Diary of a Gold Liner: April
Erin Douglass
April 1, eastbound — Before we pulled from the Gold Line platform this evening, the operator's voice crackled over the PA.
"You might have read in the LA Times recently about the aqueduct uncovered by the MTA." My ears pricked up. "It's 224 years old."
He then explained that a construction crew discovered the section of original LA aqueduct north of the Chinatown station. For those of us who are a bit slow in the math department, he added, "It was built in 1781."
I looked around. No one else seemed to be paying attention. Or maybe they were just multi-tasking. I couldn't sit still. Excited by the prospect of seeing this ancient pipe, I put away my book and waited expectantly.
About 100 feet below the Chinatown station, the train slowed to a crawl. "Now if you look to your left..." the operator said into his mic, "...you'll see it."
I peered out the window. A long, dirt patch — recently graded — stretched along the tracks. A small hill rose up beside it. Then, behind a sag of yellow caution tape, it appeared: an arc of multi-colored bricks centered in the hillside like a frown. A few feet away, more brick arranged in a rectangle.
"Wow!" I said into the unfortunately close ear of a kid in front of me. "An aqueduct!" I sat back, thrilled. History! Right here, near the tracks, a softball-lob from my commuter self.
That night, I hunted through my pile of unread Times for the article. I finally found it — in the last paper. "Historic Aqueduct in L.A. to Be Buried," read the headline.
Buried? I read on.
"The MTA, which unearthed part of the Zanja Madre near Chinatown, says it will entomb it after experts study the site."
Entomb?
The article went on to say that the 4-foot-wide "Mother Ditch" was the city's main water source from 1781 to 1904. The MTA felt inclined to rebury it because of safety concerns.
I sat back, deflated. Now that I'd been introduced to this fragment of LA history I wanted to visit it. Peer at dioramas about it. Watch a short film.
But, no! Back into the hillside it would go, becoming a wormy, loamy secret once again.
April 6, morning, post Gold Line — I'm on the subway and so are They. They is the big man with the deep voice who loves to sing once we pull from the station. They is the shorter, moustached man who laughs with a cackle. They is the solid-looking woman with the long gray hair wrapped into a bun. And They is the 30ish woman with the perm and ill-fitting suits who drags a roller bag.
Most mornings this They meet in the last car of the Northbound subway to take it one stop to Civic Center. They each take up their own row and then shout at one another until it's time to step off.
"Morning!"
"Yeah! You can say that!"
"Are we done yet?"
"George, what ya gonna sing this morning?"
Often George will respond with a verse of two of "When Doves Cry" by Prince. It's never bad; his deep bass tones sound velvety and effortless. But other times George will just guffaw and respond with a joke or teasing jab.
"What'd you do over the weekend?" he asked the younger woman the other day. Before she could respond, the moustached one brayed, "Gave a lap dance! Could you show us now?"
They all snickered, women included. I cringed half a train car away.
This morning They are louder than usual.
"Look what the cat dragged in!" yells George when Moustache steps into the car.
"I'll show you a cat!" he sneers back.
"I see a cat," punts George, "it's that furry tail between your legs!"
I can't believe these people work together. Has no one heard of sexual harassment? Common courtesy? I want to look up, but then they'll know I'm listening. So I snap on my work badge and glare at my reflection in the window.
April 11, eastbound — Tonight on the Gold Line we passed a dirt expanse northeast of Chinatown. It caught my eye because it looked vacant, but not abandoned. The dirt was recently churned, trash oddly absent. It's a field that is waiting, I thought to myself. But for what? I've read reports of an art installation — a field of corn — that will be planted near the tracks for the summer. Is this the spot?
Near the Lincoln Heights station, I peered out the window. Beyond the tracks, rows of foundations and the wooden frames of fresh condos filled the block. I love the sight of housing near public transportation. It makes me think our city might be shedding some of its cowboy sprawl for a more orderly, healthy high density.
Approaching my stop, I stared out at the neighborhoods of Highland Park. Modest houses, some overgrown, others surrounded by neatly trimmed lawns, clicked by. As we passed through an intersection — the long wooden arms of railroad crossings blinking alongside us — I spotted a young couple in a car, kissing over the parking brake.
April 13, westbound — A strange and silly morning. As I finished showering, a story began on NPR about a new Alzheimer's drug. I tuned out until I heard something about mice with Alzheimer's responding favorably during recent trials.
"Mice with Alzheimer's?" I yelled to my husband, who was somewhere in the house. "How do they know a mouse has Alzheimer's?"
He didn't respond.
"Maybe it can't find the cheese," I offered into the mirror.
Then, on our drive to the Gold Line station, we passed a bus promoting a new movie called House of Wax. The accompanying image was dark and spooky. Along the top of the ad marched the words: "PREY. SLAY. DISPLAY."
I found this hilarious and repeated it several times.
"What if there was a ballet-themed sequel?" I asked my fair driver, as he pulled the car to the curb and I gathered my bags.
"PREY. SLAY. PLIÉ."
April 15, westbound — This morning I got to the station the moment the train was pulling in. I ran for it, work shoes clacking, and flung myself into the closest car, mere seconds to spare. I found a spot near the window and tried to catch my breath.
Dashing for the Red Line at Union Station 10 minutes later, I leapt down the escalator and jumped into the subway just as the doors were closing. I clunked down in a graffitied seat, chest heaving.
Once I could breathe, I dug in my bag for some lipstick. Then, red-lipped, I sat back and checked out the other passengers. The man with the green jacket was hunched over his morning magazine. The buff cop in street clothes — I know he's a cop because he told me one morning after a rowdy passenger left — stood tall near the door. Beside him hung a sign. In it, a clean-cut teenager in polo shirt and jeans half-smiled at the camera.
"I don't run for the train," the text read. "Safety starts with me."
April 15, p.m. — I'm waiting on the curb for my ride. There's plenty of light. I watch each car go by and wonder where it's headed.
Across the street, a man approaches. He has a long, gray ponytail and little round glasses. When he's in the middle of the crosswalk, about 10 feet from me, he catches my eye and nods. I smile, say hi.
He passes me and says over his shoulder as he heads for the stairs, "Thanks for the smile." I can't help it, I smile back — and then wonder if he'll thank me again.
He doesn't. Instead, he ambles down the steps and pushes through the creaky gate that leads to the platform. Crossing the empty tracks, he yells up to me, "Ma'am?"
"Yes?" I say over my shoulder.
"Isn't this amazing?" he says, spreading his arms as if leading a prayer. "It's like the Monorail at Disneyland!"
I look at the ornate platform behind him, at the shiny rails beneath his feet. I look down the curving tracks and then back to the man, planted in the center of all this infrastructure, who feels this is a thing of beauty — or at least thrill.
"It is amazing," I say, grinning.
April 19, eastbound — I'm sitting in the lead Gold Line car waiting for it to bid adieu to Union Station. Suddenly the operator's voice bursts out: "The train for Pasadena is departing in one minute!"
About that long later, the voice sings, "The train for Pasadena is departing. All abooooord!"
I can't believe she said "all aboard" — and all drawn out like that. I thought such a cry was reserved for real trains that climb mountains and cross plains, and have names like Zephyr and Surfline.
Startled as I am, I appreciate the ceremony of her cry. It's so much nicer than the loud, electrical doorbell the train usually emits before pulling from the platform.
In the row in front of me, two young women sit, reading Metro pamphlets. One wears a red fleece jacket and has a dyed red streak in her hair. The other sports a backward baseball cap and glasses.
"All abort," the red woman says to her friend with a German accent.
Tourists, I think, feeling envious of the recreation and adventure that must fill their days.
The other grins and pulls a book from her lap. "What about Disneyland?"
So much for adventure.
Still, I sit back, happy that visitors to our fair city are using the Gold Line. Are they headed to the Southwest Museum? The Norton Simon? Heritage Square? I resist the urge to tap them on the shoulder.
As I start to daydream about far-flung lands, the cap woman puts her arm around her red friend. Smiling, they bend over their guidebook.
April 20, westbound — No available seats this morning, so I pick a spot near the doorway and drop my bag at my feet. I don't mind standing on the train. It reminds me of my old, subway-enabled life in New York City. But unlike those dark-tunneled rides, this train has a view every jolt of the way.
At Arroyo station, the doors thwack open. A scatter of passengers steps aboard.
"Hold it!" someone yells.
I spot a big guy struggling up the stairs to the platform. Just before the doors buzz shut, he stumbles into my car.
"You know," he pants, "it's not so easy when you're this size."
Over six feet tall and thick as a tree, he wears a watchman's cap and a tiny scrub of moustache. A security service patch tops the sleeve of his jacket. He doesn't look older than 25.
We sway as the train accelerates.
"First it was crack," he says looking down at me. "Now it's oil. Some people are addicted to oil."
"You're sure right about that," I say. Several riders look up, surprised. Most early-morning trains are as chatty as a morgue.
"Gas is at 3 dollars a gallon and you drive an SUV..." he shakes his head. "You're addicted."
I uh-huh in agreement.
Encouraged, he continues. "I'm gonna get me a hybrid if I get a car." He pauses.
"Smart," I say, nodding.
"But then there are those hydrogen buses." He shakes his head. "Problem is, you break one of them and light a match — two city blocks are gone."
I raise my eyebrows.
"So don't tell Al Queda," he says chuckling.
"I heard 'bout one bus driver after 9/11 who saw a man with a briefcase and turban," he says. "She wouldn't let him ride. She was just scared."
I sigh. "There were a lot of people like that," I say.
He tsks and looks out the window.
After several seconds, the guy catches my eye and says, "How 'bout that Pope?"
"Looks like they found one who will last about a year," I say.
"Yeah, the last one was the youngest," he says. "Was he 54? He and my grandma were the same age — and she died a week after he did."
"Really?" I say. "I'm sorry to hear that."
He smiles and shrugs. "Now if it was Christ who came down, I'd be the first in line."
The train pulls into Union Station and lurches to a stop. I pick up my bag and look up at my friend. "You have a good day."
"Hey, you, too," he says heaving his pack and stepping into the crowd.
April 20, eastbound — I'm waiting on the platform at Union Station in a beam of late-day sun. A purple sticky note at my feet says, "Call Uma."
All I can think of is the long and lovely Thurman clad in bright-yellow jumpsuit, sword in hand. What would I possibly say to her over the phone? "Not everyone can pull off that color."
After the train arrives and the westbound passengers file out, we eastbounders shuffle aboard and pick our seats. Everyone is loud — answering cellphones, talking with friends.
Several rows away, a woman says loudly. "We could meet in Chinatown."
After a pause: "I don't know. For food. Phillipe's? I haven't been there."
You know, I haven't either, which makes me think of other famed L.A. eateries I have yet to visit — The Water Grill, Spago, Tommy's.
Hungry now, I lean my head against the cool window, eyes closed, ears open.
April 24, Sunday afternoon — I'm at the South Pasadena street fair with my husband. Next to my favorite booth — the tamale purveyor — sits a Metro table with a bright yellow, truck-sized contraption behind it.
Crumpling up a cornhusk, I walk over eagerly. A sullen teenager looks up. "Do you want to watch a safety demonstration?" she asks in a flat voice.
"Yes, please!" I say tugging on my husband's sleeve.
She hands the two of us paper 3-D glasses that say "Metro experience." We follow her up some metal steps and into the contraption's dark.
We enter a space the size of a small café. It reminds me of a ride where everyone straps in and then gets shaken around while a film plays on a giant screen. Along the back wall, there are several rows of seats, all of which have seat belts. And there is a screen.
"A ride!" I say grabbing a center front seat. "Don't forget to buckle up."
An elderly woman with a small child settles in behind us. Then the Metro teen exits and the ride begins.
Only it isn't a ride. It's a film all right and we're in seats, but they don't move, not even an inch.
"Why do we have to wear these seatbelts," I whisper. "We've been duped."
Onscreen, a handful of clueless computer-generated children demonstrate what not to do with one's bike, scooter and skateboard near the Gold Line tracks. [I won't ruin the ending for those who haven't seen the film, except to say, Forget the X Games.] While the children escape dismemberment, the near misses alarm: pieces of bike, scooter and skateboard fly toward us from the screen. Through it all, the voice-over warns, "Remember, tracks are for trains, not playing games."
I'm exhausted by the time it's over. Stumbling into the light, I say, "Well that's certainly not what I expected."
My husband looks at me. "It's exactly what I feared."
Then he tosses his glasses into the trash.