Friday, February 4, 2005, 8:22am
Friday, February 4, 2005, 8:22am
Still vacant when boarding the train at Ashland, I’ve bagged a prime rib steak front row seat facing the wheelchair section of this newer style single-decker – a terrific place with nearly unlimited legroom. Normally this three-seater doesn’t fill with passengers and even if packed against the window I can still walk straight to the door.
Boarding at Framingham in the corner of my eye a woman briefly takes the aisle end sitting ramrod straight like someone about to give testimony at a murder trial. Soon loose stragglers wander the aisle heading farther back into the train. For unknown reasons she joins the retreating procession and is quickly replaced by a trailing straggler with extra long legs who before the vacated cushion can even re-inflate quickly settles in for the duration.
At West Natick Station my theory about this seat rarely filling is blown all to hell. There’s still ample room, most definitely helped by the middle seat occupant – a petite woman, as best I can tell without looking directly – not some washed up linebacker with a few too many extra pounds.
With no sun to be seen there is no need for my sunshade today even if I were sitting on the south side of this carriage. The gloom of the previous evening later turned to a hard rain, then freezing rain, sleet, and light snow before the sky was wrung dry leaving a sloppy slushy mess that, when mixed with road sand and salt, has created a winter-ooze that has no exact noun, verb, adjective, or adverb in our language. In other posts I’ve called this street snot – which just about describes its external consistency as well as my internal revulsion. When plowed, the ooze flies in a continuous spray of icy vomit – blanketing older snow banks; sliding in sheets like cold volcanic lava; filling once-cavernous sidewalks between their snowbanks. A mere mortal pedestrian venturing out amidst such chaos is an invitation to the gods of mischief.
Past Wellesley Farms some passengers still stand as the train gains speed for its express run. It is only 15 minutes to Back Bay on a good day. But standing is still standing and I’m glad for my seat.
“Tickets please!”
Ah, that ancient and nearly meaningless refrain!
Passing through Allston with so few cars parked at the freight yard I have a clear view of the yardmaster’s lonesome control tower set across the rail farm near the approach to the Pike tolls – looking just like the miniature versions that always seem out of place in hobbyist’s scale model railroads. Four full flights of freestanding stairs are placed at one end of the tower complete with safety railings – crisscrossing in an upward zigzag pattern until reaching a connecting platform to what must be the main room on the top floor. Contrary to what I might expect, the stairs are not stacked up close to the building but instead built as a secondary gantry several feet beside the main tower for reasons I cannot infer.
At Back Bay the middle-of-the-seat woman makes her exit and I am again free to type with both hands and return the text scale to 100%. For a moment parked just outside the Back Bay Tunnel atop the old Hancock tower I observe a single vertical band of red. This is the color of today’s weather according to the light-keepers, yet once again, I do not have my decoder ring to infer its meaning. With little need for decoding, directly across the Pike I notice a cubically shaped building displaying a single unlit red neon sign without illumination indicating the location of yet another Hard Rock Café.
Finally underway we pass the last of the switch farms. Once again it’s time to shut down and pack up – and this morning leave my prime rib steak front row seat to somebody else.
