Transit Zen

Welfare isn't what it used to be and the people at my job should be thankful. For if that dearest of un-fairly stigmatized social programs was actually a viable option for sustenance, I would have cussed out some people and quit my job a long time ago.

I like working. I would venture to say that I love working.

I think I like it so much because every day is like a do over. Mother Nature turns her reversable midnight blue duvet of night over to reveal the orange and red stripes of an early spring morning. The brisk walk to the train is accented by the swirls of dogwood pollen dancing in the morning breeze. Purpose driven millions betake themselves to their vocations with a renewed sense of purpose and dedication. The collective energy of the masses produces a psalm of offering for another glorious industrial morn'. A second chance to get it right. There is nothing like it.

At least it feels that way until I get on the damn train. The usual gathering of pushy, miserable and rude degenerates and their foul mouthed offspring are gathered on the Express to Walnut-Locust. They welcome the dawn with f-bombs while spewing unwanted sun flower seed shells on the floor made sticky by dried up Ole' E. (less than an inch from my deceptively stylish Payless shoe!!) My favorite thing about riding the poor excuse for mass transit known as SEPTA is not the delightful company or the foul aroma of the urine scented Glade Oil fan that is certainly plugged in at City Hall. (How else could you explain the consistent perfume of vomit and floral scented bleach low notes with just a hint of lingering crack smoke that greet me on a daily basis?) No, the Express ride is not my favorite part. The leg of my dialy commute that makes my day is competing with the workers of Independence Blue Cross and Blue Shield for a place on the trolley because they are too lazy to walk four blocks.

Newly saturated in the palpable stench that is the City Hall transit stop I move toward the Green Line - Subway Surface Trolley area. An older woman is walking very slowly in front of me, which I don't mind. Mother has earned her right to take her time. I am even immune to the periodic jabs of faux brass studs on various oversized pleather bags that all seem to be spray painted metallic gold. The endorphines released by walking begin to renew my sense of early am joy as I finally emerge at the Trolley loading platform.

The trolley arrives. It is the 36 and like lead particles drawn to a magnet from 5th grade science class we all journey toward the pre-destined place where the doors will open and we can board the trolley. Picture it. Scores of people trying to board a trolley through two sets of doors that are maybe 2ft. wide. A boarding delay is to be expected. A reasonable and courteous commuter would get on the trolley and move away from the door so that those behind them could board the trolley quickly and safely. After all, we all want to move a way from the City Hall stink bomb. These thoughts have never occurred to the trolley riding employees of Independence Blue Cross and Blue Shield or as I like to call them the Four Block Fools (FBF).

Thanks to our trolley riding friends at IBX, a small delay is exponentially compounded because they walk up the three small trolley steps, find the nearest pole to hold on to, turn around and stop. BLOCKING THE WAY FOR EVERYONE ELSE. They stand in front of empty seats, obstructing the aisles with their messenger bags, entitled attitudes and very unattractive id badges on neck lanyards that stab you as you squeeze by them on the way to your seat.

Their stiff stances and suspiciously prolonged stares at the floor screams what they will never audibly articulate.

"I am only going four blocks so why should I sit down?"

"It's the next stop so it is no big deal."

As I finally reach my seat having survived the gauntlet of trolley traffic impedeers; my cowardice shrouds me like a cloak. I have, once again, sold out. I did not raise my fist in protest of the bullying tactics of the ruling class FBF. No, I just took a seat in the back of the trolley and tried to busy myself with a magazine from my bag. Moments later, we arrive at the 19th Street stop and the oppressors exit the trolley in droves. As the trolley pulls off, I fantasize about rebelling against the FBF. One day... FBF...One day.