A Sleeper's Guide to the Blue Line

You're on the train again. You're tired. Here are some techniques you might consider. I've picked these up from watching others trying to catch 40 winks on the rails.

"The Window Washer"

Did you catch the irony? You will. This is the most common technique that you will see on the BL: just grab a window seat and put your head on the window. The drawback? Someone fairly filthy might have been there before you and left a nice grease-streak that you wouldn't dare use on your bike chain. Yuck! So you have to move on to the...

"The Head Droop"

Yes, just cradle your lunchbox in your arms and let your chin hit your chest. The drawback? (besides a stiff-as-hell neck?) Drool. Don't wear a tie that day. I saw a rotund guy conk out and never notice the thick stream of rubber cement-like saliva, cresting his pudgy lips and pooling on his USC sweatshirt. What a mess. I wouldn't want to do that. So I might try...

"The Neighbor"

Just make sure you introduce yourself before plopping your head on someone's shoulder. Addie does this to me all the time without even asking! But I don't mind. So, Mike, you may be asking yourself, what if you're just wiped out? Well, why not try...

"The Hibernator"

This technique great for those that need to seriously sleep off the rest of that hangover. Just find two free seats next to each other and lie down. But Mike, the A/C is a killer! I can't feel my feet! Don't worry, just curl up into a ball and cover yourself with a pillowy parka. You'll be so content you may not wake up until spring!

And finally:

"The Cornholio"

Some of you older folks may remember an offensive little cartoon on MTV called "Beavis and Butthead". I've never seen it myself, but it seems that the character 'Beavis' had an addictive alter-ego named 'Cornholio'. This 'Cornholio', after consuming ridiculous amounts of sugar and caffeine, would pull his tee-shirt up over head so that only his face was showing though the head hole said shirt. I saw a guy doing just that this morning when I got on the train. I guess his ears were freezing. He was using this technique in combination with "The Head Droop" with an occasional foray into the "The Window Washer". Just no focus at all, no commitment. And as he was wearing shorts, I think he would have gotten better results with "The Hibernator". Always bring your parka.

Standing Up on the Blue Line Can Be More Dangerous Than You Think.

About a month ago, I left work a bit late. I don't remember why precisely, but it probably had something to do with a meeting that someone couldn't bear to have me leave. Anyway, I got to the train late. It was still on the platform at 7th/Metro downtown LA, but I was late enough that I knew that I wasn't going to get a seat. This always presents me with a dilemma: do I want to stand up most of the way to Long Beach and get there sooner or do I wait for the next train and get a seat? Most of the time I suck it up and choose 'a - stand a while and get there sooner.' My legs were feeling strong that day and I had a good book to read, so that's what I did.

In these circumstances I have a technique that allows me to get a space and not have to move until the train gets to Imperial/Wilmington Station. Imperial is the Green Line connection and lots of folks take off and you can grab a seat before the people coming from the Green Line get on. Anyway...

What I do is go to the front of the nearest car and lean against the bulkhead facing towards the back of the train. I put my feet way out so that as the train speeds up and slows down I can naturally brace myself without being distracted from the book I'm reading. I'm right next to the open door. Once it closes and we roll off to Pico Station I put my backpack under my legs and I'm set. Please note that from here on out the door that I'm next to won't open anymore. The one on the opposite side does instead. This is very important to keep in mind. (Click here for artist's conception).

So I'm reading and the sun is shining and the people are happy. We're almost to Washington Station (4th stop out), stopped at the last traffic signal before 'signalized track' with the handy traffic-stopping gates and flashing lights begins. That's when it happens. The door next to me - the one that's not supposed to open - opens. I was glad of two things at this point: 1. that my technique for wedging myself in place was working and 2. that the train was not moving.

But before that, I was so surprised that my brain couldn't even form the proper expletives. The 'fight-or-flight' response that allowed humans to evolve to our present state of big-brained glory was not at work in me. My mouth-open, wide-eyed-stillness response was working just fine.

A split second later - after I got used to feeling flabbergasted - I saw a guy outside the door at waist-level. He wasn't floating, he was driving a bottled water delivery truck He was oblivious to my plight. (Click here for artist's conception number two).

I decided to look down. It's not that far, but it's farther than you want to fall whether the train is moving or not. I looked back into the train car and an old Latin guy was looking at me with this goofy smile, but no one else was reacting either. No one jumped up to save me. That wasn't good for my self-esteem. I was just to the part where I think about what I'm going to do if the train starts moving and the door is still open when it closed. The ordeal was over. It took all of 6 seconds.

The train started moving. I was expecting the operator to come on the PA and say "We'll be exiting the train at Washington Station and you'll have to disembark and wait for one that works" or at least "My bad, sorry! I hope everyone's still with us!" But s/he said nothing. Nothing. That's right in line with the "Nyah, nyah! We're not tellin'" approach that Metro has towards mishaps.

Well, whatever. Click here to see the moral of the story, and remember that the signs on the train mean what they say.

Dueling Chrome Domes

I feel a little slimy. Yesterday I joined the ranks of the life-invading, parasitic paparazzi. But I didn't go after the big bucks by trying to capture a picture of TomKat's kid Suri or catch Vince proposing to Jennifer with a super-mega Nikon digital setup. Oh, no. I took worthless, quality-free photos of two strangers with my sub-standard camera phone.

I feel a little bad about it, truly I do, but come on: how often do you see a bald chick (it was voluntary - and as you can see her tan was perfect) and a bald Buddhist monk (also voluntary) on the train in the same trip?

The Diner Car

Food and drink are not allowed on The Blue Line. Most people are respectful of that. Some aren't. So here's two of my favorite statute-breakers:

A guy sat down with what appeared to be the entire contents of his studio apartment. Once he got his stuff situated in the nearest several seats, he dug a large Zip-loc baggie out of his coat like some kind of latter-day Captain Caveman. The bag didn't contain chips or crackers or a sandwich - all of which would have been manageable train food. No, the guy had chicken wings. We all know that chicken wings are among the messiest foods to come down the evolutionary pipeline and this man had no napkin. But no problem: he was more like Captain Caveman than I had previously suspected. He was one of those put the whole wing in your mouth, clean it and spit the bones out kind of guys. It was gross, but I was hungry at the time and I must admit that I still wanted some. Not his. Wings of my own.

Another guy on another day gets on the train with his bike and a typical clamshell, polystyrene to-go box. There's a immediate stench but I can't be certain of the source. I stopped typing, held my breath and looked more closely. It could've been the man - he was pretty dirty either from outdoor labor or homelessness, but from the cut of his carpenter-style overalls, I suspect the former. Or it could've been contents of the box. He sat down on the floor against a set of doors near me and pulled his bike in front of himself so that he's barricaded in. Thus secured, he whipped out some chopsticks (not a fork, mind you) and tore into what appeared to be sobe noodles - at least visually. But again I can't be certain because of the powerful stinkiness and I began to suspect that it just might be the food. The food or the guy? The food or the guy? Then, it hit me: it doesn't matter where stench comes from - stench is stench. Just stop smelling it - don't make it a research project. So I put my nose in the crook of my elbow and continued typing with one hand.

Seen anybody eat weird stuff in weird places? Post it!

Welcome to the Blue Line!

As a way of introducing myself and generally getting the train running down the tracks on this thing, I offer the following (longish - don't worry, they won't all be this long) Tale of adventures gone by I call Blue Line After Dark:

May 2005, Tuesday night. I had to work late due to a professional development workshop that I was producing. I had been on the job for about 4 months. I knew the people and I knew some of the artists, but I still wasn't comfortable with everything that my job entailed. That included the commute.

The workshop was from 6-9pm at the Japanese-American Cultural Community Center (great people there, very nice), downtown Los Angeles, not far from our offices. It would have been easier to drive, but since our car - a Ford Escort Station Wagon known to my college buddies as “The Whoopee-Wagon” - was losing compression and near death, I opted for the train.

“Can’t you borrow a car?” asked a co-worker.

“Nah, I’ll be fine. There’ll be plenty of people and not all of them can possibly be psychotic, right?”

My co-worker turned a brilliant shade of skeptical.

Having recently and happily transplanted ourselves from Oklahoma to Long Beach, we had little experience with public transit in a big city. My wife Addie had been riding the train about five months longer than me, but she hadn’t ridden it late at night. So, I was to be the first. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, though I had visions of gang-members, transients and crazies whipping through my head.

Still, the Wagon’s not reliable and come on, they’re people right? They can’t all want to hurt me, they’ve got they’re own problems, right? Right.

The first workshop was over. My boss dropped me at 7th/Metro station and I rode the train, catching the one that leaves around 9:50pm. I don’t really recall what happened on that ride or the one a week later because none of the horror stories came to pass. The worst that I can remember is that people were a bit rowdier and perhaps a bit drunker than what I was used to on the train.

It was the third late-night ride that is so damned vivid.

It started pretty quietly. In fact, I marveled how much like the morning commute it was, almost library-esque. I read a book most of the way, not wanting to make my laptop or iPod a tempting target. I can’t remember what the book was, but I’m sure I enjoyed it. Then we got to Willow Station. This is pivotal station in the Blue Line bloodstream. It is the last station before entering Long Beach proper, the beginning of ‘street running,’ that is, the train becomes a bus on tracks: subject to traffic lights like everyone else. At night, they also reduce the number of train cars from three to one. Two go back to the servicing yard between Wardlow Station and Del Amo Station, and the other continues south into Long Beach. Everyone on the train has to fit on the one car, but at 10:40pm, that’s not a lot of people.

I knew about this process from my previous two trips, and I had boarded the rear portion of the front car of the train to save myself from the whole relocating process. So when we arrived at Willow, I put my book away and just watched as the people from the other two cars trickled aboard in various states of tiredness. A muscular guy with a bike, a tall squishy guy with two briefcases and a lot of papers, an old woman with a push-basket. A tall skinny black guy with tight braids and headphones sat down in the row in front of me. The doors closed, the train lurched off towards Pacific Coast Highway Station.

Those of you who know the Blue Line will know that the longest stretch time-wise between stations is between Willow and PCH. That night it was really long.

The guy sitting in front of me, Tight Braids started up his portable CD player and began to sing along in a high, toneless, pitch-optional kind of voice. It was annoying. My car had been quiet until now, but I was almost there. At that time my last stop was Anaheim Station right after PCH, so I swallowed my irritation. Someone else… didn’t.

A stocky guy I hadn’t noticed before was sitting two rows behind and across the aisle from me. In my mind he became the Latino Simon Cowell when he said:
“You f---ing suck, man. Shut up!”

He said it with a big, friendly smile on his face and a wild, crazy look in his eyes. Tight Braids either didn’t hear it or chose to take the high ground. But Simon wasn’t done:

“You’re f---ing terrible, man, why don’t you give it up?”

Tight Braids noticed this time, but just gave Simon a quick smile and a shake of the head. And he kept singing.

After few more instances of Simon’s critique always with the requisite “f---ing” in there somewhere, Tight Braids realized that he was being repeatedly and harshly dissed and took off his headphones.

There was a further exchange that I don’t clearly remember, but I do remember that Tight Braids and Simon were standing in the aisle now… and I was still in between them.

The ensuing conversation had little substance, was brief and went like this:

Simon: “You f---ing suck, man!”

Tight Braids: “You said what?”

Simon: “You f---ing suck, man!”

Tight Braids: “You said what?”

Repeat, ad nauseam.

As far as debates go, Simon was winning hands down. First, he was right. He had done his research, had first-hand evidence and several witnesses that could attest to the fact that as a singer, Tight Braids did indeed “f---ing suck.” Second, he was making a statement that asked for a rebuttal and “You said what?” – no matter how many times it’s repeated, and he said it a lot – well, it just wouldn’t hold up in Debate Club. It was apparent that Tight Braids knew of his debate short-comings. Faced with the undeniable truth that he couldn’t out argue Simon, Tight took matters in a whole new, but not unexpected direction: he threw the first punch.

And I knew from that first punch that Simon was in trouble. It was a doozy. Tight was punching from the shoulder, looking for all the world like a young, skinny, Evander Holyfield, full of youthful pride and power. He pounded Simon’s face like a jack-hammer tearing up the 405. I knew that I was in trouble too; they were going at it right next to me. They struggled back and forth and wobbled towards and away from me. I was ready to move in any direction required, and right then my only options were over the seats in front or behind me. You’d think that I would be tense in a situation like that, and it was disturbing, but I was so surprised at how fast the fight ramped up, that I forgot to be alarmed. That’s not to say that I wasn't ready to move or push them away or whatever, but it all happened so fast. Thankfully, Tight Braids pushed them both towards the middle of the car after a few seconds and I was able to zip out and go the opposite way to the end of the car.

So now I’m at the far end of the car opposite from the train operator, joined by nearly everyone else from that area. I took it upon myself to push the talk button on the Emergency Box. The Operator’s voice came back immediately over the general train PA.

“What seems to be the problem?”

He was hard to hear. Until New Mayor Antonio Villariagosa took the chairmanship of the Metro Board recently, the speaker volume and quality had been hit and miss. It’s much better now. Back then I heard the operator just enough.

I wanted to respond urgently, eloquently capturing the viciousness of the fight, but could only say:

“Uh, there’s a fight back here.”

I eyeballed the fight in question and realized that Tight was going to finish this fight sooner rather than later. Simon was still punching, but fitfully and after a few moments Simon was content to just be choked while bleeding from the mouth. It looked like he’d been eating a pomegranate.

It also looked like they had hit the old woman with the push basket. Another woman was asking if she was okay. It looked like she was going to be fine, but that could have been much worse. Simon and Tight weren’t really paying any attention to the rest of us. They were a little focused: Simon on bleeding and Tight on choking.

“A fight?” I thought that I was going to have to say more, but the operator continued. “Okay, I’ll call the sheriff.”

Tight hadn’t heard that. He was still carried away with his attack on his critic. Another man had heard the announcement, and wanted to emphasize to the combatants that their time was short.

It was the huge, squishy guy with the two brief cases. He walked over to the fight, both briefcases in one hand and papers crushed against his chest with the other. He didn’t look squishy anymore. He was easily six-five, three-twenty and so what if most of that weight was around the middle. Right then he looked formidable.

“Guys,” he said calmly, but firmly, “I think we’d all appreciate it if you stopped this and at least took this outside.” Or something to that effect.

Well said, I thought, damn well said. But how was that going to work? We were still a long way from PCH Station.

Another gap in my memory. I think Big Squishy kept talking until Tight stopped choking Simon. They stood up and came towards us again, yelling some more. This went on and on until we – finally – arrived at PCH station, and this next exchange occurred four feet from me, right after the doors opened like a gateway to freedom.

Tight Braids got out and stood on the threshold. Simon stayed on train.

Tight, pointing down at the platform: “You get out here! I’m not going to jail for your sorry ass!”

Simon, pointing down at the train: “Get back on here so I can beat your sorry ass!”

Repeat, ad nauseam. Again. They weren’t strong on vocabulary, that’s for sure.

And once again, something took longer than usual: the operator wouldn’t close the doors and separate these guys. It took for-ever.

Finally they shut. Tight Braids was left behind and we were left with the vanquished-but-he-didn’t-know-it Simon who said (and I remember this clearly):

“That’s right! This is my train!” said the man who lost the fight. He spit at us and blood went everywhere. Fortunately, I don’t think it hit anyone. I became fascinated by one drop that landed about three inches from my shoe, glistening against the mottled blue floor.

“Are there any questions?”

I jerked my head up as Simon looked each of us crowded at that end of the car in the eye. We didn’t have any questions. Simon was obviously on some kind of drugs, something that made him aggressive. It was clear from the look in his bloodshot eyes and we didn’t want to get him any more riled. Simon went and sat down by his girlfriend, who I hadn’t noticed before. She had a dead look in her eyes that said everything.

The trip to Anaheim Station from PCH is far shorter, and I had never been happier to get off of the train.

I didn’t ride the train home from the professional development seminars any more after that. I risked the dying Whoopee-Wagon and it did all right by me. I’m sure that under the right circumstances that I would ride at night again, but it’s a tough risk to take.

The morning and afternoon commutes are different animals on the Blue Line. More trains, more people, less chance of incident. At night, with far fewer trains running and a different group of people traveling… well the chances of mishap and misunderstanding just go up.

The LA Blue Line goes though some of the toughest neighborhoods in the U.S. The vast majority of these people are just trying to survive their socio-economic plight. Some of them want to fight back, need to fight back. It’s not the most constructive route to be sure, but it might be the only one left to them. Until the society can fix the cracks that allow for this kind of life for people, the Blue Line will be a study in kick-it-under-the-couch-and-forget-it politics.

I have a dangerous night on the Blue Line to thank for this perspective.

Take care out there.