Monday morning, in the middle of the most recent storm, travel to work was quick and uncomplicated. Wednesday, after the T is back in service again, the very opposite. The streets are filled with traffic, and transit police are monitoring the road approaches to each station.
The trains are full, overfull, crammed. At the Ruggles station, a cry came from down the car, 'Help me,' and a collapsed woman had to be dragged out onto the platform. 'Call the driver,' shouted one person. 'Call 911,' said another, and 'I'm doing that now,' said a third. 'A seizure, ' explained someone; 'Yes, a seizure,' agreed some others 'I'm a nurse,' said a woman pushing through from way down at the other end of the train to join the group on the platform clustered around the prone woman, who gradually got up and made her way back onto the train and into a seat vacated for her. A few minutes and the train moved again.
At Back Bay, a high spirited black man called out to passengers trying to get on: 'Nobody's getting off, so there's no room for you.' 'That's my job,' said the T person on the platform with the day glow green vest. 'You can't tell people what to do.' 'I'm just saying...' said the man with a laugh. 'Just don't interfere with my work,' as she then bawled for the doors to close and the train to go.
So it was going in, and later coming home. Stoically grim or slaphappy, bundled up in our black jackets and overcoats, we, my fellow commuters and I, endure the jamming together, the delays and inexplicable reschedules, the cold platforms, the heart-breaking 'Please find alternative transportation,' the disappointments just getting to work, then later, at last, home.
As I slogged from the bus stop down Mt. Hope Street along the trenched sidewalks, happy that bullets weren't whizzing over the parapets of snow, that mashed body parts weren't underfoot, that in fact the walkways are being kept cleaner by abutting homeowners than ever before, I thought, as perhaps many of you do, 'Come what may (and more snow and frigid temps are in the offing), we're still here, still going ahead.
The trains are full, overfull, crammed. At the Ruggles station, a cry came from down the car, 'Help me,' and a collapsed woman had to be dragged out onto the platform. 'Call the driver,' shouted one person. 'Call 911,' said another, and 'I'm doing that now,' said a third. 'A seizure, ' explained someone; 'Yes, a seizure,' agreed some others 'I'm a nurse,' said a woman pushing through from way down at the other end of the train to join the group on the platform clustered around the prone woman, who gradually got up and made her way back onto the train and into a seat vacated for her. A few minutes and the train moved again.
At Back Bay, a high spirited black man called out to passengers trying to get on: 'Nobody's getting off, so there's no room for you.' 'That's my job,' said the T person on the platform with the day glow green vest. 'You can't tell people what to do.' 'I'm just saying...' said the man with a laugh. 'Just don't interfere with my work,' as she then bawled for the doors to close and the train to go.
So it was going in, and later coming home. Stoically grim or slaphappy, bundled up in our black jackets and overcoats, we, my fellow commuters and I, endure the jamming together, the delays and inexplicable reschedules, the cold platforms, the heart-breaking 'Please find alternative transportation,' the disappointments just getting to work, then later, at last, home.
As I slogged from the bus stop down Mt. Hope Street along the trenched sidewalks, happy that bullets weren't whizzing over the parapets of snow, that mashed body parts weren't underfoot, that in fact the walkways are being kept cleaner by abutting homeowners than ever before, I thought, as perhaps many of you do, 'Come what may (and more snow and frigid temps are in the offing), we're still here, still going ahead.
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