Help! I Need Somebody …

In general, riding the Metro is every man, woman, child, and elbow for themselves. EXCEPT … when a fellow traveler is in some form of distress.

It’s amazing to watch. Everybody with their heads down, eyes focused on reading material, earbuds implanted, not talking, minding their own business and expecting everyone else to do the same. And then somebody will ask for help, and help is always granted.

Typically it’s some poor tourist with one foot on the platform, one foot inside the train, door chimes chiming, asking in a shaky voice: “What line is this?” or “Is this going to Metro Center?” or “Can I get to the Smithsonian on this train?” Somebody will ALWAYS help—almost always in a nice way, too. I have yet to see someone left stranded in that doorway netherworld, and not just because I help whenever I can. Usually somebody else on the train will beat me to the punch. It’s refreshing, really, to know my fellow Washingtonians aren’t quite as scowly as they appear.

That courtesy extends beyond simple directions, though; I was reminded of this the other day on my way to work. While waiting for my Yellow Line on the lower platform at Gallery Place, the Green pulls up and announces: “This train will be holding here momentarily for a sick customer.” My first thought, I admit: “Oh, great,” because normally “sick customer” = “something more serious is going on, we just don’t want to tell you what” = “MAJOR delay.”

This time, though, the description is apt. Just a few seconds after the announcement, I’m pulled from the pages of my book by two guys saying “excuse me” with urgency. Their backs are to me, but as they approach it becomes readily apparent they have a young man under the armpits and are dragging his rather limp body away from the train and across the platform toward a nearby bench, two motherly figures in tow.

From what I overhear, seems the kid just passed out straight away while approaching the station. These two guys acted so fast, they have the fainter out of the train and on the bench before Metro personnel even arrive at the car (other riders point the first responder toward the bench). Dressed in their suits, they’re obviously on their way to work and, I’m sure, didn’t think this is how their morning would start. But they jumped in and helped immediately. The women, too; at first I think they’re related to the kid, but as the Metro guy comes over, all four of them start to fade into the crowd, their job done.

One of the women hangs around long enough to provide a brief description of what happened to the Metro employee. Then she looks back at the kid, now flat on his back on the bench but seeming to come around, and says: “You feel better, and God bless you.”

No ma’am, God bless you—and your three fellow Good Samaritans—for giving me a little bit of hope for the human race on a Monday morning.

The Only Man in the World

When I arrive at my station in the morning, there’s a spot where I can look down to the lower platform and see if my train has arrived. The other day on my way to work, I look down and, sure enough, there’s my train with its doors already open. Bad sign. Gotta move. Right. Now.

My flight down the escalator isn’t quite as fast as I’d like it to be for two reasons: 1. It’s raining out and the steps are a little slick; getting to work on time is not worth cracking my skull. 2. There’s a guy already on the stairs when I start down, so I have to slow up a little and fall in behind him; I can’t speed past him at this pace without risking a collision.

The door chime buzzes as I hit the bottom, Mr. Gray Suit still in front of me. He moves with respectable quickness, I guess, me right on his heels. But as he crosses the threshold of the train car, he just … stops. Stops! Right on the other side of the doorway, like he’s the only man in the world trying to catch a train this morning.

See, you have to keep moving in these beat-the-doors situations, because there’s always someone behind you trying the exact same thing. These Metro doors are unforgiving—they ain’t kindly elevator barriers, not them. When they close, they close, with extreme prejudice.

By all rights, I should keep going full-force and obliterate this guy like Mike Sellers against a Detroit Lions defensive back. Instead, I pull up ever so slightly to allow him another moment to get out of the way, then squeeze through the closing doors like the Millennium Falcon escaping that asteroid worm. In true Han Solo fashion, I don't make it without incurring some damage, crashing into the right-hand door as I slip through.

“Thanks, jerk,” I mutter in his general direction, seething and holding my throbbing right arm. But he’s clueless through and through. Upon hearing my invective, he turns to me with the biggest, dumbest, most vacant what? face you’re ever likely to see. He has absolutely no idea what just happened, and there’s no chance he’ll ever figure it out, even if I drew him a diagram. I figure there’s a certain kind of honesty about that and go find a seat.

As far away from him as possible—for his own good.