Flat Spots on the Wheels

I had been told by one of the conductors to stand with my Shogun in the vestibule. He said my bike was in the way, that it would fall over and tear some lady's panty hose.

My knees felt stiff and sore. I was on my way back from Jacobstown where I worked on Mike's closet. It was a ten mile ride each way and I was on my feet all day, spackling.

A conductor entered the vestibule and I already had my wallet in my hand with the ticket sticking out.

I was pretty much a robot.

I reached it to him and he plucked it out and punched it five times, very mechanically. What a waste of effort, I thought. Just tear it.

He was an old man.

"I know that bike," he said. "You were on the... this morning, at Princeton Junction, you were on the... eight forty express!" Isn't that right?"

"You have a good memory," I said.

"Eight forty, I remember that."

"Well, you have a good memory."

"I remember that bike. Shogun!" He laughed.

"It's a good bike. Is it okay here?"

Another conductor, much younger, entered the vestibule from the other direction. The old man joined him on the other side and they began to have a private conversation. It was very noisy in there, as the large steel wheels had many flat spots, which rattled against the tracks. They practically roared, but I could still hear what the conductors were talking about.

"Why do you think those black strips are on the tickets?" said the young conductor.

"Bad news. I know it."

"It's just a matter of time before they automate."

"Oh, don't I know it."

"It doesn't even matter what the union does, they don't need any of us!"

"I know, brother. I know that."

I couldn't blame them for being a little worried. I actually wished the ticket price didn't have to include extra salaries.

"This is skill!" said the young conductor. "They can't automate what we do! I'm talking about customer service!"

Now he was making me feel rather psychotic. Customer service? I thought, very skeptically. Without the conductors, I could have been sitting at that very moment.

In fact, I thought the entire world would be better off without the conductors.

"It's brutal," said the old conductor.

"What's that?"

Then somebody slammed on the breaks and I stumbled forward against the panel with all the buttons on it. I pushed some of them trying to catch myself. Orange and blue light flickered up from under the front car. Sparks, I assumed, from the wheels.

The old man made his way over my Shogun, which had also fallen. He stood over it so I couldn't pick it back up and he spoke into the radio on the wall. The train was still slowing and their screeching sounded like bats in a cave. I imagined the wheels growing bright red where they touched the tracks.

Another flat spot, probably.

He spoke into his radio again and got a response but I couldn't make out the hysterical squawking.

"Get that door open!" he said, but the young conductor just stood there, looking back and forth into the cars, probably looking at the passengers. "Get out of my way!" he said, climbing off my Shogun, finally.

He lifted a cover on the wall and stuck a key into one of the holes, opening the side door. Then he backed away and lifted up the floor panel, exposing steps.

He jumped down onto the crushed stone. "Throw that emergency break!" he said, bending over, looking under the train.

The young conductor kicked the button at the bottom of the door and it slid open. He went inside the car and used his elbow to bust the glass on the emergency break.

Now he was psychotic, practically a fascist.

He pulled down on the break. It was very quiet and the second set of break pads clicked slightly as they clamped down on the wheels.

Then he stood guard at the top of the steps, as if all of us passengers wanted to throw a prison riot.

Of course, I was still a little upset. I heard the old conductor scuffing along the stones. I pointed at the tracks between the cars. "Well they can't automate that service!" I said.

He looked at me and he looked sick, maybe disgusted. He responded by marching over to wall radio, turning it to intercom, and saying, "Ladies and Gentlemen, we apologize for the delay, we are experiencing mechanical difficulties with the track switch."

Fair enough, I thought. I scratched my head with both hands to calm myself down. Then I sat down against the wall, right across from a sign with the words: DO NOT RIDE IN THE VESTIBULE.

Then I realized that I wasn't sitting on my wallet and it was no longer in my hand. I must have dropped it wrestling my Shogun back into the corner. I stood up again and started hunting in the nooks and crannies.

The vestibule was a small space, so my search took about one second. "Come on!" I said.

"Calm down, boss," said the fascist.

"I can't find my wallet. I must have dropped it!" It probably fell between the cars.

"Calm down there, boss," he said. Then he bent down and picked up something from the steps. "This it?" he said, handing me my wallet. "Why don't you go find a seat, sir. We're gonna be here a while."

I found out later it wasn't a switch on the track at all, but we had run somebody over.

I snatched my wallet from his hand without saying anything.