Now that I'm retired,
what do I miss most about working? The weekly paycheck. What do
I miss least? The daily commute to the big city.
For many years I lived
twenty miles from my jobs in Boston. Decades ago, one of the steamship
lines of the day, hyped its leisurely mode of travel with a slogan
that proclaimed, "Getting there is half the fun!" This
definitely does not apply to commuting to Boston or any metropolis
unless you happen to be a sadomasochistic weirdo.
There is no painless
(never mind fun-filled) way to get from anywhere to Boston between
6:00 A.M. and noon, a 360-minute span inexplicably called the
rush 'hour' — singular. The same holds true for the return
trip home between 2:00 PM and 8:00 PM.
First I tried public
transportation. Since I didn't live on the bus line, I had to
drive to a rapid transit station with a parking lot where I left
my car and took the trolley into Boston. It was not one of my
favorite trips — attested to by the fact that I was never
tempted to snap a picture or buy a single souvenir at any of the
stops, which is very uncharacteristic of me. Because the trolley
was always packed to overcapacity when I boarded, I had to stand,
struggling to keep my balance every time we careened around a
curve or screeched to a stop. For someone who can't sit in a rocking
chair without first taking Dramamine, this was no way to travel.
So I switched to the
express turnpike bus, an improvement but hardly Utopia. The fare
was higher and, worse, the bus deposited me six blocks from my
office. A real disadvantage in winter. To survive the icy winds
and subzero temperatures walking from bus to office, I had to
dress like Nanook of the North — not the ideal attire for
the bus, an overheated sauna on wheels.
Summer was equally
traumatic. I had a hard time keeping my cool when the passenger
in front of me insisted on opening the window wide, admitting
hot blasts of soot-laden air which blew not only the effects of
the air conditioning, but also the ten dollars (forty bucks in
today's dollars!) I had spent at the hairdresser the evening before.
Another problem was
that the express bus was the business executives' special. While
the trolley crowd read the compact tabloids, the bus riders (at
least in public) had a penchant for The Wall Street Journal,
or The New York Times, oversized papers which infringed
on my space. The weaving, darting corners of my seatmate's newspaper
continually threatened to dislodge my contacts and/or my corneas,
while the top of the paper of the passenger behind me kept ruffling
the back of my hair, completing the destruction of my hairdo.
Being young and hopeful
at the time, I believed those minor discomforts were a small price
to pay for the opportunity to mingle with the passengers —
mostly men, and mostly affluent judging from the number of the
Mercedes, BMWs, and Volvos in the parking lot. Unfortunately,
I soon discovered that fraternization among my fellow riders was
nonexistent. I assumed this was because the social amenities hadn't
been observed. Speaking to strangers apparently is not encouraged
in the tony suburbs. The solution was simple, I thought: The transit
company should hire a social director for each trip to provide
the necessary proper introductions and to organize mixer-type
activities — maybe musical chairs to break the ice while
the bus is loading, followed by bowling in the aisle, and maybe
even dancing during romantic moments when the bus slows down at
the toll booths or plunges into seductively-lit tunnels. And,
of course, schedules should be arranged to restrict certain runs
to singles only. The possibilities are limitless. All that's required
is someone with a little imagination to run the transit company.
The first year I commuted
to Boston, I kept hoping such a someone would materialize, so
I stuck it out — until the holiday shopping season when all
my ho-ho-hos! turned into bah, humbugs! It was impossible to be
merry when, exhausted after a long day's work and a twenty-minute
trudge through slush and cold, I had to stand up for my return
bus trip because the non-working ladies who had been maxing out
their credit cards all day had chosen to wait for the 5:30 PM
bus home. Not only did they appropriate all the seats, but they
also staked a claim on every inch of aisle space, plunking their
heavy shopping bags smack on the toes of us standees.
That's when I decided
that driving my car into the city couldn't possibly be worse.
I was wrong, of course. I learned that to hack a path to the city
through a solid mass of bumper-to-bumper metal requires nerves
of steel. Poor eyesight also helps because if you can clearly
see five lanes of traffic trying to maneuver into the exit ramp
you're aiming for, you'll automatically hesitate and you'll be
lost — your motor overheating and your gas tank draining
dry as you wait in vain for another driver to let you through.
They'll find you there in a few years, your bones picked clean
by the ever-waiting vultures. (You think that whirling black cloud
is smog?)
Of course another drawback
to commuting by automobile was where to put it once I arrived.
Because a garage adjoined my office building, finding a parking
space wasn't a problem. Finding my car intact at the end of the
day, however, was never a certainty. Threading my way through
the darkened garage (keeping a wary eye out for potential muggers)
I often saw a vehicle that had been vandalized during the day.
It was not uncommon as I worked to hear the shrieking siren of
an automobile alarm echoing from the adjacent garage. The first
time this happened, I panicked — until I remembered that
it couldn't be my car. I didn't have an alarm. My relief was short-lived,
however, when I thought about that. Then I was nervous whenever
I didn't hear a siren.
But the misery of commuting
to Boston was compensated for by the pulsating excitement of being
there. There are so many fascinating sights in the city! Why,
during just one lunch hour, I saw three winos, in picturesque
native costume, draped in doorways gulping their lunch from paper
bags; a wild-eyed young man arguing violently with himself and
punching the air (until a hapless passerby passed by too closely
and inadvertently intercepted the attack); a hippie lying in the
curb at a busy intersection with his eyes closed. Was he meditating?
Stoned? Or possibly even dead? No one seemed to care. They just
stepped over him. As did I since I didn't dare disobey the traffic
signal that ordered, "Walk" — and I was almost picked off
by a car whose driver obviously didn't share my respect for traffic
signals.
But though I managed
to escaped being punched out by a disturbed fellow citizen, and
I beat the odds of becoming a hit-and-run victim, I still wasn't
home free. I almost got high from the ever-present marijuana vapor.
I developed what I feared was a terminal wheeze from the exhaust
fumes and pollution. And I was almost converted and whisked away
by a roving band of Hare Krishnas. I was tempted. Orange is one
of my best colors. Furthermore, I would have been happy to shave
my head and follow anyone who promised to take me away —
preferably to a job in the suburbs.
However, I must admit
there were certain educational advantages to working in the big
city. For one thing, the graffiti is multilingual. A short walk
of just a couple of blocks is a veritable Berlitz crash course
in obscenities — ranging from Arabic to Zwahili. And for
those who aren't proficient in languages, graphic illustrations
are thoughtfully provided as translation aids. In less than a
week, I learned that four-letter words don't necessarily have
only four letters in other languages. One word I saw appeared
to be Italian, but I had never heard it used by any of my relatives.
I phoned my mother and asked her what it meant. She reported me
to Ma Bell as an obscene caller.
But that's all behind
me now. These days, when I feel like working, I commute from my
bedroom to my den, where the seat in front of my computer is always
available. No crowds, no traffic, no inclement weather, and no
graffiti (except on my monitor when I have writer's block).
Bliss!
