March 9–16, 2000

cover story

The Rail World, part 2

A 24-Hour SEPTA Experience.

by Patrick Rapa

illustrations by Jason Fritzsche

continued from here

4:35 p.m. Phlash stop

When will this city get over the fact that combining a "p" and an "h" can form an "f" sound? Phlash. Phillie Phanatic. Philly Phreeze. It’s a curse. Next organization that tries to host a "phestival" should be run out of town on the phucking R8.

Wide, purple and slow, the Philly Phlash is sort of the Grimace of the SEPTA gang. You know Grimace, Ronald McDonald’s dimwitted gumdrop-shaped pal from all those senseless commercials. Sure the guy’s an embarrassment, but you have to appreciate his tirelessly upbeat attitude. This mini-bus is the same way. At every stop, and sometimes between them, the driver gives some just-between-friends tips on downtown — where to eat, to drink, sometimes where Ben Franklin did those things. The well-dressed couple with the stack of pamphlets doesn’t pay much attention to the driver’s explanations, but wonders aloud where they are.

One rider, a woman in her late sixties, loves the Phlash. "It has the nicest drivers," she says, "so kind and helpful." She won’t give her name, however. "My name is not important. You can call me Oh-Oh-Seven," she says, smiling.

Seizing the opportunity to get her thoughts into a newspaper, 007 leans over and whispers, "Did you know a thousand Civil War veterans are buried here, but there’s no monument?" She gestures out to Washington Square, the block of recently renovated park at 6th and Locust (if there were a 6th and Locust).

"There’s just a plaque." She observes solemnly. "Don’t you think they deserve a monument if Vietnam gets one?"

007 would be right if she weren’t very wrong. The thousands of soldiers in Washington Square were buried there in 1777 and 1778 — after fighting in the Revolutionary War. And they do have a monument, and a couple plaques and an eternal flame. It’s hard to imagine you could fit in all those Civil War casualties after filling the ground with the Revolutionary War dead less than 100 years earlier.

Still, this park’s already got about a dozen plaques (some marked "stand pipe" or "electrical") so what’s one more? Write to Mayor Street and tell him you want a Civil War monument in Washington Square. What the hell.

007 gets off and a woman with long braids and a cat-carrier gets on at Sixth and South. After sitting down, she tells the driver what the veterinarian just told her, that little Tuck, a black domestic long hair, is completely blind. "The other doctor thought maybe he could see something, but…"

The cat is meowing lightly and the woman lifts the cage off the floor and sits it next to her. She opens the cage and, using some paper towels the driver hands her, cleans up some of the cat pee in the bottom of the carrier. The well-dressed woman murmurs something to her well-dressed man. She’s wearing an Art Museum pin on her necklace.

"Over here is Lorenzo’s. If you’re not a red meat eater, you should try a chicken cheesesteak. Lorenzo’s makes a good one," the driver says.

"And great French fries," says the cat woman, placing the carrier on the floor between her feet. She gets off at Arch Street. When the driver points out the Masonic Temple on Broad, the well-dressed woman says, "Ooh, the Masons." The couple gets off at the Visitor’s Center.

8:15 p.m. 30th St. Station

On one of the many long wooden benches, a guy in big clunky boots and tan sweatpants is shouting out life lessons to no one in particular. "They killed all the homeless people in Philadelphia," he says.

Who killed them? The Catholics. And the Nation of Islam. With some help from "the Eastern Stars, the Masons and the homosexuals." The homeless were replaced by state prisoners.

"They couldn’t kill me because I’m strong." He’s always speaking, but his voice fades in and out of audibility. He ups the volume when he needs to accentuate points like "Muhammad Ali is a transvestite homosexual." He laughs boisterously at passersby who don’t acknowledge he’s talking to them.

A college woman walks up and sits down almost across from him during one of his low-volume rants. When he raises his voice to discuss the "gospel truth" about the Sisters of Mercy, she puts her finger in her John Irving book and gets up. She spends the next half hour reading while standing up. There are other benches with available space on them, but apparently the concept of sitting has been spoiled for her tonight.

The schedule board in the center of the cavernous room flickers every so often to indicate changes and updates in the train schedule. These are Amtrak and New Jersey Transit trains, not SEPTA.

Eventually the man finishes up his speech, ending with a solemn compliment to his secret audience. "I told the feds the same thing I’m telling you." He gets up, circles the entire room once and disappears.

10:45 p.m. Pattison stop, Orange line

The platform is quiet enough for dripping water to echo off the tiled walls until, all at once, about 200 Flyers fans come marching down the stairs. Just five minutes ago, the home team had apparently defeated cross-state rivals the Pittsburgh Penguins.

A man whose white home jersey has his own name on the back recounts the game’s final seconds. Defenseman Luke Richardson moved into the offensive zone, received a sweet pass from Mark Recchi and fired the puck into a small opening between a teammate, the Pittsburgh goalie and the right post with just six seconds to go in overtime. It was such a fast, beautiful, unexpected goal from a usually slow, gritty, predictable player, you have to figure he was on Brandy’s prayer list. No offense, Luke.

A 14-year-old kid in a black Penguins jersey stands with his father in the least populated place on the platform. Both frequently lean over the tracks and peer down the tunnel. A billboard advertises the release of the movie How Stella Got Her Groove Back on August 14. Meaning 1998. Stella’s had her groove back for over a year now.

On the train, the drunk are slow getting on board and most of the seats are already taken. "That’s okay, if I sit down, I’ll pee myself," says a woman with a plastic claw in her blonde hair. She laughs loudly for a minute or so.

Her friend in the tucked-in plaid shirt eventually seconds her statement. "I’d probably piss myself, too."

"Where’s Jimmy? Jimmy’ll pee himself, too," she laughs some more. Jimmy waves from a seat nearby and motions for her to sit next to him. She does, apparently without incident.

Two friends in their early thirties stop talking about litigation and start on hockey. "I just dig the way games were when I was a little kid," one man says, recalling the days when the Flyers played in the smaller Spectrum, not the state-of-the-art First Union Center. "It’s interesting, how the atmosphere has really changed at games. It’s so quiet. You hear cell phones ringing."

His friend agrees, "No one’s standing up yelling, calling the ref a fucking pussy."

Friday February 25, 2:40 a.m. Broad St. Night Owl bus

The almost empty bus waits at the corner of Pattison and Broad, its driver laughing and talking to the guy behind the wheel of an approaching bus on a cell phone. To the right is the exposed carcass of a subway entrance in the process of being remodeled. The escalators here and in other stations are being ripped up and replaced since the much-publicized incident in which a little boy lost his foot.

When the other bus pulls alongside the Night Owl, the driver hangs up and laughs some more. About 100 people are coming out of the other bus — out the doors and the big windows in back. It’s a strange and sudden evacuation prompted only by the desire to get a seat on the next bus.

He lets them all gather around his door before finally opening it and letting them on board. The bus bumps and winds around cars and construction on Broad Street, more crowded than it has been all day. More people get on at just about every stop before Market until everybody’s a little closer than they were at the dance club just an hour ago. Outside, plastic bags fly in tree branches like flags at half mast.

Right now, the Night Owls buses, this one and another heading up and down Market, are the only parts of SEPTA still operating in Center City. The only trains running at this hour are Amtrak metroliners stopping into 30th St. Station en route to Washington or New York City.

4 a.m. 30th St. Station

Just about every one of the long wooden benches is occupied. Each contains up to three once and future commuters, all resting their heads on bags and rolled-up jackets, all asleep or getting there. Except for the family on the bench with the built-in rattling heater grate. There is no rest for them.

Never far from anyone are the cleaning crews, almost quietly buzzing by on enormous seated floor cleaners. Security guards and police patrol the floor. And watching over everyone is a 50-foot statue of an angel. The symmetrical wings loom over the figure from behind the shoulders, casting a shadow that makes the face tough to see from any angle. In its arms is the slumped body of someone who is either dead or getting there.

The big beehive light fixtures are certainly dimmer than they were seven hours ago, but it’s still tough to catch some shut-eye. Staring up six stories will give you reverse vertigo. The ceiling is a geometrical redundancy, squares inside of squares inside of squares, all beside more of the same. A single blue, stringless, heart-shaped balloon rests up there in one of the squares and waits to deflate.

The McDonald’s and the Dunkin Donuts are both open all night. So is the men’s room where the little Amish boy saw Danny Glover kill that other guy in Witness. There’s no plaque in there or anything.

5 a.m. Outside 30th St. Station

A guy with many loud keys just went down the stairs to unlock the gate to the 30th and Market subway stop and never came back up. He’s probably okay. An older gentleman in a denim jacket is opening up his blue newsstand on a corner across from the post office. He wraps up yesterday’s unsold Inquirers and Dailies and gets out the half bricks he’ll use to paperweight the new issues.

While waiting, he opens up the Inquirer honor box near him, removes a McDonald’s bag and bent-up empty soda cup that somebody carelessly threw in there overnight. He opens a City Paper box and throws the trash in there. Great.

A big, white, bakery-style Inky truck pulls up quickly on the sidewalk and makes the delivery. The first wave of commuters heads from the subway stop toward 30th Street Station, some stopping to pick up the news on their way.

The sun doesn’t rise over the city’s skyline, it creeps like a rumor. As the light slowly filters through the morning fog, the foot traffic increases in and out of 30th Street, up and down the subway stairs.

By 6 a.m., no less than five Metro employees have arrived to hand out copies of the free paper. Most people take one. The front cover features the headline "Coworkers shot dead" and an infographic listing the 10 sleepiest mammals. Number one is the koala.

7:15 a.m. Market East Station

The morning yawners are arriving in unfriendly packs from various regional rail trains. They power-walk in double-helix formation, weaving in front of each other toward the well-marked exits. Accidental elbows are not apologized for on the stairs.

The rat seen here yesterday is nowhere to be found today. Either it made it through the night or it didn’t. There are a lot of traps out there designed to kill the little guy. It’s possible it made its way down to the tracks and eventually, to the vast underworld where it’s safe. If it knew not to take the escalator.

8:31 a.m. Market Frankford El

The El seems to start and stop with a little more jolt when you’re tired, but it’s something you get used to. One guy’s got the right idea: he’s got a McDonald’s breakfast sandwich in one hand and a big bronze can of Old English malt liquor in the other. If he were playing a radio, smuggling a gerbil and carrying an open container of gasoline, he’d be violating all of SEPTA’s posted onboard restrictions.

An issue of today’s Daily News looks like it exploded, spread out all over one seat and part of the aisle floor. It’s something to stare at as the train induces sleep between stations, only to wake you up at the next one.

9 a.m. Old City El stop

The lighted signs here are a little sad. They used to read "Olde City" in white on a light blue background until somebody informed the proper authorities that Old City doesn’t spell "Old" the olden way. No "e" necessary. Now there’s a dark blue square after each instance of the word "Old" and the spacing is off.

A woman in platform shoes is standing near the ticket booth, digging into her handbag for coins to pay the $1.60 fare. The sign on the window says "exact change only." A train comes hissing up the tunnel. She sighs like a geyser and hands two bills to the guy behind the glass. She doesn’t need the transfer, but she can’t get her 40 cents back either.

It’s like SEPTA says. They’re serious about change.

By the time she gets through the turnstiles, she hears her train say "Doors are closing." She runs up next to the moving cars and motions for the driver to please, please stop. It’s a little late for that. She sits down on the bench and waits for the next one.