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.