Love and the Metro

You’d have to be a nose-picking idiot to own a car in Washington, D.C.

Buying a parking garage pass can cost you upwards of $200 per month, let alone the cost of insurance and gas. This is one reason why the Metro is so popular here.

But the Washington Metro is not without faults.

First off, it’s expensive. I spend about $40 a week just getting to and from work. This is a serious drain on my budget since I am not provided a travel stipend. I’ve had to give up eating out every meal just so I could afford my commute.

This is a serious problem because I do not know how to cook for myself. Even using a microwave baffles me. I have been subsisting off of free coffee at work and candy from the receptionist’s desk. I haven’t eaten real food in days. Somebody please send me sustenance.

Yet the expense is the least of my worries.

Most of the conductors for the Metro are alcoholics because they can’t seem to stay on the right track. This seems to be worse on the weekends when they get sloshed before work. I’ll sit and wait almost 15 minutes while the conductor tries to figure out how to put the train in reverse.

Another predicament I face on a daily basis is the stop and go of the Metro. Sometimes it’s due to another train taking its sweet time. Most frequently the train will just stop for a moment to ponder life.

Then it’ll slide a few yards and stop again as if it might have been on to something. The conductor will do this a couple more times before he decides to cowboy up and get a move on.

Depending on the time and place you get on the Metro, it can be very crowded. This means spooning with strangers might be necessary. At first it will seem odd, having a strange old Ethiopian woman grinding up on your junk, but eventually it will grow on you. In fact you might just fall in love on the Metro.

It happens to me just about every day. It starts with a passing glance. As the train rolls in, we get on opposite ends of the same car. For a moment I feel as if sparks are flying.

Rockets burst from my side of the train car over to hers, severely wounding everyone in their path.

The train starts and I stumble down the car, stepping on people’s shoes, but I feel, nay, I know, that she is the one. I’m palming and pushing people’s faces out of the way, because this is love, and they will surely understand. While I dredge through my fellow passengers I begin to think about our future kids and how their faces will light up on Christmas mornings.

But before I can confess my love, the train stops. She leaves, and I never see her again. So I go back to that strange old Ethiopian lady and sob while I bump and grind on down the line to work.


E-mail: nicjacob@indiana.edu