Train 407

stop!

The Journey

I was raised with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth. My father was one of the most successful soccer-players of his time. Post retirement, he became the head coach of Real Madrid, the world’s most reputable and influential soccer team. He still is a star and thus a magnet for millions of fans and soccer fanatics.

My mom ran the show. She was the boss, the manager, the mom and the wife. She raised four children and still managed to successfully promote her husband’s career, negotiating lucrative contracts with clubs and sponsors that would allow us to fly around the globe in private jets, live on an 11 acre horse ranch and vacation on our private yacht off the coast of Spain in the Mediterranean Sea.

We had a great life.

But after obtaining my high school diploma from a reputable boarding school in Germany, I began to realize that I was bored with my life. I hated the monotony and the lack of individual freedom. I had my own dreams and goals and I wanted to break free from the protective shell placed around my family. I wanted freedom from people always watching over me or pretending to befriend me in hopes of personal advantage derived from my family’s stature and reputation. I wanted to explore the world; take off and pursue my own destiny.

Perhaps my parents noticed the rebellious tendencies surfacing or perhaps they were concerned our big world of glamour and fame was becoming too small for me. My parents decided I needed a change. I was told to leave Germany in pursuit of my own dreams and career goals. I was supposed to live a life on my own, away from unearned social status and acceptance. I was supposed to live as myself, not as someone’s son. Although I was initially hesitant about the idea, I was ready.

Ten days after my parents set out on their new mission, I was shipped to the US in economy seating on a United Airlines flight. I sat in seat 28B and was served pre-packaged food covered in tin foil. Once in the US, I attended college in Saint Louis, Missouri. I was completely broke and forced to make ends meet by my own means. My life was finally in my own hands and it was exhilarating. Three years of school and multiple party blackouts later, I graduated from college and fell in love with a very supportive, down to earth woman. She was my savior, my mentor and my replacement family. She taught me that parking tickets were unacceptable and your credit scores the lifeline of your existence. She was from California and after graduating, I happily followed her back there.

I had considered Saint Louis too small for me. I could fluently speak three languages and had traveled most of Europe before turning eighteen, making me feel much too special for such a small city. I had become bored with the mid-west lifestyle and mentality and was looking for a more promising life-quality and diversity. Although my emigration from the good life had started in Saint Louis, my journey to California more closely mirrored the path of a traditional immigrant. I left seeking a better life in a land of perceived prosperity that offered much more opportunity than I was leaving behind.

It was a hot and very smoggy July afternoon in 2004 when my flight from Saint Louis landed at the Los Angeles International Airport. My first impression of Los Angeles was completely different from what I had anticipated. Where were the beaches, the palm trees and the hot blondes in red bathing suits jogging along white sand? Where were the movie stars, those white folks? This was not the place I had envisioned as a child watching Baywatch, Fresh Prince of Bell-Air and 90210. These shows never displayed the chaos, pollution and sheer size of roughly 5 million people spread over 498.3 square miles.

As I became more familiar with the offerings of Los Angeles, I learned that the City of Angels I was expecting to enjoy only existed in small, isolated pockets where only the established and wealthy were allowed to establish roots. The majority of the city was full of miscreants and dreamers desperately striving for something heavenly while barely surviving the pedestrian reality of the city. Everyone else either lived in the slums surrounding the city or commuted in from distant places to be paid a living by those who could afford to permanently reside within the city.

On August 6th, 2005, we got married. Six months later we bought a beautiful home in Hacienda Heights, a suburb in the eastern San Gabriel Valley, far away from the beaches and towards the San Bernardino Mountains. We both got jobs in downtown Los Angeles, roughly 13 miles west of Hacienda Heights.

The daily commute soon became an unexpected burden on my budget, nerves and motivation. Depending on the day of the week and the amount of dysfunctional and unskilled drivers on the road, the commute could take an average of 60 to 90 minutes. One day, while sitting in my car with my head against the steering wheel, I noticed a passing train. It caught my attention because it wasn’t a freight train, but rather appeared to be a passenger train. The blue letters on the side of the train cars read Metrolink.

I ran a Google search at work that same day and discovered that Metrolink is a regional rail system operated by the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (Metro) which links Los Angeles with various outlying counties such as Riverside, Orange, and San Bernardino.

That day marked the beginning of a new life for me as I decided to become a Metrolink commuter.

Although I was excited over the relief from the daily drive, I expected commuting as a passenger would encroach upon my much-valued comfort zone. I expected the close physical proximity of the commuters would emphasize the cultural diversity of the passengers and intensify the burden of maintaining acceptable social behavior. Specifically, I expected my well-maintained shoes would become scuffed, germs would be freely shared, I would need to keep my opinions to myself, and personal comfort would be regularly compromised.

What I had failed to anticipate was the camaraderie and bonds that naturally form when people share a common goal. Commuters share a pursuit of happiness. For some, the happiness lies in pursuing a lucrative or satisfying career, for others, happiness lies in returning home after a long day’s work performed solely as a means of support for self or family. Others, like me, are lost in between - unsure whether the job awaiting them at their final stop is the path to a better life or a trap which will permanently stifle their ability to escape the mundane realities of the middle class employee. Regardless of the individual motivations, commuters are all working to pay rent or a mortgage, to afford outings or adventurous vacations, to pay off debt from boats, cars, tuitions or their spouse’s extraordinary habits. The common journey from home to work and back merely to satisfy these financial burdens creates a bond similar to that shared by family members who regularly possess a common space where they can relax and interact before they start their day and then routinely meet again to decompress from the day’s activities.

Relaxed by this common bond, you learn to become comfortable sitting next to a complete stranger who may possess unique cultural norms, contrary political views or other idiosyncrasies which you would be unwilling to tolerate in another setting. Unfamiliar sounds and unexpected body-movements mesh into the voice of the train which is formed by the conversations of the commuters and the mechanical noises made by the train as it drags its passengers to work and later pulls them home.

This book is a compilation of fictional stories based on experiences on the train. These stories tell the life of a young immigrant commuter who struggles with his own pursuit of happiness and self-discovery. By riding the train, this character inadvertently experiences how commuter behavior tends to fall within the same range, with some behavior being common, some unusual, some acceptable, and some totally outside acceptable limits.

Chapter 1

April 17, 2008 – The Day it all began

7:15 AM. It is a crisp and clear quiet Monday morning. A light breeze out of the City of Industry hills carries the fragrance of dew covered grassland into the Metrolink station. Equipped with a train-schedule, driving directions and printouts with pictures of the station, I arrive at my targeted destination on Brea Canyon Road in the City of Industry. The station was easy to find, taking the 60 freeway eastbound for about 7 minutes, opposite traffic, exiting Brea Canyon Drive and heading north towards the city of Walnut. Amazingly, it took me less than 15 minutes to get to the station despite a new construction project on the same street

I am relieved to be on time and on schedule. I get extremely anxious if I am behind schedule. I like to have all directions printed out and neatly organized in a folder in order to avoid being late or worse, completely lost. When traveling, I ensure I am as prepared as possible to maximize my experience. Standard items include maps of targeted vicinities, consumer and traveler reviews and miscellaneous instructions from local experts.

When my mom made her first visit to Los Angeles, I prepared a folder housing detailed timetables and tour maps for every credible sight the city had to offer. I planned to utilize every minute of her visit to familiarize her with the city and its known and unknown treasures. I had hoped to impress her with my organization skills and devotion to her travel agenda, but instead she was completely overwhelmed by the regimen I had planned. One day into the trip, she officially boycotted the agenda and the folder became obsolete and inadvertently an object for ridicule When she returned to Germany she cautioned the entire neighborhood back home not to travel with Folder Guy.

While entering the station’s parking lot, I notice that most of the roughly 300 parking spaces are already occupied. I find relief in this – the volume of other passengers seems to legitimate my transition from car to train.

For almost a month, I had been driving every week day from home to Downtown Los Angeles and back on the 60 Freeway. The strain of the roundtrip drive was single-handedly slowly ruining the enjoyment of my new environment. Only the most veteran drivers of the westbound 60 Freeway seem able to handle the miles of stop and go traffic, the ineptly ambitious drivers spontaneously cutting into their lanes only to gain a 10 foot asphalt advantage and the useless but distracting electronic signs which robotically relay the existence of a severe accident, the abduction of a small child (likely by one of their unstable parents), or, my least favorite, the anticipated remaining travel time.

Although I expect the California Department of Transportation did not actually intend to electronically stomp on our limited reserve of hope as we crept slowly in long, straight lines toward our desks in the city, the neon messages were not a welcome addition to the already miserable experience.

After exiting my car, I follow the large influx of people walking towards the platform of the station. The 7:35 AM train is the last available train that will get everyone to work before 9:00 AM. It is the last chance to avoid being late to work. Not surprisingly, it is the most crowded.

The station’s platform is roughly 200 feet long with only 4 covered seating benches. Surprisingly, there is only one westbound-facing platform. Adjacent to the platform is a busy stopping zone where commuters can be dropped off by their loved ones, or….others. The stopping zone is not for the meek or inattentive. Exiting cars are dodging the fast walking commuters and the hugging and kissing couples saying their daily good-byes. In tribute to my favorite movie Top Gun, I quickly name this area the Danger-Zone.

I too am fast approaching the station and already on the lookout for the ticket vending machine. Eager to find it as quickly as possible, I almost overlook the white Toyota Celica that is speeding away from the Danger Zone, barely missing me. No one acknowledges the narrow miss by the driver. With no apparent sympathy coming my way, I swear quietly at the driver and move on. As I enter the station, I see the waiting commuters in a series of perfectly sequenced lines exactly 20 feet apart. Everyone is standing neatly in line, one behind the other, all facing the tracks, and staring either at an adjacent storage facility or the hillside across from the platform. The station appropriately represents the industry for which its host city was named. It offers no restroom facilities, vending machines or customer service booths. A few feet down from the platform, I spot the ticket vending machine - the next hurdle to my stress-free morning. I fill with dread at the part of change which we all abhor, the potential for looking stupid or inexperienced in a public place. I am not sure why we are so much more concerned with the opinions of strangers than our own loved ones, with whom we would jokingly share the details of any procedural mishaps, but I have always been especially susceptible to the pressure of public acceptance. Despite my anxiety, I find the machine to be much more accommodating than expected. It is programmed to run each customer through a variety of options regarding fare-type, price and destination. It takes me only 25 seconds to communicate my preferences and swipe my debit card through the machine.

To my right is a second ticket vending machine being used by an older Asian woman who seems overwhelmed with the options and purchase instructions. As I wait for my machine to process the charge for my round-trip ticket, a Latino man in his mid-thirties wearing a security guard outfit walks up to offer her assistance.

As I would come to learn, the Latino man is not only a security guard, but also the station’s customer service representative and chatty host all in one. As I watch him in action, I notice he seems to enjoy his numerous responsibilities. His voice is calm and his patience is commendable as the older lady bombards him with questions, in painfully broken English. As the machine spits out my ticket, my two neighbors are still trying to understand each other, with little progress being made. As I flee the awkward scene, I can’t decide if I feel worse for the confused woman or her rescuer. Having my ticket in hand puts me at ease and I start to focus on enjoying the experience. I decide to walk toward the first waiting line of commuters at the very front of the platform. Possibly, train car number one.

Once in line, I start studying the surrounding demographics. I think back to my only prior experience with American public transportation – the Metro Blue Line – a surface train which ran from Long Beach to downtown Los Angeles. My experience on the Blue Line encouraged me to always sit at the very front of the train, as close to the conductor as possible.

The ‘Blue-Line’ runs through such infamous neighborhoods as Compton and Inglewood and the commuters are a combination of blue collar workers and a variety of social misfits making up the lower or maybe even no-income class.

The ‘Blue-Line’ resembles a speeding circus of beggars, crack heads, hustlers, trannies, day laborers, prostitutes, gang members, traveling weed salesmen, muss-haired hipsters, old women racked with Jesus-lust, and numerous strains of homeless persons including the mentally ill homeless, the guitar-strumming homeless, and the shirtless and/or mumbling homeless. Amidst this crew of shame are a few middle-aged businessmen who spend the entire ride looking like bewildered tourists from Ohio wondering why they’re the only Caucasians riding in their particular car. I was one of them.

Contrary to the Blue-Line passengers, MetroLink commuters seem to be predominantly white-collar workers, easily distinguishable in their appearances and vocabulary.

The Metrolink train starts its journey in the suburb of Riverside, which is located approximately 60 miles east of Los Angeles. Riverside is the 61st most populous city in the United States and the 12th most populous city in California. After leaving Riverside, the train makes a 40-minute journey through smaller cities such as Ontario and Pomona, before arriving in the City of Industry.

It is the Industry station that makes up for the majority of the commuters taking this particular train. I expect this is because it is so close to such middle-class neighborhoods as Walnut, Diamond Bar, Rowland Heights, Hacienda Heights and La Puente which contain a high volume of commuters who otherwise would have to take the 60 Freeway. I would estimate that around 100-150 commuters take the train at 7:35 AM every morning from the Industry station. The racial makeup is probably 40 percent Asian, 30 percent Hispanic or Latino, 20 percent White, and 10 percent Black. The average age is somewhere around the low forties. I am not used to seeing people with such diverse backgrounds in one location. I wonder if this is an accurate portrayal of the Los Angeles work force, and how it compares to the overall American workforce.

As I continue to assess the demographics, I notice that most of the commuters waiting for the train know each other or are making an effort to do so. Judging by the level of comfortable interaction, I can tell they are regulars. In the few minutes I stand in line, I overhear several detailed conversations about the status of spouses, hobbies, and job complaints. Few subjects seem to be taboo and most of the commuters address each other by their first names.

As they continue to converse, it becomes apparent that the majority of the commuters share similar values and lifestyles. Despite the clear ethnic distinctions between the passengers, there do not appear to be any unofficial restrictions regarding who speaks to whom. Everyone seems to be equally interested in the mundane details being shared by their racially diverse counterparts.

As a foreigner from a country where making friends in a public setting is uncommon, the level of intimacy in such a public setting is fascinating. Standing in line with so many strangers, I marvel at the personal details shared by people who know each other solely as the result of sharing public transportation. While trying to make sense of it all, I am progressively wishing I was a regular who could randomly join one of their pleasant conversations and tell them about my excitement