Three times this past week the Red Line train I've been riding has had "door problems." On Friday my homeward train was magically turned into an Express Train to Harvard from Park Street, simply because the right-hand doors along the entire train weren't working. So long, Charles, Kendall and Centralsuckers! Those of us who exit on the left are SAVED! I sure hope they shunted the train onto the correct track at Alewife.
Things got even better yesterday and today. My morning commutes have been interrupted horrendously -- once in Harvard, today in Davis. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes go by while they empty out the offending car, reshuffle the customers into other cars, and then wait until Sully gets back from Dunkies aboveground with new coffee. Then two guys get on the intercom at the same time at every stop. One man, whom we shall call Mr. Helpful Mans, says things like "The second car is not in service, please use another car." This lets the customers know that the second car is not in service, and that they should use another car if they wish to travel on this train. The other man, who sounds amazingly like the "THERE ARE NO SERVICE" guy from a few months back, does nothing but holler "THE SECOND CAR IS ISOLATED! THE SECOND CAR IS ISOLATED!" which lets the customers know that... uh, that the second car is, uh, isolated. Really, as far as helpfulness and obfuscation-eschewing goes, it's about as helpful as singing the theme to The Jetsons at them.
I love my scrappy little city by the hahbah, but golly do I feel ashamed when I think of the public transportation system we've got and the mess it's in. Such wasted potential mired knee-deep in bureaucracy and ineptitude! Such a black eye on an otherwise ... well, slightly pristine reputation! Folks should say "We can go anywhere, we've got the T!" rather than "We can't go there, cause we'd have to take the T." Oh, for the loss of innocence! You should've seen our fresh faces back around 1997 or so, spritely flitting through trains both underground and above, while An American In Paris-like music danced about. Now we simply scowl after being shoehorned into a seat between two seat hogs, pretending to sleep so as to avoid eye contact with our fellow purgatorians.
Alas for Danny G! Alas for humanity!