Diary of a Gold Liner: January
Erin Douglass
January 11, westbound — What am I going to write about? I miss the bus.
January 13, eastbound — It is way too quiet on this train. Where are the chatterers? The grumblers? The kids talking trash? Everyone is reading or listening to their iPods. It makes me want to pull the emergency cord.
January 17, eastbound — The trains, I have decided, are overly bright. I feel like I am under a microscope — or the extra-magnified mirror of a facialist. This is not a good feeling at 6:30 a.m.
January 21, eastbound — Three teenage girls, probably on their way to Old Town Pasadena, flirt and toss hair near the doors. I take note of the body language, face paint and dress particular to this tribe. My own get-up — scarf, trench coat and slacks? trousers? whatever they're called these days — makes me invisible. Worker-bee wallpaper. But fact is, I like wearing sweaters and pants with a jaunty scarf. I'm not one of the zillions who wish they could wear jeans to work, because jeans are everywhere and everyone and every moment in this City of Angels and I, for one, am tired of them. I must admit, though, that there are mornings when I stare at the closet and choose the easy path — all black, with something white poking through from backstage. The costume of caterers, ushers and MAC-counter sylphs can't be all bad.
January 26, eastbound — The train was strangely crowded this morning and quieter than usual. I figured it was the pouring rain. Not until I got to work and overheard talk on the elevator did I learn about the crash.
I found the LA Times' website and read the front page: Metrolink trains, truck on the tracks, derailment near Atwater, at least nine dead. Then the phone rang. It was my aunt.
"That wasn't your train?"
"No, it wasn't my train."
Twenty minutes later the phone rang again. It was my mother.
"Just...wanted to see how you're doing."
Then an email arrived from a Westside friend: "Please write back as soon as you can."
I felt grateful for their concern, and sad for the families of those being pulled from the twisted metal mess.