Relax, don't worry about it. Just tell 'em to put it in play mode, and you'll be fine.
Man on the "L," presumably to his kid who was about to embark on video game playing with some trepidation.
The zombie apocalypse is nigh
Fortunately, we've been preparing for this moment, over lunch for the past year and a half. Thanks to the Zombie Survival Guide and George C. Romero, we're ready. Looks like the epidemic starts on the subway, or an upcoming Halloween party.
october, sunday, 11:23 a.m.
The bus towards the city is hot and crowded, but at least it's moving. Conversations overlap between announcements from the automated voice system. A family of four sits in the seats in front of me; the kids are wearing Red Sox hats; their mother says they'll be arriving at their stop in 15 minutes, maybe less, and the kids bounce with happy excitement.
Towards the back of the bus, a man animatedly tells the woman next to him about that moment when a person walks into the Fenway stands for the first time. "You come up and just see green. It's biblical."
The kid in front of me asks his dad if he needs to keep his Charlie ticket, since it says "one use only."
"You don't have to."
"I think I will, it's like my own credit card."
From behind me, I hear a familiar voice; it's that guy with whom I went on a few dates back in June. He's with a girl in a Red Sox tank top (game-time temperature: 59 degrees) and they are having a stupid conversation about Cheez Whiz. I find it remarkable that I remember him as taller, cuter, and smarter than he actually is.
In section 7, row 2, we sit with our regular crew from our 10th Man Plan: the Captain, his daughter, and That Other Guy. We're all quite pleased with our upgraded view. The Captain leans towards us in confidence. "If the umps make one more bad call, you girls might have to restrain me. I could kill 'em! And I went to mass this morning! I may have to go again tonight!"
Towards the back of the bus, a man animatedly tells the woman next to him about that moment when a person walks into the Fenway stands for the first time. "You come up and just see green. It's biblical."
The kid in front of me asks his dad if he needs to keep his Charlie ticket, since it says "one use only."
"You don't have to."
"I think I will, it's like my own credit card."
From behind me, I hear a familiar voice; it's that guy with whom I went on a few dates back in June. He's with a girl in a Red Sox tank top (game-time temperature: 59 degrees) and they are having a stupid conversation about Cheez Whiz. I find it remarkable that I remember him as taller, cuter, and smarter than he actually is.
In section 7, row 2, we sit with our regular crew from our 10th Man Plan: the Captain, his daughter, and That Other Guy. We're all quite pleased with our upgraded view. The Captain leans towards us in confidence. "If the umps make one more bad call, you girls might have to restrain me. I could kill 'em! And I went to mass this morning! I may have to go again tonight!"
local color
The weekday 8:37 a.m. bus is usually populated by sad-faced commuters just shaking off their slumber, aided by tall 1369 Coffee cups and magazines. So, it was unusual to hear the chipper squawk of a woman, conversing with a group of young Spanish tourists. She politely asked about their neighborhoods at home, and it was hard to say whether she was their tour guide or had simply struck up a conversation with them.
As the bus rolled on, the passengers were treated to a pleasant tour of landmarks along the route, some of which they didn't know about, despite having traveled this route every morning for years. "Coming up is the Portuguese church," yelled the woman. "That street is named for the first Portuguese cardinal."
It was a slice of culture on this otherwise mundane Wednesday morning. The old lady sitting next to me rang for her stop, and after I let her out, I slid over to her window seat. A young woman greedily hopped into the vacant seat next to me, to continue her phone conversation, and to unfold a nail clipper. "Oh no," I thought. Oh, yes.
As the bus rolled on, the passengers were treated to a pleasant tour of landmarks along the route, some of which they didn't know about, despite having traveled this route every morning for years. "Coming up is the Portuguese church," yelled the woman. "That street is named for the first Portuguese cardinal."
It was a slice of culture on this otherwise mundane Wednesday morning. The old lady sitting next to me rang for her stop, and after I let her out, I slid over to her window seat. A young woman greedily hopped into the vacant seat next to me, to continue her phone conversation, and to unfold a nail clipper. "Oh no," I thought. Oh, yes.
the bike and the bus
As a passenger, I have watched from the bus window: the biker, mouthing the word "shit" as he realized that the passing bus, nosing over to a stop, was about to encroach on the bike lane before the bicyclist could squeeze past.
As a bike rider, I know the fear and triumph of spotting a bus behind me and speeding away from it, knowing that as the distance increased between us, it became less and less of a concern.
I hadn't really thought about the bus driver until I was riding on a road suddenly jammed with morning traffic. I hesitated when I saw a stopped bus picking up passengers, signaling that would rejoin the long line of unmoving vehicles. As I wondered whether I could sneak up the bike lane before the bus lurched across it, I saw the driver's arm extend out the window, waving someone through. I couldn't imagine he meant me, but as I slowly started to pedal forward, he gave a thumbs up. I tried to toss a "thank you" toward the window as I passed, but I’m not sure he heard me.
As a bike rider, I know the fear and triumph of spotting a bus behind me and speeding away from it, knowing that as the distance increased between us, it became less and less of a concern.
I hadn't really thought about the bus driver until I was riding on a road suddenly jammed with morning traffic. I hesitated when I saw a stopped bus picking up passengers, signaling that would rejoin the long line of unmoving vehicles. As I wondered whether I could sneak up the bike lane before the bus lurched across it, I saw the driver's arm extend out the window, waving someone through. I couldn't imagine he meant me, but as I slowly started to pedal forward, he gave a thumbs up. I tried to toss a "thank you" toward the window as I passed, but I’m not sure he heard me.
zip this
I recently had an unpleasant customer service experience with Zipcar, my formerly reliable car sharing club. To make a long story short, I redeemed a coupon code for a credit to my account, made a reservation to use it before it expired, and discovered afterwards that the bonus was unceremoniously erased.
I politely inquired via their customer service email, and was promptly corresponding with a rep, whom I’ll call Mike Dang (his real last name is actually an interjection, further adding to the surreality of our conversation). Rather than acknowledge that the website had made a mistake in handling my account, Dang basically made me feel like a liar who was trying to cheat Zipcar out of a measly $25. I pleaded my innocence in my final email to him, but he gave no response. What was once mine was to be no more, and I was stuck paying for my little joyride.
Weeks later, I was riding the bus home from work, and was sitting across from a typical 20-something male commuter: khaki pants, brown nondescript shoes, black winter hat. I noticed he had a Zipcar messenger bag, and with their offices nearby, it was feasible (albeit a long shot) that this was Mike Dang. I snuck glances at him as he pored over the book he was reading. He was sprawled a little haphazardly across two seats, not entirely aware of his surroundings. I took a closer look at his book; it was a graphic novel. He was so engrossed, hanging on every word, eagerly turning the pages.
All of a sudden, I felt sorry for Mike Dang. As a customer service rep, maybe he didn’t make all that much money, and he probably dealt with people far nastier than me. Maybe he wasn’t very bright, read a lot of comic books, and didn’t have many friends. I got off the bus at my stop, and Dang rode on. I was still steamed about my experience with Zipcar, but maybe I could forgive Mike Dang.
I politely inquired via their customer service email, and was promptly corresponding with a rep, whom I’ll call Mike Dang (his real last name is actually an interjection, further adding to the surreality of our conversation). Rather than acknowledge that the website had made a mistake in handling my account, Dang basically made me feel like a liar who was trying to cheat Zipcar out of a measly $25. I pleaded my innocence in my final email to him, but he gave no response. What was once mine was to be no more, and I was stuck paying for my little joyride.
Weeks later, I was riding the bus home from work, and was sitting across from a typical 20-something male commuter: khaki pants, brown nondescript shoes, black winter hat. I noticed he had a Zipcar messenger bag, and with their offices nearby, it was feasible (albeit a long shot) that this was Mike Dang. I snuck glances at him as he pored over the book he was reading. He was sprawled a little haphazardly across two seats, not entirely aware of his surroundings. I took a closer look at his book; it was a graphic novel. He was so engrossed, hanging on every word, eagerly turning the pages.
All of a sudden, I felt sorry for Mike Dang. As a customer service rep, maybe he didn’t make all that much money, and he probably dealt with people far nastier than me. Maybe he wasn’t very bright, read a lot of comic books, and didn’t have many friends. I got off the bus at my stop, and Dang rode on. I was still steamed about my experience with Zipcar, but maybe I could forgive Mike Dang.
leaving midtown
My train leaves in 40 minutes, and I estimate that I'm a mere six blocks up, four over from the station. Rain is threatening, but screw it -- if I want to imagine myself a New Yorker, this trip should be cake. I set out, walking with the pedestrian signals to zig-zag my route, taking note of The Uncle's tip to avoid crowded 34th street. As I weave my wheeled suitcase around slower-moving pedestrians, I think about the cable TV show I stumbled upon recently about how New York's grid was laid across Manhattan, island topography be damned. This becomes especially relevant as I traverse (surprise!) a hill, walking ever more briskly as the minutes tick by.
On a narrower stretch of sidewalk, I get stuck behind a girl who is wearing what is apparently the New York uniform for fall: tight jeans tucked into riding-type tall boots, blazer, unnecessary scarf-like accessory, and an engaged cell phone. She is oblivious to the gaining sound of my rollerboard as I try to storm around her. When I finally pass, I wonder if I should mutter something about the likelihood of encountering a horse in the city.
Finally, my destination comes into view, with 10 minutes until my train leaves. I can make out the station just past a sea of tourists who bubble slowly over the intersection at Broadway. It's a sweaty sprint to the finish; I make the train and escape New York via the rocket launch of the train tunnel that doesn't come up for air until we are deep in Queensthe Bronx, well away from the island.
UPDATE, December 31, 2008: The Uncle informs me that the train emerges in Queens, not the Bronx as I previously reported.
On a narrower stretch of sidewalk, I get stuck behind a girl who is wearing what is apparently the New York uniform for fall: tight jeans tucked into riding-type tall boots, blazer, unnecessary scarf-like accessory, and an engaged cell phone. She is oblivious to the gaining sound of my rollerboard as I try to storm around her. When I finally pass, I wonder if I should mutter something about the likelihood of encountering a horse in the city.
Finally, my destination comes into view, with 10 minutes until my train leaves. I can make out the station just past a sea of tourists who bubble slowly over the intersection at Broadway. It's a sweaty sprint to the finish; I make the train and escape New York via the rocket launch of the train tunnel that doesn't come up for air until we are deep in Queens
UPDATE, December 31, 2008: The Uncle informs me that the train emerges in Queens, not the Bronx as I previously reported.
Trainspotting, restoration edition
From its grassy knoll along a Kennebunkport, Maine back road, an MBTA bus seemingly transplanted from yesterday's commute beckons visitors into the Seashore Trolley Museum. On past drivebys, it might have been a Red Line train or ancient open-air car, but the effect was the same. Finally, on a sunny drive up to Bath, I was answering its call.
We glimpsed the museum's vast collection of subway cars from all over the world as we rode a functional 1930s New York trolley along a portion of the abandoned railway line to Biddeford. Volunteers maintain the track and contribute to the painstaking restoration of these relics, and the finished products sit like shiny ghosts in dusty sheds scattered throughout the train yard.
From its inception, the museum has been a place for train lovers to preserve the things they love, and each passing of the seasons ages the cars scattered outside around the grounds -- each awaiting its turn in the restoration shed.
bottled anger
During your morning commute, what will be on the tip of your lips when you're caught off guard and seething with anger?
If you're the woman I saw this morning who was narrowly missed in the crosswalk by a driver who didn't see her, it's "asshole!" and "fucking asshole" to me, as if, as a fellow pedestrian, I'd be sympathetic.
If you're the guy on the bike who has just had to brake suddenly while a car darts in front of him to make a right turn, it's a silent middle finger, extended from a gloved right hand as the other steers the bike.
If you're me at the end of the day, already halfway across a crosswalk as a lady drives through it, with her window rolled down, it's an audible "nice, real nice."
If you're the woman I saw this morning who was narrowly missed in the crosswalk by a driver who didn't see her, it's "asshole!" and "fucking asshole" to me, as if, as a fellow pedestrian, I'd be sympathetic.
If you're the guy on the bike who has just had to brake suddenly while a car darts in front of him to make a right turn, it's a silent middle finger, extended from a gloved right hand as the other steers the bike.
If you're me at the end of the day, already halfway across a crosswalk as a lady drives through it, with her window rolled down, it's an audible "nice, real nice."
you look so cute with your cans on
LBC and I were driving through Cambridge one day when we passed your garden variety indie rock guy, sporting gigantic, hi-fi headphones, which we assumed were plugged into his iPod.
"What's your opinion of full-sized headphones?" asked LBC as we watched Indie Rock Guy amble down the sidewalk.
I was diplomatic. "Well, if you care a lot about sound quality..." I trailed off, aware that my own Sennheiser ear buds more than adequately met my high standards. "Plus, they're noise blocking."
"I guess," said LBC. The disdain in her voice indicated that perhaps she thought Indie Rock Guy looked stupid.
Today, as my Green Line train pulled into a station, I spotted a nun on the platform; she was unmistakably wearing huge cans, placed neatly over her veil. We got off at the same stop, and I was behind her as we exited down the stairs. From my own iPod, I listened to Dick Dale's version of "Hava Nagila," and I wondered what she was listening to. I stifled a small giggle.
Now playing: "Headphoneworld," The Busy Signals
"What's your opinion of full-sized headphones?" asked LBC as we watched Indie Rock Guy amble down the sidewalk.
I was diplomatic. "Well, if you care a lot about sound quality..." I trailed off, aware that my own Sennheiser ear buds more than adequately met my high standards. "Plus, they're noise blocking."
"I guess," said LBC. The disdain in her voice indicated that perhaps she thought Indie Rock Guy looked stupid.
Today, as my Green Line train pulled into a station, I spotted a nun on the platform; she was unmistakably wearing huge cans, placed neatly over her veil. We got off at the same stop, and I was behind her as we exited down the stairs. From my own iPod, I listened to Dick Dale's version of "Hava Nagila," and I wondered what she was listening to. I stifled a small giggle.
Now playing: "Headphoneworld," The Busy Signals
