"...one time, coming home from a wretched show at a wretched little club near the Common, I catch the last Orange Line train outbound, which is not at all unlike catching the last chopper out of Saigon. We go from Chinatown to Downtown Crossing, and stop. The doors open, and we sit there. And sit there. And sit there. Finally, being a brave soul, I venture out to the platform, and find the driver sitting there, reading an issue of Ebony magazine, with his feet literally propped up on his little cubby hole windowsill. I ask him if we'll be going soon, and he rolls his eyes and exchanges glances with a T 'cop' on the platform, like I was an asshole for believing that a thirty-minute delay was perhaps excessive."
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Trains are made of metal and run by men
Tim McIntire: An Open Letter to Orange Line Employees: