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Tuesday I had the distinct displeasure of taking the T to a new evening class I'm enrolled in at the Brookline Adult Education Center.  I decided to give the T a chance, but next time I'll ride my bike.  Door-to-door commute time was an hour and ten minutes one-way.  Which is ridiculous for something that would have taken fifteen minutes by car, and probably no more than twenty-five by bike. 

As you know if you have even a casual acquaintance with t-rage! I haven't been using the T much for about half a year now.  Of course, winter's on the way, and there will be times when riding in to work would just defy common sense.  And, as I've said before, I am not a dogmatist.  Once it becomes too uncomfortable to ride, I will be back on the T, but not a minute before.

Anyway, any time I find myself in Park Street Station I am reminded of Dante.  It's not Hell, but it's definitely as close to purgatory as you can get on an average day, and it really is the only place I pray for divine intercession nowadays.  I'm not kidding.

And waiting for a "D" train you need it.  Even at rush hour (I arrived at Park at 4:30 PM), a D train siting is a very rare thing indeed (the "D" stands for "dodo," you know).  There was already a crowd mulling around at the far end of the platform when I arrived, and soon enough it was a throng.  Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes went by.  Rush hour, mind you.  Finally, after twenty minutes, a D train approached  on the opposite side of the platform.  It was empty, and clanging its little bell, so I knew it wouldn't stop—every one of us on that platform knew—but such is the capacity for hope in the human heart that we all turned to the opposite track, and rushed to meet it. 

Ding-ding-ding!  It gaily rattled by.  Ding-ding-ding!  And it was gone. (Did I hear the conductor cackling as it passed, or was it just in my head?)

We slumped back to the other side again.

Another five minutes or so went by, and another train came.  This one stopped, and generously (too generously as it would turn out) opened itself to us.  There was giddy laughter.  There were high-fives.  One woman wept with joy.  There was a crush to get onboard, and then we were crushed together inside, but our collective relief outweighed the revulsion of human contact.  For the moment. 

And there we sat for another endless five minutes, at least, with the doors wide open.  Defying physics, one after another straggling commuter arrived to the platform, and stuffed themselves into the already stuffed train.  I swear we must have broken a world record.  The high of the train's gracious arrival finally forgotten, battlelines were drawn, with commuters on the train finally threatening newcomers with bodily harm if they even tried to squeeze on.

Finally the doors closed, and we sat for another three or four minutes.  I did not know people could survive without air for that long without passing out or sustaining brain damage.  But looking around at the dazed, lifeless faces, I thought, of course, between the daily oxygen deprivation in the underground and the extended cell-phone use, most Bostonians are brain damaged.  That explains a lot, actually.

We finally got going, right behind a train—a C train, maybe—so we were stalled several times along the way.  I reached Brookline Hills just in time for my class at 5:30.

The way back, around 7:30 was painless in comparison.  I had the foresight to bring a token, knowing I would not be able to use my Charlie Ticket, so that was one less trauma I had to deal with.  They've got us trained.  We're like dogs.  T-dogs.  If they told us we had to bark for our fare, we would bark for it.

Anyway, there was a Sox game on, and the train was full of fans.  They were not acting obnoxious, since there is not even the glimmer of hope left in this season.  They had switched from brashly, blindly omnipotent to self-indulgently self-pitying mode.  There was one musclehead with a pugilist's features and a distinct Broston brogue who was all decked out in his Sox cap and Coco Crisp jersey who had his eyebrows waxed and meticulously shaped—for that ever so popular these days "Joan Crawford-in-the-headlights" effect—what is it with these straight working class dudes having their eyebrows penciled in like that?  Next thing they'll be wearing rouge and lip gloss.  They may already be wearing women's panties. Is it a cry for help?  Is it a runaway meme?  Who is behind it?  I MUST KNOW!

So he starts in on some sassy Asian chick who's wearing a Yankees cap (the Sox were not playing the Yankees, by the way—I'm not sure if it's more provocative to wear the cap to a game where the Yankees aren't playing the Sox or to one where they are).  Anyway, the thug with the penciled-in Joan-Crawfords shouts:

"Hey!  How you gonna wear a Yankees cap to a Sox game, b-h?"

And she spat right back, so the whole train could hear: "WITH PRIDE!"

The thug laughed, disdainfully.

I was standing above a middle-aged working class dad with his kid—both in Sox jerseys, and, let me tell you, if looks could kill.  The kid was fine.  It was his dad who was just glaring at the chick with the Yankees cap with pure, unadulterated hatred in his eyes.  Really.  He would have killed her with his bare hands if our laws in Massachusetts were not so restrictive where it comes to mob violence and murder. 

I thought it was funny, but I also thought it was scary.  I realize I am in need of enlightment here, so maybe someone can tell me, is the Sox-Yankee rivalry more akin to:

a) Hatfields versus McCoys

b) Lilliput versus Blefuscu 

c) Red versus Black

d) Blue versus Red, or

e) Radical Islamicism versus the West?

Because, to me, for a grown man to put on a Coco Crisp jersey in public is bad enough, but to harbor such utter hatred for a stranger for wearing a Yankees cap—and I do mean "utter hatred"—it just seems a bit over the top to me.  If that's all it takes to get your rage on, there's got to be something wrong with you.  Maybe too much time in the undergound without oxygen, and too much time on the cell phone?

Any thoughts?  Anyone?  Beuller?  Beuller?

I got home without event, finally, in case you were concerned for my safety and well-being. 

But I had nightmares of Purgatory.