EMMETT: No Train, No Gain

You know that pivotal moment on the train when someone finally stands up, rendering their pre-warmed seat free? You know the next pivotal moment when you realize you’re going to have to wedge yourself between two strangers in order to sit there? Well, this is how my journey from Allston to Park Street started: A train dilemma all too familiar to commuters. For the moment, I opted for standing. Despite the long ride that lay ahead of me, I decided to keep my business vertical instead of cozying up next to Shady McGee. He wore a shiny Celtics jacket and brown Velcro shoes. Serial killer? Hardly. I’m pretty sure he was also holding a video camera and the attention he paid to the lower half of my body was suspicious. To his credit, there was a breakfast sandwich in my bag with a potent outpouring. Basically, he looked like the kind of guy who camps out in the back of a children’s beauty pageant.

But despite his lack of personal hygiene and my lethargic tendencies, I caved. I stuffed myself between Shady and some sleeping woman. Comatose? Perhaps. Her drink was wrapped in a plastic bag, which made me think otherwise. Drowsy or drunk aside, she was knocked out. Things were taking a turn for “127 Hours” as Shady’s right thigh spilled into my seat, pinning my arm in place. His camera apparatus, now pointed directly at me, made a humming noise that competed with his heavy breathing. There I sat, smooshed between narcotics and psychosis with little room to negotiate.

Since my peripherals were off limits at the risk of being molested, I decided to look straight ahead, noticing my fellow commuters. There are only three emotions allowed on public transportation: bored, scared (which mingles with being lost), and unconscious. The last is preferable but, unless you drink heavily before your commute, unlikely.

The token bored guy I decided to study was the bohemian type – drop crotch pants, dreadlocks and smelled like sandalwood. He shared an eerie resemblance to Mr. Blonde from “Reservoir Dogs,” only with less desire to cut my ear off. At Packard’s Corner he quickly rose, accidentally whipping me in the mouth with the strap of his Guatemalan lamb’s wool backpack. I said nothing, assuming being thrashed by one of his dreadlocks would have been far more unpleasant. Passenger-on-passenger assault is a commonality on the train, but rarely means for an argument or citizen’s arrest. I let this unintentional flogging slide.

Our train lumbered along, failing to stop twice for students already 10 minutes late to their humanities lecture. A quick nugget of advice: when you’re trying to avoid a “tardy” mark on your attendance, gambling with the T never works in your favor. The house always wins. This time, the house being the MBTA, also known as the Making Boston Tedious Association. We cruised down Commonwealth, turning the Planned Parenthood protestors into an angry blur of exorcists and stopped in front of the College of Fine Arts. Tensions rose when our sassy driver refused to open the doors. A flash mob of theater kids put on their best huffy Keanu Reeves faces in a failed attempt to sway the conductor.

Shady seemed less angry and more amused by the taunted students left behind.  Right on cue, two scared commuters boarded our bipolar express at Kenmore. They were German. What I gathered between their “krakenwagens” and “wafflehousens” was that they were terribly lost. A young lady asked if they needed help but the couple just stood there, broad-shouldered and bothered. The innocent Samaritan might as well have asked for a bailout.

At this point, my personal space limits were being pushed by the unconscious chick and I was antsy to get to work. Underground, a tall, skinny man boarded and wrapped himself around a pole. He struggled to stay awake as he wavered back and forth. A Catholic schoolgirl myself, I assumed he had just gotten off the night shift. You know, working hard for the man so he could rush home at daybreak to feed his three clucking children. As it turns out, heroin addicts have a tendency to fall asleep standing up. Usually on a train. Around 8 a.m.

I noticed as Shady started to pack up his camera and I glanced at my watch. We had arrived at Park Street in 20 minutes, or roughly eternity in train time. I yanked myself free from my neighbor’s thigh grasp. The contaminated air smelled like freedom. And sweat. If I’d stuck around until Government Center, we would have found ourselves on “The Midnight Meat Train,” which, yes, is a movie. Only the main characters are wearing Velcro shoes and drinking Robitussin reduction.

Kacy Emmett is a senior in the College of Communication and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at kcemmett@bu.edu.