Gold, Red and Orange
Erin Douglass
I love the Gold Line.
The light-rail train that runs between downtown's Union Station and East Pasadena, is, simply, a refined experience.
White, enameled walls gleam. Large windows, clean and ungraffitied, let in gobs of sunshine. Subtle track lighting suggests fine dining, not mass transit.
Like a car from The Jetson's, the train practically hovers over the tracks. Sure, it may lurch gently as it winds eastward, but it's the lurching of a tango dancer — precise, firm, with a little sass.
As the train hums up the arroyo, pausing at stops boasting flower boxes and public art, I check out my fellow riders. Some wear suits, others the hip clothing of artsy burbs. Many read quietly. Some are probably translating Latin.
Sitting in their midst, I feel sophisticated. Privileged. Like I'm commuting in Switzerland.
These are not thoughts I have on my bus.
I also love the Red Line.
The snazzy subway that connects downtown's Union Station with North Hollywood to the north and Wilshire and Western to the west is urban and sleek. It zooms into the station, causing hair to blow dramatically. It whooshes into dark tunnels.
Gripping silver poles and jockeying for position, riders look purposeful, yet blasé. Lean men with carefully tousled hair rub shoulders with punks and librarians. I feel exhilarated as I ride.
I feel no such quickening of the pulse on my bus.
My bus — a cross-town route connecting south-central Beverly Hills with downtown and beyond — is the local yokel of the commuting universe. Pokey and bright orange, it bounces along with a happy-go-lucky air when traffic is moving, a bulldog grouchiness when it's not. I get on, take a seat with other tired folk and check out the view. It's not fancy. People snore.
And it's certainly not Switzerland.
Recently, feeling critical of my bus's lack of razzle-dazzle, I added the Red Line to my evening commute. This involves marching over hill and concreted dale to the Pershing Square station at 5 p.m., boarding a train and then exiting several stops later to catch my bus.
Even though the walk takes a few extra minutes, it's worth it. Once below ground, in the shining, tiled station, I wait only minutes for a train. Less than 3 iPod songs later, I'm emerging into bright sunlight, mere steps from my halfway-point bus stop.
Why didn't I think of this sooner, I think on Day Three. Taking out the bouncy, ever-crowded first bus leg, I avoid getting carsick. I'm guaranteed a seat. I skip the obnoxious boys boarding at Belmont. And I may be getting home quicker.
I realize I've discovered the Arnold Palmer of commuting — half subway, half bus. One part zip, one part mosey.
One night, several weeks into this multi-modal experiment, I step off the subway at my usual stop and bound up the frozen escalator steps. I round the corner to the second escalator — which is working — and stop to catch my breath.
Suddenly a spray of water hits the steps above me. "It's raining?" I think, peering up at the widening gap of blue sky.
Then I notice a young man standing six feet ahead of me. He's facing the side of the escalator and staring into space.
Out of his right pant leg pours a stream of liquid.
"What the hell?" I splutter, reflexively stepping back and almost losing my balance.
The guy, 20ish, with a shaved head and roomy jeans, doesn't look drunk. He doesn't seem high. But there he is. Pissing. And not out of his pants, but in them.
Who voluntarily pees in their pants? While standing? In public? I gape as the liquid continues to gush from the pant leg, hitting the escalator step and wall with a splash.
I looked around. No one is closer than I to the scene, and no one seems to have noticed.
Aghast, I pull my bags close. Never, ever, on any condition, will I lean lazily against the side of the escalator again.
When he reaches street level, Mr. P gives his leg a quick shake and steps off the escalator. The inside of his pant leg is completely soaked.
I step off seconds later and march over to my bus stop. Then I turn, cross my arms and glare across the concrete expanse at the guy, who now leans against a pole. "You were seen," I want him to know. "You didn't get away with that."
He looks over, sees me staring and looks away.
A Rapid bus pulls up to the curb on Vermont. I watch him shuffle over to the waiting crowd. He boards last, and slowly pushes his way to a seat near the back.
As they pull away, I shake my head and shudder.
When my bus arrives, I climb on and choose a seat by the window. The handful of passengers already on board sit quietly, staring ahead. One is dozing.
All clothing appears to be dry.
Relieved, I sit back, pull out my magazine and say a quiet thank you to my bus and its driver. I promise I'll never take you for granted, I think. Sure, you're kinda slow. You're often late. Strange people sit in your seats every day. But that's to be expected.
And it won't be any different if I opt for Red or Gold instead.