Metro malfunction

I paused in the door of my office, looking down at my feet. Wrong shoes. I glanced back at the desk, toward the ridiculously comfortable flip flops and shrugged. I was already late. I could walk the few blocks home in my heels.

The man in the elevator smiled as if he knew me.

"Monday's done," he said. "One down."

"I know, only four more to go," I responded inanely.

"So, it's supposed to cool down later this week?"

"Um, I think so." Do I look like a meteorologist? I cannot even spell meteorologist, but I did go a concert with that one. What was the show? Oh, and I wonder if he still lives by me. That was awkward. "It's crazy hot outside."

We chatted for 10 floors or so. He headed toward the north doors and I headed south.

"Have a good one!"

Completely inane, much like my life. I headed to the Metro, waited four minutes for an orange line train and found a seat.

"Excuse me!" the man next to me shouted as we approached Rosslyn. He lowered his voice as I stood, "Sorry about that."

I took the seat by the window and finished Songlines, going back and re-reading some of the phrases, rolling the words around in my mouth, a quote from Daughters of Copper Woman by Anne Cameron.

"There was a song for goin' to China and a song for goin' to Japan, a song for the big island and a song for the smaller one. All she had to know was the song and she knew where she was. To get back, she just sang the song in reverse..."

I closed the book with a smile, savoring the taste and the feel of the words, thinking of finding my way with a song, before digging in my pack for Isabel Allende. After a half dozen pages or so, I realized we were still in the tunnel between Rosslyn and not Rosslyn, under the Potomac and heading into the District.

"There's a malfunction on the train," announced the conductor to a chorus of grumbles.

"Dang, we pay all this money and nothing works." I turned to look at the old men behind me who probably paid $1.35 for the ride. I turned back to the book.

"I'm going to leave the cab now and look for the source of the malfunction. The train will be moving soon." He sounded awfully confident for a man who had to go and look for the broken bit. I wondered with a half thrill if we'd have to walk through the tunnels avoiding the dangerous third rail. Honestly, it was the last thing I wanted to do in my heels, late as I was. Tired. But it just sounded cool.

I imagined the story: The old men cantankerous and limping. The man next to me, nodding off. A pregnant woman. The camaraderie, the short tempers, the smell, the grease, the way I'd never look at the train the same again.

Eventually, we moved on, pulling slowly into Foggy Bottom.

"Attention passengers on the platform: Please let passengers exit the train. This train is out of service," the conductor said. "This train is out of service."

A collective groan arose from the hordes on the platform and the throngs on the train. We pushed our way to the doors as the man in the front seat looked around in confusion.

"Didn't you hear the man?"

"I was reading."

"This train is out of service."

The confused man held his ground for a minute or two before giving in and exiting the car. The platform was full of hot, tired-looking people. Working people. People who just wanted to get home. To dinner. To anywhere other than a Metro platform. I hesitated to stand at the edge of the platform, to cut before the people who waited but I had no place to go. I edged into the crowd, shouldering my backpack and apologizing profusely.

"If you don't get on this train, take the Stadium-Armory exit."

"Is there a game tonight?" I asked the woman beside me as we both looked up in panic.

"I think so," she sighed.

A Metro man in a bright green vest walked along the edge of the platform warning people to step back. He advised people to wait for the next train if they wouldn't fit on the first. He disappeared into the crowd as we pressed toward the doors.

I found my way onto the train, grabbing the rail overhead and juggling book and bag as I tried to find solid footing. I teetered in my high heels, the straps cutting into my swelling feet as the temperature rose and people pressed into every available space. I apologized repeatedly as I fought to stay upright with my bag in check.

MacPherson Square and Farragut West. For every person who left, more tried to board and I thought back to my crowded commute a week or so earlier: A delay at Eastern Market.

I noted an empty seat next to a rather large woman. She looked uncomfortable. I tried to put myself in her position, aboard a crowded train and riding a full seat for two. She tried to make herself smaller. I sat beside her with plenty of room to spare.

"How are you tonight?" I asked, trying, unsuccessfully, to smile away the tension in her shoulders and arms. "This is crazy, isn't it?"

She smiled and relaxed just a hair. I made way for her exit at Metro Center and lost myself to a window seat and A Portrait in Sepia. I worried that I wouldn't be able to make my way to the door, that I'd have to ride to the Stadium or Minnesota Avenue, but I didn't. I worried that I would be late, and I was. It didn't matter.

I read my book. I enjoyed the ride. My feet didn't suffer too much for wear.


Tag: Metro