mystery train

I took the train to work for ten years. Remember all those blog posts I made about my adventures — good and bad (mostly bad) — on the train? Well, they kind of stopped in 2017, when I no longer had a job that required me to take the train on a daily basis.

I am back among the "drive yourself to work" set and I rarely have the opportunity to take the train. And then there was the worldwide pandemic that brought nearly everything to a halt. Now, as things begin to reopen, readjust and get back to some sort of "normality" (whatever that means), my wife and I ventured into center city Philadelphia to see the iconic Christmas Light Show held annually at the former John Wanamaker department store, now operating under the "Macy's" name. Instead of driving, fighting traffic, paying an exorbitant amount for a few short hours of parking, Mrs. P and I decided to take the train.

It's comforting to see that SEPTA (the acronymed organization that operates the public transportation system in southeastern Pennsylvania) has remained its same, old, dysfunctional self.

Early on Saturday morning, Mrs. Pincus and I took the familiar stroll to the Elkins Park train station, located just down the street from our house. (It's so close, we actually use it as a landmark locator when directing people to our house.) Upon our arrival on the platform, I checked the SEPTA app on my phone and was not one bit surprised when I saw that our 8:29 train was already listed as 15 minutes late. Mrs. Pincus realized she should have dressed more warmly for the unpredictable weather that Philadelphia had been experiencing. She made a quick run home to grab a hoodie. I watched, in her absence, as the SEPTA app added more time to our already-late train. SEPTA was already meeting and exceeding my expectations for getting back to "how things used to be." Mrs. P returned, bundled in her newly-retrieved hoodie, to find me in the exact same spot — with no train in sight.

Eventually, our train arrived to take us on the short, twenty-minute journey to center city Philadelphia. Now, the Elkins Park ticket office is only open for limited hours during the week and never on weekends. Passengers without a pre-purchased monthly pass (the traveling category in which we now fall) can purchase tickets on the train from one of the hopefully friendly conductors. As the train pulled away from the platform, one of the aforementioned conductors (this one uncharacteristically friendly) made his way down the center aisle. He stopped at the folks seated right in front of us. They were also headed to see the holiday light show, so our fare would be the same as theirs. After paying, the conductor presented them with two cardboard "swipe cards" that, he explained, should be used to open the electronic gates to exit the station. As he took a step in our direction, the train slowed to a stop at the Melrose Park station. He raised a finger to us and informed us that he'd be back.

He never returned.

Instead, he stood and gabbed with a group at the front of our train car — laughing and gesturing — as the train stopped at the three subsequent stations before our Jefferson Station destination. I gripped a ten dollar bill, ready to pay since we boarded. Mrs. P and I shuffled down the aisle towards the exit doors. I sidled up to our conductor and whispered: "We haven't paid our fare yet." He smiled and tipped his head in the direction of the doors. Extending his open palm, he said: "Happy holidays!" implying that our trip was gratis. Except we were now without that special swipe card that would free us from the confines of the station, once we climbed the exit stairs from the subterranean platform.

Once in the bustling station, I observed a newly-installed (well, "new" since my last trip on the train over two years ago) bank of electronic turnstiles occupying the once-unobstructed exit passage. I, along with my wife and a small group of similarly bewildered commuters, examined the steel and glass barriers that separated us from the outside world. And he we were without a way to make them open and grant our freedom. Mrs. Pincus spotted a disheveled-looking fellow, his SEPTA-emblazoned shirt untucked from his wrinkled, ill-fitting pants, puttering around an Information Booth. 

"Excuse me," she began. The fellow looked up with a confused expression, as though no one had spoken to him in weeks. Mrs. P continued, "How do we get out? We were not given swipe cards by the conductor on our train." The man scratched his head and offered two options. "Well," he said, you can buy an exit card from that machine over there." He gestured to a large, refrigerator-looking vending machine with a very complicated-looking glowing blue screen. Our little group collectively cringed. We all turned back to the fellow, hoping that Option Two would be more appealing. "Or you can just push open the glass door at the ADA exit." (The ADA, of course is the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 that required all public area to be equipped with easy access for those folks in wheelchairs or other disabilities requiring special provisions.) Although we felt bad, we all silently acknowledged that we liked Option Two much better and would take full advantage of it. Like a mini parade, a dozen people walked single file through the easily-opened ADA exit... and no one said a word.

Our return trip home was equally as "typical SEPTA" as our morning adventure. Upon exiting the station earlier in the morning, I purchased tickets for our trip home and safely tucked them in my wallet. After a full, fun day of holiday lights, lunch with our son and his girlfriend, a stroll through the temporary Christmas shopping village set up around Philadelphia's City Hall, Mrs. Pincus and I walked back to the station to board a homebound train.

Our train arrived and we selected a seat. We talked in quiet voices as we rode. In my peripheral vision, I noticed a young man in a seat across the aisle slightly turning his head to listen to our conversation. We weren't discussing any sensitive or controversial topics. We were probably talking about our plans for dinner or what we were doing on Sunday. Nevertheless, this guy was hanging on to our every word. He even turned around further and chuckled to himself, as though he was an active an welcome member of our conversation. I recalled experiencing this on a daily basis when I took the train more often. My conversation, it seemed, was infinitely more interesting, informative and entertaining than those of my fellow passengers — and they weren't shy or discreet about hearing the full dissertation.

Ah, SEPTA. You appear to be adjusting to the post-pandemic world just fine. God bless you. Keep up the good work.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I'm going off the rails on a crazy train

I have a "love-hate" relationship with SEPTA, the entity that provides and operates public transportation in the Philadelphia and suburban area. It is one of only two transit authorities in the United States that operates all five major forms of land transportation (buses, trains [regional rail], subway and elevated trains, trolleys and trolleybuses). SEPTA, an acronym for Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority, does none of them well.

I have been a regular commuter on the SEPTA regional rail for over ten years. Sure, it's a pleasure not to have to drive to work and fight traffic, especially in bad weather (which Philadelphia gets a lot of). But. in those ten plus years, SEPTA has exhibited some of the most consistently worst service I have ever seen from a consumer-oriented company. My morning train — the one I take to work at the same time every morning — has never ever been on time. Ever. A SEPTA representative, who was handing out some public relations material one morning at the train station near my house, told me that "railroad standard" allows trains to be within six minutes of the scheduled time and still be considered "on time." I scrunched up my face and replied, "First - the standard is determined by the industry itself? Then why bother to make a precise schedule if the listed times are, in reality by your own admission, approximate times. Second - if the medical profession worked that way, a doctor could remove your kidney, but, since it's within the area of the appendix, it's still considered a successful procedure." The SEPTA guy laughed, shrugged his shoulders and handed me a pamphlet.

The staff on the trains are pretty rude also. They rarely announce upcoming stations. They snap at commuters with questions. They are the furthest thing from courteous. And they never apologize for the train being late, or crowded, or hot (in summer, when the air conditioning fails), or cold (in winter when the heat fails). My feeling is: they are already at work. What do they care if you're late for work.

So, with poor service, late trains and rude employees, SEPTA feels totally justified in raising fares and not doing a thing to improve themselves.

Yesterday was the clincher. I boarded my train at the train station near my suburban Philadelphia home. It was late, as usual. I found a seat in the last car and sat down. Something on the seat across the aisle caught my peripheral vision. I turned my head and saw a rather large key resting in the center of a seat meant to accommodate three passengers (a "three-seater," as we regular commuters call them). I instantly recognized the key as one used by train conductors to open and close the train doors, as well as operate other functions aboard the train. From my observations, it is an integral piece of equipment in a train conductor's arsenal and one that should be kept close at all times. By this one was alone on a empty seat in a train car conspicuously devoid of all SEPTA personnel. I immediate pulled my phone from my pocket to snap a picture and display it on Instagram for all the world to see. (I regularly chronicle SEPTA's and SEPTA rider's infractions on Instagram, mostly blatant violations of the "Dude, It's Rude" campaign that attempts — and fails — to discourage people from putting their bags, backpacks or briefcases on the empty seat next to them, while offering a gentle reminder that seats are for paying customers.) I quickly focused and got the shot, frantically tapping out a smart-ass caption to accompany the image. I chose to go with: "Is that the key to the entire SEPTA Regional Rail System just, absentmindedly, left on a seat? Ahh, SEPTA, it's a good thing you don't guard our nuclear weapons." Because my social media accounts are linked, my message appeared on Twitter, as well.

Well, SEPTA's social media account (for reasons only known to them) follows my Twitter account (@joshpincus for those of you who dare). Almost immediately, I was contacted via Twitter by one "KW" who was monitoring the SEPTA Twitter this particular morning. This was our exchange:

This little conversation shows SEPTA's sheer laziness and complete lack of customer service. Sure they are confined to 140 characters per message, but they didn't come close to the limit. They barked questions are me, a customer, as though I were responsible for their error. "What train? What car number?" Not a "please" or an "excuse me" or a "would you mind." The train number and car number are two pieces of information that are not easily ascertained by the general public. These numbers are usually posted on the lighted informational boards at the train stations (My station does not have one of these boards.) or on the SEPTA smartphone app. Train numbers are never used by commuters and are the source of confusion when SEPTA uses them in updated schedule and train arrival announcements. My admittedly rude reply ("I don't work for SEPTA") was still met with a pressing and impolite demand for these obscure identifiers. I finally conceded and pulled up the app on my phone to find which train number I was currently riding on.

The train pulled into Suburban Station, my destination for work. I rose to exit the train. A spotted a guy sitting in the seat when I had seen the key. He gathered his belongings (which were disobediently occupying the space next to him) and, in one motion, scooped up the key with his stuff. He palmed the key like a seasoned magician and scooted out into the train aisle just ahead of me. He left the train. He did not appear to be seeking out a SEPTA employee.

Will this guy be opening and closing the doors on tomorrow's commute? I don't know. Will he be making any unscheduled stops based on a whim? I don't know. Will that key be dangling from a chain, RUN-DMC style, the next time I see him on the train? Perhaps.

Do I really care? I do not.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

big boss man

I just caught the late 4:45 train for my evening commute home.

SEPTA's train service (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority) has been running poorly all summer. In 2006, SEPTA purchased one hundred and twenty. brand-spanking-new new Silverliner V railcars for two-hundred and seventy-four million dollars. The cars were manufactured by the relatively-young Hyundai Rotem company of South Korea. SEPTA chose to purchase the cars based on Hyundai Rotem's undercutting all of the competition. The train cars experienced massive delays in production and delivery. But, better late than never, the cars were finally delivered and soon were gliding on the rails all over Philadelphia and its suburbs.

Until June.

A routine inspection discovered numerous fatigue cracks on the support trucks of every single Silverliner V in SEPTA's system. The beautiful new trains were immediately pulled from service and SEPTA began a frantic scramble. Timetables were altered, trains were borrowed from neighboring cities and delays were insufferable. All summer long, daily commuters have experienced nightmares in travel time and over-crowded train cars. SEPTA employees have been extra surly and belligerent. Another bonus to make the experience even more pleasurable.

If you follow my Instagram account, you know that it is chock full of pictures of people taking up more than their fair share of allotted space by placing their bags, backpacks, briefcases, food or any number of other items on the empty seat next to the single seat that their fare permits them to occupy. SEPTA has introduced the "Dude, It's Rude" initiative, reminding riders that one fare entitles them to one seat. Most people ignore the rules. Some even get testy when asked to move their stuff to accommodate another passenger. The policy is not remotely enforced by SEPTA on-board employees.

Now, with over-crowded trains, seats are at a premium. Yet, I still see many commuters spread out across two, or sometimes three, seats with their personal effects.

Today, on my ride home, I was joined by a man in the seat facing mine. With my messenger bag perched squarely on my lap, I silently read my book until the train pulled up into my station. This gentleman, my seatmate, sported a SEPTA employee badge dangling from a SEPTA lanyard around his neck. He wore a dark dress shirt and an expensive looking tie. This let me know that he was not a rank-and-file "train guy." This guy was a "main office executive" type. No sooner did this guy plop himself down in the seat opposite me, his knees bumping into mine, did he drop his bulky backpack on the empty seat to his left. He absentmindedly draped his beefy arm across the bag, blocking any access for another commuter to take a load off. He pulled a cellphone from his pocket and squinted as he thumbed the screen.

A representative of SEPTA blatantly breaking the rules that his company introduced. Average commuters are expected to follow the rules. SEPTA employees, especially the upper echelon, should lead by example, especially with limited seating available. I looked around and noticed there were people standing in several places throughout the train, gripping handrails and seat backs to steady themselves.

Disgusted, I rose from my seat as the train approached my stop. I grunted an "excuse me" and the guy swiveled his knees to make an exit path for me.

I stepped on his foot on my way out.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that joke isn't funny anymore

See this transit pass? I have been buying one of these every month* for the past nine years. It entitles me to unlimited rides on the SEPTA Regional Rail systems for the entire month designated at the top of the pass (in this case "November 2015"). I ride the train to and from work five days a week. Sometimes, I take the train on weekends. Other times, I take the subway system for quick commutes within the city. My transit pass includes unlimited subway rides, as well.

For the past nine years, I don't believe that my train has ever been on time. Not going to work. Not coming from work and not on those infrequent weekend trips. The train is usually five or six minutes late. Sometimes longer. Sometimes, a lot longer. According to several inquiries to SEPTA (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority, the entity that runs the public transportation system in Philadelphia and its surrounding area), a train can be up to six minutes behind schedule and still be considered "on time." That is a rail system standard — a standard made up by the rail system. I told a representative from SEPTA that it's a good thing that doctors don't work within similar guidelines. ("Yeah, we'll try to operate within six inches of your heart. If we hit your lung, we're still considering that to be your heart".) It's very frustrating to have the train arrive late every single day. I know I get angry and I can tell by the expressions on the faces of my fellow commuters that I see pacing the train platforms daily, the feeling is shared. Sometimes, an announcement is made over the PA system, but the ancient equipment renders it incoherent. Frustrated commuters look at each other in wonder, hoping someone was able to decipher at least a few important words regarding the status of the next arriving train. Once the train does arrive, no words of apology are ever offered by SEPTA personnel. After all, the conductors and the engineer are already at work. They don't give a fuck if you're late.

Then there's this guy. 

He has been the regular conductor on my morning train for several months now. Every day, the train pulls up to the platform and I board, along with the regular group of commuters I see most mornings. Everyone silently selects a seat (if one is available and not blocked by some inconsiderate asshole's purse, briefcase or other type of bag) and then either reads, sleeps or stares into space until we arrive at their station stop. It's sort of a peaceful time to gather your thoughts before mounting the bustle of a hectic workplace.

But this guy.

Obviously, a frustrated performer, this guy uses the captive audience of the morning train riders to test out his lame attempt at humor, delivered in an unfunny deadpan monotone. Believe me, no one is in the mood for his childish wisecracks at such an early hour. Just take my ticket or look at my pass and be on your way. You don't even have to thank me for being a paying customer. He broadcasts announcements on the PA system from the seclusion of a small vestibule outside of the train car itself, then he enters the car and comments on the announcements, pretending that it wasn't his voice we all just heard. He does the same routine every morning and no one laughs. Y'know why no one laughs? Because it's not funny!

One morning, the train arrived (late) and a few people were walking across the parking lot on their way to the steps to get up to the platform. This guy announces that passengers not on the platform when the train arrives would not be able to board and must wait for the next train. Then, with no expression, announced, "I'm only kidding." I can't believe no one slugged him.

I suppose his little jokes would be funny if SEPTA ran an efficient transportation system. But they don't. Not by a fucking long shot! The train is late every, single morning and every, single evening. I know I am not alone in my anger. Co-workers from other suburban destinations share my experience and frustration. My son has given up taking a bus — one that goes right by his house — because of its unreliability. Instead, he has become a regular user (and advocate) for Philadelphia's new bike-sharing** program. He has said that even walking to work would get him there faster that waiting for a SEPTA bus that may or may not even come.  So, I am in no mood to hear the jokes of a system that can't get their primary function — on-time and efficient transportation  — in smooth running order. After all, the "T" in your name stands for "transportation." It is, quite literally, your middle name! 

You wanna joke? Get your shit together first. Then, by all means, joke all you want. You have my blessing.

In the meantime, SEPTA, invest in an accurate watch instead of a book of one-liners.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* Note: this was changed from "week" after it was pointed out, by a sharp reader, that I wouldn't be buying my monthly pass on a weekly basis, unless I was an idiot. She was correct on both points.

** I, unfortunately, live too far from work to ride a bike (if I had one), so I remain at SEPTA's mercy. 

deliver the letter the sooner the better

Email has cut considerably into the United States Postal Service's business. For goodness sake, the USPS lost two billion dollars in 2014.

Although I pay almost all of my bills online, I still mail a check or two over the course of a year. My wife and I, like most folks over forty, still mail actual, physical birthday cards to loved ones annually. So, there is still the need for the Postal Service. And just this morning, I attempted to put that need to use.

My train pulled in to Philadelphia's Suburban Station this morning around 8:15, like it does pretty much every morning. I exited the train and fumbled around in my bag for the birthday card my wife left — on my bureau next to my wallet — for me to mail. I climbed the stairs from the subterranean train platform up to the main floor of the train station, where, among the bustling coffee shops and newsstands, I would find a mailbox. I pass one every morning. It's right in front of one of four Dunkin Donuts I pass on my usual route to my office building. 

And — sure enough — there was the mailbox. But there was a guy standing right in front of it. Actually, leaning on it! He was a real corporate-type. Expensive-looking briefcase in his hand and an expensive-looking haircut on his head. He wore a tailored trench coat and was peering over the tops of his designer glasses, frowning as he thumbed through the contents of his iPhone. And he was blocking all access to the mailbox.

I approached him and the mailbox. "Excuse me, please." I said. I tried to force my lips into a smile.

He looked up from his phone with the most annoyed, the most evil scowl on his face. An expression that would be the result of someone asking if they could drop dog shit on your head or a doctor informing you of a surprise rectal exam. The disdain on his face was palpable. And he didn't seem to want to make an attempt at moving.

I raised the birthday card up so he could see I had something to deposit in the mailbox and I was not just asking him to vacate his staked parcel of linoleum tiled floor as a matter of aesthetics. Slowly — painfully slowly — he slunk over to the side of the mailbox, graciously allowing me to open the access door and drop in my card.

The train station is a huge building, three city blocks long and a city block wide. It is a transportation hub for 13 regional rail train lines, as well as the city's two subway routes. It handles approximately 25,000 passengers per day. Per day. PER FUCKING DAY! And the only place this guy could find to stand in the whole fucking building was right in front of a fucking mailbox?

I suppose this is what they mean by "going postal."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that train don't stop here anymore

SEPTA, the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority (under its original name, Philadelphia Rapid Transit Company, a misnomer if there ever was one) began operation of the Broad Street subway line in 1928. Stations were added southbound until its final destination, Snyder Avenue, opened in 1938. Thirty-five years later, a new final destination was tacked on to the end of the line. Pattison Avenue station, in South Philadelphia, served the budding sports complex area, offering convenient access to the home fields of the city's professional sports teams — the  Phillies, the Eagles, the Flyers and the 76ers,

The station formerly known as "Pattison"

After another thirty-five years, Pattison Avenue station, so named because it is located on (surprise!) Pattison Avenue, was rechristened "AT&T Station," under a naming rights deal between the financially-strapped SEPTA and the communications giant. The agreement netted SEPTA two-million dollars. In exchange, huge "AT&T"s would grace the station's facade for five years, confusing commuters unfamiliar with street names in South Philly and the order of stations on the subway route. There is no "AT&T" Street and there is no AT&T building or headquarters anywhere in the area. I don't think there's even an AT&T cell phone store nearby. And, whether SEPTA likes it or not, people still call it Pattison Station.

Well, the good folks at SEPTA are at it again. On September 4, 2014, Market East (which is located on Market Street), a major station on the heavily-traveled regional rail system, was renamed "Jefferson Station." Thomas Jefferson University Hospital paid an undisclosed amount for naming rights for an undisclosed period of time. At the big media event that was staged for the re-dedication, SEPTA general manager Joseph M. Casey said, with a forced smile upon his face, "Jefferson Station is a major transportation hub for Philadelphia area residents who are patients, employees and students of nearby Jefferson Health System facilities and Thomas Jefferson University, Because so many people use SEPTA to get to their Jefferson destination, renaming the station is a natural fit." That, of course, is corporate bullshit. I should know. I hear corporate bullshit everyday.

I ride the train to and from work everyday. On my commute home on September 4, the train's PA crackled with the uneasy voice of a conductor announcing, "This stop - Jefferson Station," quickly followed by "Um, formerly Market East. 'Jefferson Station' is the new name for Market East." The next morning, and every morning after that, a similarly awkward announcement was made by the conductor on duty. For nearly a month, the previously short "This stop - Market East" has now become a lengthy explanation that, at certain moments, borders on apology.

Yesterday, on my ride in to work, a particularly zealous conductor came on the loudspeaker and articulated the exact and unmistakable location of the train.

"Attention, passengers, this stop is Jefferson Station. Jefferson Station is the new name for Market East. This station is Jefferson Hospital Station. Jefferson Station, this stop. Market Street, The Gallery Shopping Mall, historic sites and links to the PATCO High-Speed Line to New Jersey. Market East is now called Jefferson Station. Jefferson Station is the new name for Market East. Once again, this stop is Jefferson Station."

The poor guy made his point and delivered his message using every possible combination of the words "Jefferson," "Station," "Market" and "East." I believe his announcement continued until we reached the next station, Surburban Station.

At least that's what it's called for the time being.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com