Mechanical difficulties

The train stopped somewhere between Rosslyn and Courthouse, still in the darkened tunnel for a minute or two. It had happened on other mornings, other commutes. It would happen again.

"This train is experiencing mechanical difficulties," the conductor announced. "Please bear with me."

Twenty minutes earlier, I had noticed her voice, her clear resounding voice as she announced, "Orange Line train in the direction of Vienna. Next station... Capitol South." The latest announcement was equally clear if far less welcome.

It took two or three attempts before I left the house. I'd forgotten my SmarTrip and forgotten my phone. I forgot a pair of shoes to replace the rain boots when I got to the office. I almost forgot the magazines for the shelter, the children's book about chickens and bed time. I unlocked the metal gate to let myself out and locked it behind me. Unlocked and locked. Unlocked and locked. To the sidewalk, the apartment and sidewalk again.

I worried for a moment that I'd missed my train. The board outside the turnstiles read Vienna, three minutes, but from the top of the escalator, I saw an orange line servicing the platform. I might have made it but I'd never found much use for running in a Metro station. I waited and another came along. Two orange. I thought of all the times I'd been thrown off by a pair of blues running end to end, realizing my mistake as I emerged from night into day at Arlington National Cemetery.

The announcement, the clear resounding "Orange Line train in the direction of Vienna. Next station... Capitol South," brought a smile to my face as I settled in with the Express and then with my book. It wasn't until we stopped somewhere between Rosslyn and Courthouse, somewhere on the uncomfortable line between near and far, that the smile faded.

"This train is experiencing mechanical difficulties," the conductor announced. "Please bear with me."

I sank back into my seat and back into my book as the train pulled forward 10 feet, 12, 15. It rolled back three or four and lurched forward again, crawling up hill. Limping.

In front of me or behind me as I rode backward, a girl stared absently toward the door, an earphone hanging down. The snapping of her gum pulled my attention and held it as she stared at the men waiting by the door.

I looked back at my book and tried to read as we lurched, rolled and jumped a few feet at a time. Heaving. Swaying. My stomach heaved and swayed with it. I looked up from the book and stared out the window at a flat expanse of unbroken cement draped in cables.

Lurch. Roll. Jump.

The girl continued to snap her gum. The men still stood at the door. I weighed my options, deliberating between my messenger bag, tote and Strawberry Shortcake lunch sack. None seemed ideal. Neither did vomiting on the morning commute.

Lurch. Roll. Jump.

We limped toward the station. With every pull, I hoped we'd break free of the cement, of the walls, and find ourselves at a platform. Even if only the first car made it, we could open the doors between cars and walk single file. We could find our way out.

Lurch. Roll. Jump.

The girl snapped her gum. The men waited at the door. I longed to pry open the doors and walk along the tunnel in my pink rubber rain boots. Avoiding the third rail. Avoiding the lurch, roll, jump of the train and the roiling nausea, and the girl snapped her gum. The men waited at the door, and I tried to read. I tried to focus on anything but the nausea.

I would have rested my forehead against the window if only I had not seen the windows on a Metro train.

The words blurred together on the page, even with all of the different typesets, with the different voices, even the different colors. House in blue. And the girl snapped her gum while the men waited by the door.

The bag, the messenger bag that I'd hooked over my knee to make space, rested between my feet, tugging with each lurch of the train. Eventually, I pulled it beside me. Nobody needed the seat.

Lurch. Roll. Jump.

I longed for a horizon to steady my gaze, a window through which to hold my hand, swimming against the breeze, diving through it, as the girl snapped her gum and the men waited at the door.

"Mechanical difficulties," I thought. "It will be worse if I throw up."

With a final lurch of the train, one final heave, the tunnel birthed us into the station.

"This train will be going out of service after this station," the conductor announced. "All passengers please exit the train. This train is out of service."

As I walked toward the door, I saw a man that I knew. He'd been in the car with me the whole time. Somewhere in front of me or behind me as I rode backwards.

"Well, that was fun," he said.

"Interesting," I replied.

My 20-minute commute took something closer to an hour and a half. I wanted to retch; I almost did. But I was still the first one in the office. Mechanical difficulties.


Tag: Metro Washington DC