It seems that the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority had decreed, in its infinite wisdom, that Saturday and Sunday, Aprils 9 and 10, would be known as HEY LET'S SHUT DOWN A GOOD-SIZED CHUNK OF THE ORANGE LINE DAY. They've been obstensibly immersed in signal upgrade work on the Orange Line for the better part of a year now, sometimes closing down stretches of the Orange Line and installing shuttle bus service at odd times of night. Usually they've set this work up as night work, closing parts down after, say, 9 PM because nobody takes the train after 9. Apparently today they thought "Oh, nobody will be riding the Orange Line between Haymarket and Sullivan Square. It's a Sunday which of course means everybody stays indoors and hides from the Devil." I guess this means they also hire heathen construction workers to do the upgrades.
This meant that I had to wait an extra long time for the sole train on the southern part on the Orange Line (well, maybe there were two, but that's being generous) so I could travel two stops to Haymarket, disembark, find the Orange Line Shuttle Bus, ride that to Sullivan, then wait for another train at Sullivan to take me one stop up to Wellington. Got all that? Neither did half the people on the train.
I did get to enjoy my shuttle bus ride sitting next to a talky mctalkerson who was trying very hard to talk himself out of the doghouse, giving every excuse in the book to his girlfriend as to why he hadn't called her back. Apparently he didn't receive the zillions of voicemail messages she sent, nor did the people at his office relay her messages to him, nor did his mother, or his roommate... she wasn't having any of it, by the way, but his stories entertained all of us on the bus.
But the fun didn't end once I actually got to Wellington, though. Oh no sir! It wouldn't have been worth writing about if there hadn't been a funeral in the Wellington station. A WHAT
Or at least a plaque dedication. Wellington has several plaques dedicated to dead T workers, wordy little maudlin affairs (one not only in the first person, but also in rhyme) with smilin' renditions of the deceased all bronzed up and such. At first I thought the plaque today was in honor of the worker killed in January, but apparently not. It was some administrative fellow who died in 2004. His family was there. So were a lot of other people. And a podium. I watched from the Dunkin Donuts window as they sang "God Bless America" and then proceeded to turn Wellington Station into their own personal Chat & Coffee. It took me a good five minutes to push through the crowd of elderly Irish women, who couldn't take two steps before finding some other long-lost friend they had to catch up on things with. Meanwhile, the commuters behind me were about ready to revolt. "They shoulda had this outside where it's sunny," one old lady behind me said. "And where they wouldn't be BLOCKIN THE GODDAMN HALL."
And that's when the bagpipers started playing.
I finally made it to work rather late, telling my supervisor exactly what happened, but I left out the part about the bagpipers.
"Huh," she said. "That's the same thing that happened to everybody yesterday. You'd think the T would give advance warning on this. I mean, it's only considerate."
She must be new to the city.