The Friday evening express is running 15 minutes late, and is stopped on a bridge hovering over Route 128, where we can watch automobiles speeding under us on wide-open highway. It is 90 degrees and the air-conditioner doesn’t work. It is rush hour but the train is a single-decker. Sweaty passengers throng the aisles. A child’s voice occasionally rears up in a scream. Every two minutes, the conductor comes on the loudspeaker and apologizes: “We will be moving momentarily.”
A man is on his cell phone with an aggrieved loved one: “We’re running late… I don’t know, the train’s not moving… Like I can do something about it… Ok, sure, I’ll just get out and push the train to Worcester.” Nobody within earshot of his nastiness can blame him. Indeed, we are sympathetic.
It’s one of those homebound commutes that provokes all sorts of longings. For a glass of ice water. For a solitary patch of grass on a breezy hill under a blue sky. For a hulking SUV with all the leisurely creature comforts to make a traffic jam a desirable break. For gainful employment opportunities across the street from my home. For a book, a bed, and a beer. For the head of MBTA General Manager Daniel Grabauskas on a platter of ice cream.
People are fidgeting, bristling, sweating, sighing. 5 minutes. 10 minutes. Then, the train moves. Relief. Joy. We are moving. We are moving. The man next to me starts to whistle. Holy christ, he’s whistling “I Dream of Jeannie.” Damn that tune is catchy. We are moving. We are moving.
