Diary of a Gold Liner: May
Erin Douglass
May 4, evening — There's a new transportation game in town. Her name is GEM. Or at least that's the manufacturer's name. I'm still working on my own.
GEM is a six marine battery-powered, golf cart-looking buggy. Mine happens to be red and free of doors. According to the manufacturer, GEM is a "low-speed vehicle," but that's being generous. GEM tops out at about 27 mph on a good downhill.
"Low speed" isn't my usual choice when getting a set of wheels. I like to zoom. But GEM was a gift from my aunt, who inherited it from her father.
"Take the GEM to the Gold Line station!" she cried one afternoon, after my millionth complaint about transportation in the 'burbs.
"What gem?" I asked, thinking of the tic-tac-sized tourmaline my dad gave me upon graduation from high school.
"The GEM!" she said, all-caps bursting through the phone. "Pop's GEM."
It was a brilliant suggestion. And although it would take us many more months to truck the GEM from its Valley perch to our hillside garage, replace its rust-colored batteries, and then convince the DMV to re-register it, the buggy is now, officially, My GEM.
In celebration, my husband and I ordered flame decals for its front and side panels.
When they arrived, from PurpleHarley.com, a handwritten message was scrawled on the invoice. "Send us a picture of the bike," it read. "We'll put it on the site!" And then, before sign-off, "Ride hard, man!"
We have yet to send in our photo.
This week was GEM's debut in my morning commute. Rather than climb into the car with my husband for the zip to the Gold Line, I can now buckle into GEM and whir down the hill.
My first morning ride was bouncy, windy and exhilarating. There I was — on my own! — making my way to work. Neighborhood dogs barked as I passed. Kids at the junior high hooted and waved. And parking — hardly a problem when you're eight feet long.
That evening, as I dumped my things in GEM's "pack" — a fiberglass trunk stapled to the back that has the aerodynamics of a hamper — a couple strolled by.
"Is that a golf cart?" the man asked, smiling.
"No, it's a low-speed electric vehicle." I could see the gears turning as he parsed that one.
The woman jumped in. "Is it a SMART car?"
"No...it's a GEM." I raised my eyebrows and nodded, as if that answered her question.
"A GEM? Huh," said the man. "Who makes that?"
"GEM."
He stared blankly.
"That's nice," said the woman, glassy-eyed.
Then the couple wandered off and I climbed aboard for my solo voyage home.
May 9, eastbound — When I sit down on the train tonight there is a blue flyer on my seat. It's an announcement for a schedule change because of upcoming construction on the LA River Bridge. Apparently, the MTA has finally decided to add some fencing.
That's interesting, I think. I've often noted as we glide across that expanse that the view isn't for the faint of heart. On the right, or eastern, side of the train, you can look straight down with nary a girder or trestle in site. Thanks to the train's midriff bulge, you can't even see the tracks as you stare into the abyss. Just churning gray water and the odd bird of prey.
As I contemplate how far the fall would be, a man sits down behind me. He's talking into his speakerphone. Under ordinary circumstances, this would drive me insane.
But today, as I half listen, I realize that this man and his news don't bother me. This is because he's speaking a South Indian language — Marathi? Kannada? I don't know. It is liquid, lots of els, ens and the gentle dees of most Indian tongues. "Maylengalengalenga." The sounds roll into my ears and out again, unencumbered by comprehension.
Years ago I studied Hindi, so I can pick up stray words, along with blurts of English: "computer code" and "official papers." As the man listens to his friend, he says, "Ha...ha...haha." In Hindi, this means "yes." Does it sound like solemn laughter to others on the train?
During the heavy rains this winter, the LA River swelled in its concrete channel. Brown and branch-filled, it looked elemental and angry — the opposite of its usual, placid self. Crossing the river bridge, I'd look down and watch the swirl in awe.
Tonight, the sky hums with blue. There's a puff of cloud, a brilliant late-day sun. The train casts its shadow as we pass the still-empty field north of Chinatown.
We climb the river bridge and I look down. The water sashays down its channel. This is late spring water — clearer, quieter, a little bored.
The man is still talking in his language ripples. No more "computer." Just "Maylengalengalenga."
May 16, westbound — On the platform this morning I wave at the teenager who usually stands only feet away. He smiles back — finally. We've waited side by side for months, but he usually just listens to his iPod and stares at his boots.
This boy sports 80's hair. It's fluffy on top, narrow through the sides and curly at the ends. (I guess this is 50's hair, too, now that I think about it.) The 'do reminds me of my dreadful high school boyfriend and New Wave bands like The Thompson Twins.
It's weird to see this stuff on kids. I've never been on the receiving end of a decade redo until now. It makes me feel strange — appalled, amused, poignant.
When the train arrives, I board and check out the hair on my fellow riders. The guy in front of me has dreads tucked into a wide, knit cap. They look like skeins of rich yarn. Across from me, a mousy, fly-away bob. Standing near the door, a slick ponytail. Sprinkled about, the short, clipped hair of men, with and without bald spots.
Later at work, a guy jumps on the escalator ahead of me. A halo of frizzy curls juts from his head, a good two feet from end to end.
It's the best hair of the day.
May 16, eastbound — I don't like my seat.
Why did I choose this seat? It's the first one in the row, which means it doesn't have a window. To see outside, I have to crane my neck and violate the space of the person behind me.
My seat is separated from the doors by a low, plastic wall. The wall is too close, cramping my legs. I can barely tuck my bag at my feet, which isn't a problem until a man sits down beside me, forcing quick rearrangement of self and things.
Then a woman leaps aboard, phone stuck to her head. She plunks down in the single seat on the other side of the doors from me.
"Heywhat'sup?" she yells.
"My day sucked," she says after a pause. "I had to break up with a friend."
I close my eyes and listen until my stop arrives. Then I squeeze from my seat and stand behind a woman poised at the doors. She is magnificent — tall, lean, wearing a trim jacket. But it's her hair that impresses. Huge and dread-locked, it's wrapped up and out — a giant beaver tail emerging from the top of her head. A rope keeps it in check.
It is the best hair of the day.
May 17, eastbound — More tourists tonight, this time speaking in brittle German.
One guy is sandy-haired; the other is dark and furry as a chia pet. Each time someone boards the train, they crane their necks to watch. "Ah, these are what Americans who don't drive look like," I imagine them thinking.
They get off at Chinatown, two minutes away from Union Station.
At my stop, I step off and practically run to GEM. There's an SBC truck across the street from where she's parked. A guy peers from behind the open door.
"Does that thing come with a cover?"
"No," I say, shaking my head. "I could get some soft sides for it, but I don't really need them now."
"It would be nice," he says, gesturing at GEM's seat. "Then you could keep it clean."
I hadn't realized she looked dirty.
"Anyway," he says, "it's really cool."
As I drive up the first of three steep hills in my journey home, I round a tight bend.
There, to my left, is a skunk. It's moseying out of a driveway, right into my path.
I brake.
The skunk freezes.
My bare legs suddenly feel exposed. My work skirt vulnerable.
The skunk and I stare at each other for what feels like minutes.
Then, nose twitching, he turns and slips under the driveway gate out of view.
Maybe I'll rethink those soft sides.
May 26, eastbound — I choose a seat tonight on the left — or west — side of the train. I try to mix up my views and I realize as I sit that it's been a while since I watched the aging buildings of north Chinatown and the towed car lot with the homemade UFO-on-wheels flick by.
A minute later, I'm pulled from my slack-jawed, post-work daze by the sound of gagging.
Shortly after, a spell of hearty throat clearing follows. Gurgling and gelatinous, it reminds me of Mr. Thirsty, my least favorite part of a trip to the dentist.
Grossed out, I look around for the culprit.
Behind me sits a young guy, half asleep. Two rows back: some teenagers. Across the aisle: a tiny woman. I look closer. Pressed delicately to her lips is a crumpled tissue.
You've got to be kidding me. It's coming from her?
She is slight, with bobbed hair and a schoolgirl headband, even though she looks to be about 40. With each phlegm-rattling depth charge, she barely moves — a calm ship above roiling waters. It's a scene from a horror movie. What, other than full-boar possession, could cause such sounds to erupt from this woman?
Just as suddenly, the noise stops.
A younger woman, sporting crisp suit and pearls, steps into our waiting car. Even though there are empty rows aplenty, she marches toward my row and then, cutting a sharp left, plunks down beside the older woman.
The gurgler's eyes dart to the newcomer. Then, undeterred, she presses the tissue tightly to her lips and gags anew.
The young woman doesn't move.
I turn back to my window and the train jolts from Union Station.
Seconds later, a guy from the car in front of mine, saunters down the aisle and sits down behind me.
"Yeah, I got a federal warrant," he says to the guy who was napping.
"A federal warrant?"
"Yeah, I've been on the run for a while." He pauses. "In front of KFC, it's hot over there right now."
Silence from the other guy.
"I'm gonna need some training," resumes the talker.
The other guy mutters something in Spanish.
"Yeah, I've gotta work with my crew," responds the talker. "Got five or six of them." A phone rings. He answers it. "Ey?" After a pause, he says something in Spanish.
The Lincoln Heights station pulls into view. The talker, still on the phone, stands up and says to the other one, "Here." It sounds like an order.
I glance to my right as they exit the car. They are indistinguishable from the hundreds of other young guys throughout LA — white T shirt, slicked-back hair, khakis. They look about 14 years old.
I feel like I've dipped in and out of a subculture with all the whiplash of a bunjee jumper. I know gangs fill our city, but it isn't every day that I get to hear their chatter.
But what if I'm wrong? For all I know, these two guys were just talking trash about…
Yeah, right.
I lean my head against the window and think about appearances — how some confirm, but most surprise.