Thursday, February 3, 2005, 8:17am
Thursday, February 3, 2005, 8:17am
The 8:07 really is the 8:07 this morning, and as I arrive at Ashland Station at 8:06 I remember how the arrival of a train is not exactly instantaneous. From the warning strobe lights and annoying electronic beeping announcing the approaching train to its final cacophonous brake squeals it takes about 90 seconds.
Into the first portion of a long stretch of straight rails passing through Ashland center the train makes a wide sweeping turn out of the west. For a time nothing seems to change as the train looms in the distance until the last few seconds before the station when I hear odd metallic sounds running ahead down the rails like the immediate creaking of distant pond ice fracturing. Cars pass quickly bringing carriage fan noises amongst an indecipherable clatter of wheels and groaning suspension springs and car couplings and loose hardware, fan after fan, clatter after clatter, until a final purposeful elegant and nearly obscene crescendo of metal-on-metal grinds the entire assemblage to a halt at our feet.
In the sudden silence conductors emerge like groundhog sentries quickly standing aside to allow us entry. The train has arrived, and soon we are among the departed, even though from my own perspective what has really departed is the station, not the train.
Again it is cold today, but not an ungodly cold – in the low teens when I left the house and most likely in the mid-twenties when reaching Boston. The higher sun warms the land faster these days, and so in homage to this I have left my long johns behind and decided that I’d rather be a little chilly first thing in the morning than deal with itchy underwear on the train and at the office.
Reading back into last night’s tirade, it occurs to me that the occupants of the White House aren’t the only ones staunch in their commitment to particular ideologies. The followers of Ralph Nader in 2000 were staunch in their support as were the gay rights activists in 2004 that provided such a handy target. In the end both Mr. Nader and the gay marriage crowd wound up losing far more than they gained mainly because of their staunchness. Nader siphoned off just enough votes in Florida for Mr. Bush to win in 2000 (or at least enough to thoroughly muddy the waters). This past election cycle overzealous same-sex marriage advocates were dealt a death blow by the religious right via state constitutional amendment referendums. Had they not pressed so staunchly for marriage rights they might not have incited such a virulent response. Now, in half the nation, there is no viable recourse other than to wait another generation.
So it seems that staunchness is of little value unless staunchly in the camp of those solidly in power. And it might even be true that staunchness without abiding power is a great way to ensure that one’s agenda never sees the light of day because it ignores the usefulness of intermediate steps and compromises gaining traction over time.
Past Wellesley Hills our little train is nearly full. Into the Farms there are still a few spaces amidst the three-seaters. Yet for now it seems the gravy days of easy seating are over until some underlying pattern resets.
Past the Farms my impromptu window shade is again working to keep the sun away from my eyes. I’ve strung both coat sleeves sideways to cover the upper part of the window using my scarf for rigging, and since the windows in this cabin are no more than 18 inches high, this leaves about nine or ten inches where I can still slouch a bit to observe a moving strip of ghostly images from a world seen through what looks like crinkled plastic wrap freshly hauled from a landfill, hosed off, and applied as an outer layer of glass.
Closer to the city, I watch graffiti ghosts drifting through the window haze. A lot of this is little more than how a dog urinates against particular trees, though not all graffiti can be gang-related since some places may have a dozen or more emblems, none overlapping. And what about the giant box cars I see painted nearly top to bottom and end-to-end only to roll around the countryside? They have no particular turf.
To my left an Orange Line subway train dips and disappears in to the earth beneath the rails and switch farms east of Back Bay Station. Soon I will trudge on foot again, having rented and yielded yet another seat on the Worcester Line.
Winter still holds sway even while I relish how it is only 9:01am and we are nearly on-time and early with respect to most days. Yet we must still wait our turn like every other train rolling into South Station in a final egalitarian dance.
Aboard the commuter rails, with rare exceptions, everyone pays according to the same fare structure, and everyone suffers more or less equally.
