Pains, Trains and Automobiles
Erin Douglass
My new commute is not working.
I'm now a 15-minute drive from downtown, yet I may as well have moved to the moon.
On a good day, it takes three different forms of transportation to get me to work. On a bad day: four, plus two hearty walks.
A good day begins with a ride to the nearest Gold Line station.
If the driver — my husband — had his way, our car would pull from the garage at an eye-popping 6:15 each work morning.
Now that I, a thwarted night owl, have been added to the equation, we've had what some in the consulting world call "deadline slippage." 6:15 has become 6:21 and even 6:29.
In my defense, there has been some personal cost. No longer do I attempt even a cursory blow-dry of the hair. Mascara, lotion, lipstick are applied in transit, if at all. Stripes and prints are mixed.
Following the four-minute zoom to the station, I cross the tracks and commence my wait upon a rain-swept, Hopperesque platform. The first morning of my new commute I stood there for a half hour.
This gave Rich and me an opportunity to become friends (he hails from Vegas, thinks L.A. restaurants are too pricey and voted for Bush — but he's a nice guy). Fortunately, most days the wait is more like five minutes.
I must say again that I love much about the Gold Line. Never more than four-cars long, it boasts a shiny white and yellow coat as sleek as a buttercup. From afar, the train looks like a caterpillar, winding along its sometimes-residential-sometimes-industrial trail. Up close, it looks cheery and non-polluting.
Once the train arrives — the Second Mode of transport —I step on and find a seat. Then I briefly consider pulling out reading material or a personal grooming product, but I don't bother, since I won't have enough time.
I am five stops, or seven minutes, from Union Station. This is too long to stand at the door, staring at one's reflection. It is also too short to do just about anything else, except maybe return a phone call and who does that at the crack of dawn?
Upon arrival at Union Station, I follow other briskly moving riders out the doors and down the steps. I do not choose the elevator. During my second week of this new commute, I passed fire fighters, axes at the ready, making a beeline for the thing. Fifteen people were packed into the little glass box, which was stuck between floors.
After I join the flow of traffic in the Union Station corridor, I must make a choice. I can go to the end of the hall and then up the steps to wait for the Commuter Express. However, this quasi-bus — a creation of train-centric Metrolink — repels with its pushy crowds and inconvenient schedule.
Or, I can proceed to the end of the hall and head down to the Red Line. This choice has already become my preferred Third Mode, since the subway, thank heavens, runs often and fast.
An old friend, the Red Line reminds me of my previous commute, filled as the cars are with strange travelers and odd smells. And I think it knows I'm coming, for it is often waiting at the stop, doors flung wide, innards humming.
Unfortunately, once ensconced on the subway, I am again faced with the too-short, too-long dilemma. Two stops, or no more than five minutes, from my destination I have just enough time to clip on my work badge. Then — surprise! — my stop is announced and up again I must go.
From this point, it is I that must do the propelling.
Up the stairs, across the bright tiled floors and up the steep escalator I tromp. Once above ground, I huff and puff up unreasonably steep Fourth Street, cross Olive, and then huff and puff some more up either the one-person-wide-so-everyone-keeps-moving escalator or the slightly wider stairs alongside it to California Plaza.
I am now almost halfway there.
As the fountains shoot and bubble, I cross the gray expanse of the plaza and hike up another two flights of stairs. Waiting at the Grand Avenue crosswalk, sometimes I spot my old bus go by. It would have just dropped me off.
At this point, my pace quickens. I lope across Wells Fargo Plaza and into the building. Then I fly down the stairs, stop by the café for my coffee and exit, moments later, onto Hope.
I cross the street and one more plaza to enter my building. It's 7 a.m. — 45 minutes since leaving the house.
Eight hours later, reverse and repeat. The only difference: I don't see Rich. And I must call my husband for the evening pick-up as I roll from Union Station.
This call has placed me in the "I'm on the train" camp of cell phone users.
I never wanted to be in this cellular subculture. I swore that during such calls I'd have a conversation at least — say something meaningful about my day or the weather. But after the 20th attempt at whispering, "So how was your day?" into the phone as all ears try not to listen, I've cut to the chase: "I'm on the train. We're leaving Union Station now."
Yesterday evening, I finally tired of this verbal crutch. I decided each time I call home, I will use a new, sly expression to convey my news. Like a spy. Or our current president.
"The meatball is hitting the floor," I breathed, after my husband answered the phone.
There was a pause.
"Uh, can you get more specific?"
"The meatball is momentarily hitting the floor," I said stealthily.
"I'll see the meatball soon."