Hot Town Summer in the City
My song of the summer has always been the Lovin Spoonful’s Hot Town Summer in the City. I love the summer. Yet, at some point, usually near the end of July, things start to turn. Carefree days become oppressive. Temps rise, and the humidity here in DC begins to wear on me. “Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty. In the summer, in the city.” I’m not the only one. It’s a malaise that infects us all. The looks on the sweaty faces and the stains on the shirts of my fellow commuters. “All around, people looking half dead, Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head.”
My saving grace is that my commute is a straight shot on the Metro’s Red Line from home to my office. The air conditioning in our new trains is something I can count on, not like a few years ago when it seemed that every car I entered had already been marked a #hotcar by others as a warning.
But, for the last six weeks, we have been in a new hell. DC’s Metro is falling apart, and to rectify crumbling platforms and questionable signals, they have shut down part of the Red Line. From July 21 until September 3, everyone had to transfer at Ft. Totten to the Green Line. Twice a day, we were forced to exit en “massive” masse to make the transfer. It’s hot, it’s humid, and we’re packed in like sardines. When we reach the transfer point, we suddenly change into rats abandoning a sinking ship as everyone tries to get out, funnel onto the escalator to the Green Line platform two flights below. Rabid commuters, running to get in front of others, have hit me. It’s a mob mentality. And, it’s draining. For these six weeks, no matter how sanguine or centered I forced myself to be, my anxiety grew each time I anticipated that horde.
The way home was no better. I have always been one of those people who knows exactly where to stand to enter the train so that it will eventually deposit me exactly where I can quickly exit, take the escalator up, and onto the street. On my new route, it took me a few days to chart my markers on each leg of the trip. But, my fellow workers weren’t dumb. They were doing the same thing, and bunches of people crowded at points along the platform where the train doors would eventually be.
At the end of my day, I knew the exact spot where the last door of the fourth car would arrive at the transfer point. This door would stop right before the escalator connecting the Green Line to the Red. As people figured this out, this car became packed: standing room only with no space to even turn around. I had to fight for legroom, so I could space my feet far enough to maintain my equilibrium during the starts and stops along the way. On the first day of this journey home, I stood next to a man biting his fingernails. He was inches from my face, and I had no room to turn away. It took every ounce of restraint not to scream STOP IT! Was this his way of dealing with this claustrophobic torture? I didn’t care.
A few weeks ago, a man walked into the crowded car with his four-year-old son. The father had nothing to hold on to, and his son was tightly gripping his father’s pants. I looked around. Not one person noticed them or offered a seat. I am particularly sensitive to this. Years ago, when my daughters were toddlers, I took them downtown to daycare every day on the subway. Finally, a seat opened up, and I motioned to the dad. But, before he could move, a woman swooped in and sat down. She ignored my pleas for this father and his child. Such is the jungle of the Metro. Every person for him or herself. Survival of the fastest.
Just last week, a miracle occurred. When I entered that back door of the fourth car, there was an empty seat. I sat down. A few stops later, a young blind man entered with his wife. I wanted to offer him my seat, but I wasn’t close enough to ask him if he’d like to sit down. Again, no one seemed to notice him. But I did catch the eye of his wife, and they slowly moved closer. Now I was standing and looking at everyone from a new perspective. Just to the right of me was a seated young man. From my vantage point above him, I noticed he had one of the nicest parts in his hair I’d seen in a long time (men’s hairstyles are decidedly “no part” these days).
I suddenly realized I missed having a part in my hair. But then, I didn’t miss having hair. It was the best commute I’d had in weeks. In the summer, in the city.
