Hemingway, Meet BART

So Saturday night, we hung out in downtown San Francisco until fairly late - nearly midnight - before heading back out to our hotel in Walnut Creek. We, in a fit of environmental correctness (and convienence), were, of course, taking BART, the Bay Area Rapid Transit system.

As we went through one of the stops in Oakland (I think the first one as you come out of the tunnel under SF Bay), a gentleman got one the train. Heavyset, he was wearing a bright red T-shirt, jeans, a ball cap, and a pair of the Coke bottle glasses. In many ways he reminded me of the guy from the movie Office Space. He was also carrying his little cooler lunchbox. All in all, he looked like he was probably a dockworker, probably a very good one. He seemed like the kind of guy whom you could give direction to and walk away knowing he wouldn't stop until your job was finished. He also, and I don't know how to put this politely, seemed to have a few neurons that weren't quite firing right.

When I used to work in the model train store here, I met quite a few people like this guy. Some people would say that they don't know much, but let me tell you, for the stuff they know, they know it. And this guy knew BART, down to virtually every detail.

He may not have been able to utilize polished communication skills. He may not have been able to throw around big words like they were confetti. But, for someone with BART, this guy could be a wealth of information. He could pick up on details of the operation that no one else would even think to look at as potential problems. If only he could talk with the higher-ups at BART.........

Saturday night, he could. There was a BART supervisor on the train, sitting directly across from him.

Now I've been in the position of the BART supervisor; I've had many, many conversations with folks like the dockworker. Sometimes, when you're in the right frame of mind, it's a wonderful, informative conversation. Sometimes, you just can't get into it. When you can't get into it, it might end up feeling painful to listen to the person or you might find that you're talking down to them. Not intentionally, mind you. It just seems to happen.

The supervisor was quite obviously in the latter state of mind. He seemed to alternate between one word answers, "you should forward that to BART administration," and the occasional condescending remark. He didn't ignore the guy, but he never fully devoted his attention to the conversation. He was very polite and accommodating, but also fairly cold and disinterested.

I could completely empathize with the supervisor. He was supposed to be off work, on his way home, and here's this guy, again, talking to him at length about the length of the trains, bicycle policy, the number of out of service doors, where trains were turned, and a whole myriad of other issues. Frustration, interest, boredom, and an over-riding desire to be polite at all costs were driving the man.

As I sat there watching the conversation unfold, I was, for the first time, able to see the conversation from the point of view of the dockworker. Normally when I see these kind of conversations happening, I steer well clear, unless I'm in the frame of mind to join the talk. But this time was different, as I saw both sides of the conversation taking place, I found myself almost hurting for the dockworker.

It brought back memories of Ernest Hemingway's A Clean Well Lighted Place. The dockworker was the old man. The supervisor was the young waiter and I found myself naturally falling into the role of the old waiter.

I found myself sympathizing with the situation of the dockworker. I found myself wanting to see him have a successful conversation. I found myself gaining a much deeper understanding of him.

The supervisor was perfectly polite. Yet I felt a pain at watching him slight the dockworker. I don't think he ever did it intentionally, but the coldness of some of the replies........

The train finally pulled into Rock Ridge, all of about four stations up the line, and the dockworker got off after a very friendly goodbye. I watched him walk along the platform, a little extra spring in his step, thinking that he had made a difference. For a guy getting home from work at midnight, he was extremely happy.

Then I turned in time to see the reaction of the supervisor. It was the sigh of relief that comes with the expulsion of any memory of the conversation. He turned to look out the windows on the other side and slumped in his seat, drained after a long day of work and what for him was obviously a difficult conversation.

It just didn't seem right; didn't seem fair. Here was the dockworker bounding down the steps in the bliss of making a difference, of being important to the world in some small way, at the same moment that his whole conversation, his whole attempt to contribute, was relegated to the dustbin of bad memories.

Now maybe I'm reading the supervisor wrong. Maybe I'm imposing some of my previous actions on to him unfairly. Maybe he went into work on Monday or today and took some bit of information and used it as part of his attempt to make BART better. I really, really hope so.

As I got back to Walnut Creek and laid down to go to bed, I found myself lying there wide awake, thinking. Part of it was about the absolute stupidity that was happening back home at work (that's a story for another time), but mostly I was thinking about the interaction I had witnessed. I resolved to try harder to not be like the supervisor - even though he really did nothing wrong (if that makes sense!).

And I found myself in the role of the old waiter again:

...he would go home to his room. He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it's probably only insomnia. Many must have it.