Out of all the Monday holidays on which I must work, President’s Day is the loneliest, for it is a rare office that is open on President’s Day. Last year was the first President’s Day that I had off in 7 years, and when I returned to work on the following Tuesday, I got laid off. So with that memory still fresh, I worked on President’s Day yesterday without complaint and without feeling too guilty about disrespecting Lincoln’s legacy.
At 6pm I board a Red Line train at South Station. On Monday holidays the T runs on a reduced schedule to accommodate the light crowds of tourists, travelers with wheelie-luggage, and the rare commuter such as myself. Still, fewer trains means fewer chances of gridlock. We glide through Park street, over the Charles River, and into Cambridge. I mentally purr about the quickness of my commute.
Then, in the tunnel just before Central Square, the train screeches to a halt. We sit unmoving and my neck muscles clench with that familiar grip of T-induced stress. At the other end of the train car, a small group of articulate 8-12 year olds lament loudly the T’s lousy service throughout their big day in the city. The accompanying in loco parentis shush their excited charges in vain. They are at a very loud age: Old enough to be able to express themselves with confidence, but not old enough to feel self-conscious about publicly expressing emotion.
Then the lights and power on the train shut off, and the conductor gets on the intercom. “We are very sorry for the delay!” she says in a murderous South Shore accent. “But there is an individual at Central Square who is on the tracks! We have cut the power on the train, and we cannot move until the individual is apprehended!”
“Did someone die?” one of the prepubescents shouts.
“No, stupid,” another sneers. “‘Apprehended’ means caught. It’s a robber, making a getaway on the train tracks!” All of them turn to peer out the windows.
5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes. This is a first for me, being delayed because some batshit loony is running around on the tracks. I have a hard time not resenting the T for this delay. Still, when the conductor announces at minute 15 that “The T police have arrived and are apprehending the individual,” I am outraged that it has taken 15 minutes for the police to arrive.
I close my eyes and wish I could sleep on the dark train, but the prepubescents grow rowdier with each passing second, and so I stare at my darkened reflection in the window across from me. I grow meditative. After 30 minutes, the lights come back on. The individual has been apprehended, and the train begins to move.
