Taking the commuter train every day is an interesting experience. We crowd on at South Station. Some of us trek across the city to board at South Station, knowing that the train will be full if boarded at Back Bay Station, and nobody wants to sit in that dreadful center seat.
As one looks around the coach, we see a statement of diversity that’s staggering—people of all shapes, sizes, colors, ethnicities, professions and backgrounds. We have our laptops, newspapers, books, iPods, cell phones, and other vices to help pass the time. Some will be on this train for 20 minutes before departing at Sharon. Others will be on this train for an hour before departing at Providence. Some are dressed in suits and ties. Others dress in business casual attire. Others look like they’ve just come from the gym.
We’re not Bostonians. We come into the city for work or school, and then we go home at the end of the day. Some are Rhode Islanders. Others live elsewhere in the Bay State but still have to trek to the capital for a source of income. Yesterday, the woman beside me told me that she is originally from Trinidad. If one weren’t careful, it would be easy to mistake her accent for Jamaican. She loves dogs as much as I do. Her childhood dog was a “Pom Peck” mixed breed. She heard all about Domino and saw pictures of Buddy and Brutus.
If one takes the same train every day and sits in the same car, it’s the same crew every day. There is the conductor named Steven who has the funny-moustache. In the rear two cars, you see the tall, attractive woman of African descent who reminds me of Adele. They’re both on the 6:44 inbound and the 5:40 outbound. On the 7:18 inbound, the conductor in my car has a lot of tattoos, a goatee, and shaved head.
You hear the click-click of the conductor’s paper punch, littering the floor with fragments of what used to be part of a ticket. Some of us flash our MBTA passes, others use individual ride tickets, and others yet use twelve-ride tickets. Some yet pay cash, although less so on the outbound trains because that incurs a service charge. Some of our passes are kept in pockets or wallets. Others are strung around the neck on some type of lanyard. Others yet have a dedicated see-through pocket on a backpack or bag for holding a transit pass.
There are no assigned seats on this train. Because it’s at standing-room-only capacity, saving seats is forbidden by some unwritten commuter code. Yet today, a woman does just this, violating a sacred, while unwritten law. She was too far away to hear what she was telling people who tried to join her in this seat, but they agreeably walk away. It wasn’t until a man of about her age joins her at Back Bay Station where it makes sense. This man is clearly her husband. This is their quiet time, away from the house and the children. Her transgression is immediately forgiven.
Sometimes a seatmate will be the chatty type and I enjoy the conversation. Other days, the seatmate won’t stop talking even though my nose is buried in a book. Then there are days when the seatmate wishes I would stop talking. God help them if they don’t have a book to use as a signal to stop talking.
We’re a diverse bunch, we Boston commuters. Sometimes we’re worth watching, other times not. Sometimes I think I’ll miss letting my voyeuristic senses roam the train. Other days I’ll be glad that I’m by this time. By 6:15 on those nights, I’ll be cleaning up my dinner dishes, preparing to curl up on the couch with a pug in my lap.