Diary of a Gold Liner: March
Erin Douglass
March 1, eastbound — The train is crowded tonight — New York-crowded with people in the aisles, holding on to overhead bars.
A guy who hasn't showered in a while sits in the seat to my left. A few rows to my right, a woman clad in horizontal-striped shirt and vertical-striped scarf knits.
In front of her, a wrinkled man with aviator glasses and a baseball cap that says "LOVES" holds a sign crammed with slanting print: "Do you have eternal life? Know the 10 Commandments!" An arrow points to a picture of Jesus wearing his crown of thorns.
I think about eternal life — the having of it here and now, rather than some far off day, because isn't that what eternal means?
Around me hunch three men in gray. Two listen to headphones. The other stares out into the night, nose pressed to the glass.
March 8, eastbound — As I dashed into the Gold Line zone of Union Station tonight, I narrowly missed banging into four Metro cops.
They were standing in a semi-circle, facing a wall. On the floor in the middle of their circle squatted another cop. The contents of a backpack heaped at his feet, he was wrist-deep in a smaller, square bag. Against the wall, hands cuffed behind her, a woman with a messy blond ponytail shifted back and forth.
I hurried past, not wanting to stare. But after reaching the platform and boarding the waiting train, I wondered what had happened. How had a woman with two bags become a suspect in cuffs? And what was the cop searching for? Drugs? Stolen goods? A new shade of lipstick?
With a piercing, crackly ding-dong, we pulled from the station. The train was crowded; thanks to the mudslide, the emergency, single-track schedule still holds. It's starting to bug me. I don't mind the crowds, but I'd like my morning line back.
Boxed in by seven other riders, I stood near the doors and held on tight. A tall guy with protruding eyes caught mine in the door's reflection. He leered; I looked away. It felt aggressive, doubly so in such a tight space. I stared down at the scene pulsing by below the elevated track. A lot filled with police cars — some with their hoods up, some with crushed bumpers, others almost totaled — slowly passed. It was a graveyard of cop cars — or at least a hospice. Yet the numbered roofs, still yelling at the sky, looked defiant.
March 9, westbound — I talked to a woman on the platform this morning. Long hair spreading from a red wool cap, she said that she and her husband have only one car. They also have a son, which requires extra coordination if school and workplace are to be reached on time.
I nodded in agreement. "We have one car, too. It's challenging, but doable."
She smiled and turned as the eastbound train approached. Watching her board, I thought about the long, slow ballet of our movement through the day. To school, to work, to school, to home. Drop-off. Pick-up. An Etch-a-Sketch of loops and lines slicing across the L.A. map.
March 11, westbound — This morning, after jolting to a halt at Arroyo station, a teenage boy leapt into our car. "You made it," came the operator's voice over the loudspeaker.
This made me chuckle. Then, as we pulled from the station, the operator — rather than the usual recording — said: "Next stop is Lincoln Heights/Cypress Park station." I felt soothed. The voice sounded gentle. Modulated, rather than monotone. Earthy, rather than electronic. A kind uncle reading aloud a children's story.
After we left Lincoln Heights, the voice intoned, with careful emphasis, "Next stop: CHINA-town." After a pause: "The artist who designed this station is Josie Chang." Or that's what it sounded like. Later, at work, I peeked at the Metro website and discovered the artist is actually Chusien Chang (which, for all I know, is pronounced Josie). How delightful that the driver thought to share this MTA factoid. I'll look more closely at Chusien's work next time we pass.
March 14, on the Red Line — Tonight during my two-stop ride on the Red Line to Union Station, I grabbed a Metro News pamphlet. A handsome, gray-blue, five-folder, it had English on one side, Spanish on the other. The second story featured employee Arthur Winston, a spry-looking man who's been on the job for 71 years.
My eyebrows shot up. "71?" I squeaked. "Is that right?"
I scanned the article. Winston, who turns 99 this month, is a lead service attendant who oversees a crew of 12. He started in 1934, when Metro was known as the Pacific Electric Railway Company. During his more than seven decades of employment, he's missed only one day of work — the day his wife died. He was dubbed "Employee of the Century" by President Clinton in 1997.
Wow.
As I hiked up the escalator and down the corridor to the Gold Line, I thought about my own workplace attendance. It's not shabby — last year I missed about seven days, half of which were likely mental health days spent reading, writing, thinking, cooking — often in complete quiet.
Didn't Mr. Winston ever need a mental health day? A day away from that crew of 12? From the look of his picture — toothy smile, suit and tie (with pin), handsome hat — maybe not. Perhaps he's one of those souls born to be in a crowd.
March 15, on the Red Line — I'm approaching the first of my subterranean journey's two stops this evening when the driver, husky as a cabaret MC, says into his mic, "Sssssivic Sssssenter."
It's a bit come-hither, a bit wry, his delivery. Not the usual flat, bored, bureaucracy-tinged tone most drivers employ.
I smile to myself. Do others notice his dramatic flair? Through the smeared windows I watch our final stop, Union Station, creep into view.
"Please remember to gather your things," the voice breathes, bass tone deep as a basement. "And then...take them with you."
I laugh.
"Thank you for riding Metro." This last bit is delivered with a Vincent Price flourish.
And then, nothing. The doors don't budge. A crowd of us, ready to spring from the car like dogs unleashed, shift in our shoes and stare at reflections.
A man to my left, redheaded and burly, clears his throat. "Any day now." He pauses. "Open Sesame!"
I check out my shoes, tired of avoiding myself in the glass.
"Okaaay!" sings another guy behind me, clearly annoyed.
Suddenly, the doors behind us, the ones facing the wall of the station, flap open.
"Nice!" says a third guy.
"Um, hope no one was leaning against that," says Mr. Red.
I take a deep breath and wait.
Then our doors whoosh open — and we are free to run.
March 16, eastbound — Everyone seems to be reading tonight.
A teenage girl has a hardcover copy of Dracula cracked open to the middle. Near the door, an older woman pages through an Avon catalog. Another woman, short-haired and grim, studies a glossy dog-training manual. Is that a whippet or a greyhound?
In the row ahead of me, a man in a suit grips a serious-looking text; once I stand I spot "Counseling" at the top of the page. And then there's the requisite guy with the sports section.
I stare down at my bag, bereft of magazine, book, even pamphlet. What happened? I used to be such a good reader-on-the-go. And that book tower by the bed hasn't gotten smaller. When my stop comes into view, I vow to pack a paperback for tomorrow's trip, even if I only have time for one page.
March 21, 6:20 a.m. — As we zoom to the Gold Line station this morning, I notice fresh graffiti on a low, white wall. The night before was clear and mild, the first such night in many months. I never thought about it before, but taggers probably don't like rain or cold — both likely wreak havoc with spray paint — and perhaps go into hiding during the wet of winter.
After saying goodbye to my husband and marching to the platform, I put down my bags and stare across the street. Huge, looping black script covers the six garage doors facing me. "Avenue SE 57" reads the largest patch. "Aves" say several smaller spots. I peer down the street. The tagging doesn't continue. Seems like the kids with the cans wanted us early riders to get a good look at their handiwork.
I feel torn when I consider the politics of tagging. Yes, it's a defiant claiming of one's space; an expression of individuality, or at least group identity. But it's ugly. It's on other people's hard-painted walls and doors. Worst of all: the coded scrawl often taunts and threatens. This I loathe.
When the train finally arrives, I step on board and walk to the opposite doors to watch the view slide by. As we get up to speed, a bus catches up to us. On its side an ad reads, "Come out and play."
It's the first day of spring.
March 23, eastbound — It's a near-full moon. A man in the row directly behind me talks on his cell phone in a deep, scratchy voice.
"No more tickets!" he shouts. "You can only go to traffic school once every two months."
He pauses. Grunts. "Don't run a stop sign," he says. "It's the easiest way to get nailed."
Who's he talking to? I picture a daughter on the other end, defiant and nail-bitten.
When Lincoln Heights arrives, the man stands and exits, a burst of "No, no, no's" quickly muffled by the closing doors. Our car is strangely quiet in his wake.
March 28, eastbound — The moment we left Union Station tonight the Metro fare collectors — I've been calling them cops, but "Fare Collector" is stamped on their jackets — sprang into action.
The Gold Line, believe it or not, runs on the honor system. Ticket kiosks can be found at every platform and station; it's up to riders to buy their tickets or have their monthly passes in hand. If they don't, fines get slapped — as much as $200. The first few months I rode the train, I was never asked to show my pass. Lately, the number of checks has grown.
"Please pull out your tickets and passes!" yelled a solid young woman from the front of the car. She had a nasal voice and big lips, and nodded as she passed down the aisle glancing at hand after hand.
Once my stop arrived, I raced up the steps to wait for my husband. Staring across the street, I noticed a cluster of wooden signs.
Had they always been there? I recalled spotting them before, but never really looking at them. They resembled the ramshackle wooden signs that always appear at a crossroad in cartoons: five pointed to the right, another four pointed to the left. A name was painted on each in white capital letters — PHU LOI, PUSAN.
Behind the signs stretched a 10-foot high chain-link fence covered in camouflage netting. A "Keep Out" sign hung at eye level. Behind the fence huddled a shed or house also covered in netting. Above the structure, flapping listlessly, was an olive green flag that read "MIA POW."
I stared open-mouthed.
The entire spot looked like a movie set or a Vegas theme restaurant. But it wasn't. It seemed to be the home of a veteran — a Vietnam or Korean War vet — who'd come home, bringing all the fear, pride and props with him.
I wondered if anyone — a Girl Scout with her cookie menu, an environmentalist with his cause — ever dared to approach.
I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed the place until now.
March 29, westbound — It is a beautiful morning. Delicious light — yellowish, clear, glowing — bathes the arroyo. The air hums with life. The San Gabriel Mountains, greener than they've been in years, look sharp and formidable. Standing on the platform, waiting for the train, feels like front-row seating to something eventful, amazing.
The other day, my uncle told me he was stunned at how close Mt. Wilson was — and this from the 10 freeway as he drove to Riverside. It is startling to us Angelinos, when the smog clears and the gloom lifts, the proximity of things.
"Is the Hollywood sign really that close?" I mused recently.
"Looks like you could reach out and grab those hills," say co-workers gazing from our 49th floor.
These clear months also remind us of the wildness of our landscape. Canyons housing mountain lion and fox? Right over there. The scraggly desert flora? Not far from lawns and bougainvillea.
When the train arrives, I step into the first car and claim a spot by the door. I don't want to miss a moment of the view.
March 31, 5:45 p.m. — I am on the bus, my old line, heading to meet friends in West Hollywood. Neither foot is behind the yellow line. In fact, I am squashed between a teenager with a backpack and a little old woman, mere inches from the fare box. My hand clings to the nearest pole. Every time we swerve or hit a bump, my grip loosens.
The moment I stepped aboard this evening I felt at home. The crowd, the humid air, even the resigned-looking driver was familiar. At the same time, everything felt oddly fresh and surprising. Like a return from sabbatical.
As our full-to-capacity load barrels down Beverly, I look around, taking in old sights and sounds. Much has changed. Gone are the simple days when "Stop requested" blared from the sound system. Now a voice — gentler, male, almost conversational — announces not only upcoming stops, but the names of said stops. "Beverly and Alvarado, followed by Rosemont and Rampart." How useful! My heart swells in appreciation as we bump to a halt. But where was this feature two years ago?
The bus empties slightly. I squeeze by sweatered ladies sitting sideways, grocery bags piled at their feet. I grab a strap — softer on the hand, but less steady, too — and sway back and forth for the next two stops. Tall and skinny, dark hair short and black coat long, I look like Olive Oyle, trying to keep her footing in Popeye's boat.
The teenager from up front is now wiggling through the aisle to the back. I follow. As I do, I spot a familiar face: the Russian guy who boards in Hancock Park. Shirt sprinkled with dandruff, he nods and gives a tight smile as I pass. He once spotted me writing on the bus and started grilling me about what I write and how he writes, too, so shouldn't we share? I unenthusiastically gave him my email address only to be bombarded with story after story. They were terrible. The correspondence didn't last.
I find a seat in the back across from the teenager. He's wearing a black wool cap and drooping khakis; his blue Jansport backpack is in his lap. I stare at the pack. The names of bands and movies scrawl across the nylon in black magic marker — Linkin Park, Slipknot, The Crow.
I smile. Half my lifetime ago, I carried a green Jansport covered with my own magic-markered favorites: The Clash, Ultravox, Black Flag. It's amazing, but the backpack itself looks unchanged. It doesn't have a digital read-out or high-tech fabric. Just nylon and zippers and its owner's graffiti. An unassuming link between my New Wave, wall of hair generation and his baggy pants, wallet-chained one.
The boy gets off at "Beverly and Kenmore...followed by Normandie." I watch him disappear down the steps to the sidewalk and wonder where he's headed. Ten minutes later, I exit at "Beverly and Fairfax...followed by Edinburgh."
While I wait for the light to change, my eyes are drawn to a billboard towering over the intersection.
It reads, "Everything is connected."