Diary of a Gold Liner: November
Erin Douglass
November 3, evening — I'm reading about accidents on the Orange Line.
Dubbed a "bus that acts like a train," this new addition to the MTA lineup is a long, silver vehicle that runs every few minutes. Rather than mingle with traffic, the Orange Line shoots through its own east-west corridor across the San Fernando Valley.
The problem is this corridor can be crossed, easily, by both cars and pedestrians.
During the press-laden test ride last weekend, the driver had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a red-light runner. Fortunately, no one was injured. There were at least two more accidents once the public stepped aboard days later.
Who thought that aggressive Southern California drivers wouldn't try to zip across an open lane given half the chance? Or wouldn't inadvertently make a right turn at a confusing new intersection?
The LA Times quickly pointed out that a transit system in Miami serving as a model for the Orange Line has faced — surprise! — similar safety issues. It took reducing speeds and forcing the buses to stop for red lights to solve the problem.
Do I feel safe riding MTA vehicles? The Gold and Red Lines — absolutely. The possibilities for operator error seem slight (which shows how much I know). And automobiles? Kept safely at bay by tunnels and tracks.
Do I feel safe on MTA buses? Perhaps less so. I recall from my bus-riding days that some drivers gun those coaches down the road like teenagers — fast and swervy, with late braking. Others switch lanes with nary a glance in the mirror as if to say, "Go ahead. Hit me. You'll love what I do to a paint job."
And yet, in spite of driver quirks, on bus ride after bus ride I'd grab a seat or a pole and go with the lurching flow.
The other day on the subway, I grabbed a pamphlet for the Orange Line. Marching across its cover in the MTA's no-nonsense type: "It's about being safe."
Tips and rules for drivers, bicyclists and pedestrians — plus a glaring apostrophe typo — fill the glossy accordion-fold. But how many Valley drivers are likely to read it? Unless it's being handed out at Starbucks, I doubt the pamphlet is reaching intended eyeballs.
In the meantime, would someone please install some crossing arms, bells and lights?
November 7, westbound — I wonder about the cornfield as I step aboard the train this morning. Will it be gone soon? Will its nine-foot tall limbs be plucked from the earth — or knocked sideways into a thick, fibrous bed before being hauled away?
I realize that I have no idea how corn is harvested. Threshers — is that what they're called? — lumber down the rows grabbing ripe ears from stalk after stalk. That much I suspect.
But then what? We've all seen pictures of desiccated cornfields, their once green and limber leaves turned husk-like and gnarled. It's practically a horror movie staple to get chased through such a scape.
But what happens to those dried-up, leftover corn parts? Do they just hang out and decompose? Or do farmers return atop another specialized implement and clear out the trash, preparing the way for a new planting season?
As we approach our Los Angeles cornfield this misty morning, I see a band of workers unpacking a pickup truck. A Day of the Dead altar made of hay-bales stands a few feet away.
Then…the field. It looks unchanged, its corn stalks chattering like maracas in the breeze.
Two women, sporting track suits and the determined look of early exercisers, are walking the perimeter path.
I wonder if they'll miss the field — or at least the opportunity to march around something organic, rather than industrial, in the neighborhood.
I know that I will miss the field.
The way its colors, height and textures change with the weather and the seasons.
November 8, eastbound — As I was climbing the steps to the street this evening, the Gold Line clanging towards Pasadena behind me, I saw the nose of a small, strangely familiar vehicle poke from a parking place.
It was a GEM.
Not only was it a GEM, it was a GEM leaving the spot that I thought I'd parked in ten hours earlier.
My GEM?
I hurried to the curb.
The GEM backed up for a three-pointer. It was red and white, just like mine.
I tried to cross the street. Passing cars wouldn't yield.
The GEM jolted forward. It was a two-seater, just like mine.
I jumped into the cross-walk and dashed — well, tried to dash in my highly pregnant state — to the other curb.
The GEM turned sharply and headed down the street.
That's when I spotted its galvanized metal trunk, a far cry from the awkward plastic "pak" that hangs from the back of my GEM.
Relief turned to surprise. Someone else has a GEM? A red GEM? A two-seated GEM? In my neighborhood? As I approached my own, blessedly-locked, happily-waiting-for-its-owner GEM, I realized the interloper GEM had probably been parked right behind.
The possibilities suddenly dawned on me as I stowed my bags. We could have races! A rally! Decorating contests! Oh, if only I'd seen the driver and had time to wave.
Driving home, I wondered where GEM 2 was headed and if I'd see it again.
November 15, evening — Reading the paper after dinner, I spot an article on the cornfield.
Splashed across the front page of the California section, it concerns a crew of individuals who were allegedly caught filming salacious acts in the center of the field.
In other words: porn in the corn.
I examine the photograph that accompanies the piece. Two guys stand surrounded by cornstalks. One holds film equipment and has his head cocked at an odd angle. The other wears a striped, mauve suit that would make Liberace proud. An eyebrow is rakishly raised.
They look like they could be barkers at a carnival.
Or filming porn.
Whether or not the charges are true, our city's pure n' lovely cornfield has been tainted.
Or, perhaps, it has been initiated into the city. No longer an innocent country cornfield, wide-eyed and blinking in the midst of a gritty neighborhood, the field is now a bit raw. It has an edge. Some history.
Make that some mauve, striped history.
November 22, eastbound — On the train homeward, a teenage girl behind me makes a phone call. It's your standard issue "Hey, how's it going" and I try to tune out the words.
My ears perk up, however, when I hear the confident, clear voice say, "Parents? I don't have them anymore."
There's a pause. Then, "I don't know your relatives. If they want to meet me I guess it's ok." She sounds matter-of-fact — even blasé.
There's another pause. Then she mentions something about peak hours and abruptly says goodbye.
I wonder if this teenager is being dramatic, or if she really doesn't have parents.
Here, two days before Thanksgiving, the possibility of celebrating without a knot of close family and friends makes me ache for her — and anyone facing such a dreary prospect.
This holiday may buckle under the weight of its pilgrimed history, but it is still my favorite. A time of harvest and gratitude, it is perfect for sharing whether one is feasting or snacking, in the living room or on the road.
And even if the relatives are borrowed.