Diary of a Gold Liner: July
Erin Douglass
July 7, morning — I wake to the news of explosions in London.
A bus. Trains in the Underground. Two dead and more than 100 wounded — numbers likely to rise.
Terrorism, says Blair.
Condolences from Bush and warnings to be alert on the way to work.
Bleary-eyed and sad, I walk up the ramp to my own public transportation on this other side of the world. When the train arrives, I step aboard and look around — not out of vigilance, I'm afraid, as much as curiosity.
It's Early Morning Gold Line as usual. Some folks read, many doze. A few are flat-out asleep, faces mushed against greasy window glass.
So much for alertness.
At Union Station, everything is quiet. But as I head downstairs to the Red Line, a dog leading a cop passes. Two other officers, sausage-stuffed into uniforms, follow. They're bomb sniffing.
This gives me pause. I wasn't taught how to respond to a bomb in 7th grade health class — the Fertile Crescent of all safety education. "Stop, drop and roll" covered fire. An assortment of bandages covered everything else. But what about a bomb? "Shriek, freak and bolt?"
On the subway platform, more cops walk by. They're armed and grim.
When the northbound train arrives, I step aboard and select a seat near the door. As we shoot into the dark, humid tunnel I think about the passengers on those London trains, their world turned chaotic and screaming in a flash.
What would I do if a bomb went off?
Forget health class. I'd pray like hell, then listen for the right moment to pick my way out.
I'm reminded of the time my sister and I were at a county fair waiting in line for a roller coaster. The place was packed, the mood as charged as a nightclub. Suddenly there were shots only feet away. We dove under the steps leading up to the ride, as people screamed and pushed and ran. It seemed like hours before we crawled out of our metal hideaway. We headed towards an exit, passing two guys who were cuffed and face down in the dirt.
We found out later the shooting was over a girl and a stuffed bear.
July 7, evening — Security around the Red Line has picked up since the morning rush: two LAPD officers on bikes and clusters of transit cops in every station.
Once aboard the subway, I notice a bumper sticker over the door.
"I [heart] Metro Rapid."
It's an official MTA sticker using the MTA's familiar, friendly font. But there's something amiss. In trying to make the heart look three-dimensional, the sticker's designer succeeded instead in illustrating a very curvy, Barbie-esque, upside-down butt.
I butt Metro Rapid.
Once on the Gold Line five minutes later, all signs of increased security — make that any security — are gone. I shrug and pick my seat. Who would attack the Gold Line? To what end? I shush these thoughts, feeling guilty for my blasé attitude and privileged skepticism.
At Lincoln Heights station, we pull even with two officers standing on the platform. They give a somber wave to the operator and stare darkly into our train. I wonder how long they've been there.
When my stop arrives, I step off quickly, give my own wave to the operator, and make my way down the ramp and up the stairs to my ride. I realize, suddenly, that this most ordinary event — boarding, riding and leaving my train unscathed — is, in a way, extraordinary today.
Thank you, Gold Line, for the blessedly dull ride.
I heart you.
July 11, eastbound — I spot the latest Metro News pamphlet on the subway tonight and grab one for the ride.
First up: the 714 Rapid, the new express bus down Beverly Boulevard between downtown and Beverly Hills. Even though I read about this fleet expansion weeks ago, I'm annoyed all over again. I rode that crowded, pokey line for three years, plodding from local stop to local stop. How welcome an express option would have been! How smart a transit move!
Well, better late than never.
The pamphlet next alerts me to a discount at the August Tofu Festival — featuring "Tofuzilla: When Giant Tofu Takes Over Little Tokyo" — should I choose to attend and flash my Metro pass or valid ticket.
Tofuzilla? The thought of a soft, squishy soy product the size of City Hall delights me. Out comes the Palm Pilot and in go the festival dates.
On my way to the Gold Line at Union Station, I pass a woman wearing a tank top — and nothing more — over two enormous, jiggling breasts. Across the front of her shirt march the words: "Relax bitch."
I feel confused by this shirt.
Is she asking me to chill about the sloppy lack of comma? Or my sudden wish for a roll of duct tape?
And why so hostile?
Much has been said about the decline of civility in our society. People seem pushier, gunning through life with a "Screw you" mentality. Frankly, most folks I encounter in my daily backings and forthings are pleasant, even kind. Are the obnoxious ones just harder to ignore?
July 12, eastbound — There's something going on in the field after Chinatown.
This enormous plot of land, which for months has been slowly cleared, bulldozed and groomed, has a new flotilla of earthmovers parked in its center. Orange cones are scattered about. Men in vests carry black plastic buckets. What are they collecting?
They remind me of strawberry pickers.
July 26, eastbound — I'm back from vacation, relaxed and chestnut brown.
Yesterday I drove the rental car to work. Why not? It was parked in front of the house, the keys were on the counter and GEM, although fixed, was having trouble starting.
Temptation, thy name is solo commute.
The trip downtown was so speedy, so smooth, so cocooned. I listened to NPR. I checked teeth and hair in the mirror. I kicked off a shoe (why wear it? My left foot doesn't have anything to do in an automatic) and shrugged off my jacket. 20 minutes later, I was at my desk, hair in place, raring to go.
That evening, more of the same. I was home in 20 minutes (compared to the usual 40 on the train).
I can see how you could get used to this.
But it was back to the train this morning. When I stepped aboard, I found an announcement on my seat. I've said it before, but I do love these little communiqués from our transit authority. It's the MTA talking to us, without the crackly sound system.
This notice was about the attacks in London and Metro's system-wide security efforts. But rather than a fresh appeal to stay alert and report anything suspicious, the paper went on to clarify that "not all lost and found items are suspicious packages."
Then it warned, "When you forget that backpack, lunchbox, purse, briefcase, not only have you lost it, but that same item could be mistaken for a suspicious package and end up DELAYING THOUSANDS of other traveling customers."
Apparently, MTA riders have been overzealous in their reports of suspect packages.
Tonight, as I stepped off the train at my stop, I noticed the train's operator sticking his head out the pod window and jabbing his finger toward a trash bin.
"What is it?" yelled a transit cop from the other end of the platform.
I approached the trash bin and spotted something long jutting from the pile. It was a plastic machine gun.
The operator looked alarmed. I continued walking as the cops ran up behind me to peer into the bin.
When they saw the gun, they started to laugh.
The operator shook his head, slammed the side window and pulled the train from the station.
July 28, eastbound — Tonight, as we approach the open space near Chinatown, I can't believe my eyes. Furrows stretch at least half the length of the field. Most have black sprinklers along their tops — as straight and certain as licorice. In one part of the expanse, two trees in tubs stand. In another corner, squat, leafy things are planted. At the end of the field closest to the river, a trailer sits with a deck and chairs set up outside.
What's going on?
A quick Google search brings up interesting tidbits. What's going on is the Not a Cornfield Project, a "living installation" by artist Lauren Bon, who is turning 32 acres of industrial wasteland north of Chinatown into a park and cornfield. The land will ultimately become the Los Angeles State Historic Park, used by local community groups, arts organizations, even school track teams.
Hooray!
But why the lack of hoopla? Oddly enough, the MTA has nothing to say on its website about this exciting project — and I haven't read a peep about it in the Los Angeles Times.
I think we need another bulletin.