Oh, I have to pay?
Every morning that I commute via SkyTrain, one of the more interesting points on the journey is when I buy my ticket at the little machine (since I don't take the train every day, it's cheaper than buying a monthly pass) and watch the station to see whether I'm going to make a train which is arriving, or if I'm going to have to wait. It's like a little game to see if I can time it just right.
Occasionally a train will arrive immediately as I'm buying my ticket, in which case it makes sense for me to hurry things up a bit to try to catch that train. I've got the drill down to where I can execute it pretty fast: "Touch Screen," "One Zone," "Cash," insert $2.50 in change, grab ticket, run. The little rush of adrenaline I get when I can buy the ticket and step directly onto the train is exhilarating.
And otherwise, when the train is not there right away, or when it leaves too soon for me to be able to make it, I don't stress too much, because during the morning commute time a second train usually arrives within 2 or 3 minutes.
But still, especially if I'm running a little late, it's nice to expend those 2 or 3 minutes in a way which is moving me through space in a direction toward work, rather than being stationary on a train platform, and when someone directly causes me to waste that time for no good reason, well, that's where I get cranky.
Like this morning.
As I walk toward the ticket machine I can hear a train off in the distance. Before I can get there, I'm ambushed by Metro and 24 Hours distributors waving their pseudo-newspapers in my face (I hate those people with a fervour that's not quite healthy, but seriously, if I want a paper, I'm a competent and intelligent guy who knows full well how to pick one up out of the paper stand — get out of my freakin' way), and about the time I clear the gauntlet of paper lackeys, a woman from the other direction steps in front of me at the ticket machine.
No big deal. The train is still a little way off, and the woman seems pretty good with the machine.
"Touch screen." She does.
"Select Zone." She immediately touches the One Zone square.
"Select Payment Method." She touches Credit.
"Please insert card." This is where she sort of gives a start, and stares at the machine as if it had just ordered her to remove all her clothing and give some stranger a handjob right there in front of the leering Metro guy. I swear, she looks that shocked and offended.
Then she looks around. And looks back at the machine. And looks at me. And looks back at the machine.
"Yes, genius, you actually have to pay for the ticket you're buying." It was right on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed the words before they came out all the way.
Finally accepting her payment destiny, the lady hoists up to chest level a purse at least half the size of a hockey bag, and begins digging.
The whine of the train approaching the station grows louder.
From the purse she pulls out a pair of sunglasses. She examines the sunglasses as if to confirm to herself once and for all that they are indeed not a method of payment.
She pulls out a bottle of sunscreen or lotion.
She pulls out a notepad of some sort. ("Is she going to write the machine a letter?!? Dear machine, please accept this IOU on my behalf....")
She pulls out some kind of scarf/handkerchief thing. (At this point the only thing differentiating her own private dig from the excavation of King Tut's tomb is the lack of a jolly old British chap in a dusty safari hat and a white linen shirt.)
Finally, she pulls out a wallet. ("Dear God, about time already. I think I just missed my next birthday.")
But then she flips open the wallet to display a dazzling array of cards, many of which are glinting in the sunlight. She extends one finger and begins perusing the series of cards, as if seeking her favourite song in a jukebox. It's taking all the self control I have to keep from screaming.
"Ding Ding Ding" goes the train chimes, follwed by the clatter of doors opening. She glances up at the open train doors, and emits a little gasp.
Somehow it suddenly occurs to her that she might want to hurry a little, and she is gripped by a blaze of speed. She grabs one of the cards at random. Swipes card through card slot. Ticket prints. Grabs ticket.
"Beep. Please take your receipt." Her hand hand begins swiping back and forth in the receipt tray. Swipe, swipe, swipe. Swipe. ("Oh, God, just go.") Swipe. She sighs, gives up, and runs for the train.
("Yes, I might just make it, after all.") I step up to the machine in one quick exaggerated stride, like a soldier in drill training. I Touch Screen One Zone Cash tink tink tink toonie quarter quarter grab the printing ticket and hurl myself toward the open train doors. "Ding Ding Ding" and the doors close just as I reach the yellow line, with Lady Lethargy holding her Mammoth Purse of Wonders up against her chest and staring compassionately at me through the windows of the closing doors, her face evincing a strange look of genuine yet completely unpenitent pity.
As if to say, "Man, that sucks that you just missed the train. How did that happen? You were, like, RIGHT behind me."
As if to say, "Don't worry, there will be a new train soon."
As if to say, "Perhaps if you'd just bought your ticket a little more quickly, you could have barely made it."
Occasionally a train will arrive immediately as I'm buying my ticket, in which case it makes sense for me to hurry things up a bit to try to catch that train. I've got the drill down to where I can execute it pretty fast: "Touch Screen," "One Zone," "Cash," insert $2.50 in change, grab ticket, run. The little rush of adrenaline I get when I can buy the ticket and step directly onto the train is exhilarating.
And otherwise, when the train is not there right away, or when it leaves too soon for me to be able to make it, I don't stress too much, because during the morning commute time a second train usually arrives within 2 or 3 minutes.
But still, especially if I'm running a little late, it's nice to expend those 2 or 3 minutes in a way which is moving me through space in a direction toward work, rather than being stationary on a train platform, and when someone directly causes me to waste that time for no good reason, well, that's where I get cranky.
Like this morning.
As I walk toward the ticket machine I can hear a train off in the distance. Before I can get there, I'm ambushed by Metro and 24 Hours distributors waving their pseudo-newspapers in my face (I hate those people with a fervour that's not quite healthy, but seriously, if I want a paper, I'm a competent and intelligent guy who knows full well how to pick one up out of the paper stand — get out of my freakin' way), and about the time I clear the gauntlet of paper lackeys, a woman from the other direction steps in front of me at the ticket machine.
No big deal. The train is still a little way off, and the woman seems pretty good with the machine.
"Touch screen." She does.
"Select Zone." She immediately touches the One Zone square.
"Select Payment Method." She touches Credit.
"Please insert card." This is where she sort of gives a start, and stares at the machine as if it had just ordered her to remove all her clothing and give some stranger a handjob right there in front of the leering Metro guy. I swear, she looks that shocked and offended.
Then she looks around. And looks back at the machine. And looks at me. And looks back at the machine.
"Yes, genius, you actually have to pay for the ticket you're buying." It was right on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed the words before they came out all the way.
Finally accepting her payment destiny, the lady hoists up to chest level a purse at least half the size of a hockey bag, and begins digging.
The whine of the train approaching the station grows louder.
From the purse she pulls out a pair of sunglasses. She examines the sunglasses as if to confirm to herself once and for all that they are indeed not a method of payment.
She pulls out a bottle of sunscreen or lotion.
She pulls out a notepad of some sort. ("Is she going to write the machine a letter?!? Dear machine, please accept this IOU on my behalf....")
She pulls out some kind of scarf/handkerchief thing. (At this point the only thing differentiating her own private dig from the excavation of King Tut's tomb is the lack of a jolly old British chap in a dusty safari hat and a white linen shirt.)
Finally, she pulls out a wallet. ("Dear God, about time already. I think I just missed my next birthday.")
But then she flips open the wallet to display a dazzling array of cards, many of which are glinting in the sunlight. She extends one finger and begins perusing the series of cards, as if seeking her favourite song in a jukebox. It's taking all the self control I have to keep from screaming.
"Ding Ding Ding" goes the train chimes, follwed by the clatter of doors opening. She glances up at the open train doors, and emits a little gasp.
Somehow it suddenly occurs to her that she might want to hurry a little, and she is gripped by a blaze of speed. She grabs one of the cards at random. Swipes card through card slot. Ticket prints. Grabs ticket.
"Beep. Please take your receipt." Her hand hand begins swiping back and forth in the receipt tray. Swipe, swipe, swipe. Swipe. ("Oh, God, just go.") Swipe. She sighs, gives up, and runs for the train.
("Yes, I might just make it, after all.") I step up to the machine in one quick exaggerated stride, like a soldier in drill training. I Touch Screen One Zone Cash tink tink tink toonie quarter quarter grab the printing ticket and hurl myself toward the open train doors. "Ding Ding Ding" and the doors close just as I reach the yellow line, with Lady Lethargy holding her Mammoth Purse of Wonders up against her chest and staring compassionately at me through the windows of the closing doors, her face evincing a strange look of genuine yet completely unpenitent pity.
As if to say, "Man, that sucks that you just missed the train. How did that happen? You were, like, RIGHT behind me."
As if to say, "Don't worry, there will be a new train soon."
As if to say, "Perhaps if you'd just bought your ticket a little more quickly, you could have barely made it."