Sometimes, even the wrong train gets you to where you want to go. You see, while waiting for the doors of the MAX to open at the Millikan platform, one is faced with the quick task of decided which car to board.
The population density of said cars, as well as the appearance of its clientele factor largely into the equation, and make for hasty decisions, especially when one considers the options- either get on the train, or stay behind at the deserted stop with the guy who for some reason, didn’t even look up when the train came.
This night, I chose the second to last car, as the last one looked similar to one I saw one in a popular Stephen Spielberg movie about a World War… the one not about Matt Damon. As I boarded, I made my way to an open place in the middle of the car, in the reticulated section that swivels slightly as the train ambles around turns. To my left were sitting three elderly cowboys, complete with hats and bolo ties. To my right, were 5 kids, likely around seven years old, with their parents sitting across from them. This night, most of the train was going Portland for either holiday celebrations, or the Blazers game against the Hornets. (or against the Charlotte Hornets, as the male parent-figure said… which technically was two cities and four years ago for the beleaguered franchise, currently temporarily housed in Oklahoma City, after fleeing Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. I’ll give him a pass on OKC since it supposedly a temp move, but still…).
Everything was normal, save for the cowboys, until about five minutes into the trip, when one of the kids started making a noise, then started a second… and the third. Before I could properly react, I was in the middle of a kid’s Christmas Carol singalong. For a moment, allow me to digress. I don’t hate Christmas. I just hate Christmas songs. Especially kids Christmas songs, which have nothing to do with Christmas… snowmen, reindeer, you name it. If there is anything five shrill, out of tune children’s voices can do, it ain’t sing. I at first stood politely, trying to read my copy of The Nation while quietly weathering the storm. By about the third refrain of the second verse of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, I was still standing, though shooting obvious looks of utter contempt at the asinine, bouncing, high on estrogen super mom who was smiling like a fool at the whole horrific scene.
At first, I thought it was the coldness of my own black heart that was spoiling the situation. Clearly, I must be the only one enraged. This was comforting to some degree, as I am used in my mind to being the one on the verge of becoming some sort of problem, only to overcome my disgust and simply put up with all the annoyances that constantly prod at me in public. I was ready to just deal with it, when I remembered the cowboys. I glanced in their direction, and caught one glancing at me. For a moment, I could see that I was not the only one longing for a few hundred acres of open range, er, train, between me and the monsters a mere three feet away. Then I saw the newlywed couple standing diagonally across from my position, on the opposite side of the kids. The man was clearly “done” with the whole situation. The woman, at first amused, was quickly growing tired of the spectacle, and a few songs in, noticed my look. Slowly, we were gathering momentum as group, united against the damn kids. I’m sure if he had a chance, the lead cowboy would feel secure calling for a posse.
I looked at the mom, who in turn looked at the kids, who for a moment, were silent. I thought that perhaps the forces of good had in fact prevailed against the forces of evil, in an act of silent protest. “Do one the them Susan taught you.” Said the supermom. The ante had been upped.
The terrors began anew, and my subtle protest became a little less so. Glances became heavy sighs, which lead to putting down my magazine in disgust, which led to outright staring at the mom, who was now openly defiant. Luckily, I was joined in my protest by the newlyweds, several people who were new to the train of horrors, and in fact, the father-figure sitting across from the kids, to whom I was now becoming convinced he held only a tertiary relationship, perhaps an uncle, or a family friend. The cowboy, had gotten off unnoticed at some point, either that or he had disappeared back into the ether. The kids continued, the mother was indignant, and I simply prayed they would be getting off at each next stop, or perhaps the train would stop long enough to for me to exit, and enter into the last train.
Finally, as we approached Pioneer Courthouse Square, the man stepped in, and came to our rescue. He said something to the woman, to which she responded “what, we’ll never see them again” (actually, this was wrong, as we were all going to the game). I was at once both enlivened with rage and angered with the complete and utter passive-aggressiveness of our protest.
The kids started in again, at which time a homeless (or just really dirty) man who boarded at the downtown mall said two words – “Jesus Christ!” At once, the singing seemed to trail off. The mother sat silent, and I, and the newlyweds, shared a quick smile.
It seemed fitting that this holy terror of a holiday travesty would be put to death by the savior himself, or rather by his name uttered in vain. I was at peace, and finally, filled with the Christmas spirit. I felt as though the birthday boy was looking out for me, for the newlyweds, and for all the other poor souls trapped on the blue line that night. To my delight, I would lose track of them all shortly after the Rose Quarter stop, and would, like the mother said, never see them again. Later that night, surely a reward for calmly having withstood the barrage of children singing, the Blazers captured their sixth win of the season, a 98-95 overtime victory, sparked by the strong play of Juan Dixon and Joel Przybilla.
Somewhere, after the game, I am sure the mother thought of unleashing the kids on another unsuspecting train full of weary travelers. Possibly, she thought of our homeless friend, and I’m sure she was smote at once, if she instructed them to sing. At least one can hope.
