Adventures in Transit Retardation!

I mentioned previously in this space that I had decided to spend this past weekend at home with my parents in east Baltimore County. What I neglected to mention was how it was that I got there. Hoo boy. You see, on my average workday, I drive to the MARC Train park and ride in beautiful, horribly designed Historic Downtown Laurel. When my day is over, I take the 5:51 train from Washington, DC back to Laurel, which puts me in my car at 6:15 and home by 6:40. Wanting to save myself needless miles on the car, as well as some extra time to my evening, I packed my car on Friday morning with the intention of driving straight to Baltimore from the park and ride, with an ETA of 7:00 P.M. Without hotshot history teacher Michael Meagher to slow me down, I made ripping good time to Union Station, and found myself waiting in the station for the train to arrive and the track number to be posted. By 5:30, I'd say, the little LCD numbers popped up and I bolted for the tracks...I was a little too eager, it seems. By the time I got to the tracks, I had already forgotten where my train was. No worries, though. I glanced up at the information screens at the end of each track and found the one for me. I was still unsure of myself, for some reason...even more so when I saw an unfamiliar train attendant waiting next to my usual car. The tall, gray-haired man with the sunglasses and the easygoing demeanor was nowhere to be seen. I should've asked the attendant in his stead if I was getting on the train bound for Laurel. But, I didn't, and God knows why. I was listening to my DJ at the time; perhaps I was rocking out to a particularly "rad tune", as the children say. You know, the 35-year-old ones. So I jammed my silly little way right onto that train car.

As soon as I was in the car, I glanced around, looking for some of the usual passengers. No one seemed particularly familiar, but I haven't paid close attention to my co-commuters in Laurel, really. I still haven't rode alone very often, and I only recognize really remarkable faces, like the guy who looks like Michael Gross, the dad from Family Ties. So to reiterate, no Michael Gross. Oh well. I settled into a seat near the front of the car and called my friend Dot on my Motorola Crapmaster phone. I wanted to let her know I would be in town for the weekend, and to see if we could make plans. I heard the conductor make an announcement about the train route over the PA, but it was more garbled than Marlon Brando portraying a stroke victim in a radio show that was broadcast from a Chinese buffet over CB radio. As I caught Dot up on the news of my life, the train started rolling. Sure, NOW I noticed something was definitely wrong. I checked my watch - 5:37. I was on the wrong train, headed on the wrong route.

Five minutes later, the attendant came by to check tickets. I asked him as nonchalantly as possible how close the train would come to Laurel. He said that my best bet would be Odenton, or "OdINGton", as he called it, because no one in Baltimore speaks the King's English. Then I placed a semi-panicked call to my father, who after much groaning, sighing, and blustering, agreed to pick me up in Odenton. By the time I had arranged my ride, I was almost there. I disembarked from the train at 6:05, and waited. And waited. And waited. After reading much of the Washington Post Express and about half of Flannery O'Connor's "Everything That Rises Must Converge", I saw my dad pull up in his clattering 1993 Saturn, the one with an interior that looks like the dumpster behind an art gallery. It was after 7:00, and I hadn't had dinner yet, much less made it to Laurel.

With my half-assed grasp of Howard County, it took me nearly a half an hour to direct my dad to Main Street Laurel. As we manuevered along the "quaint" street with its half-blind motorists and logic-defying traffic light patterns, he turned to me and said, "THIS is the way you get to the train every day? No wonder it takes you so damn long!" Short, sweet, and to the point. That's Terry for you. Of course, after all that trouble, the 45-minute drive up I-95 was a cake walk...we'll just pretend it was, anyway. Final time of arrival at the Brotzman home: 8:30 PM.

What have we learned?

A) I am retarded.

B) Mass transit is the devil.

C) I will continue to curse the name of Odenton all my days. ODENTOOOOOOONNNNNN!!!!!

My next job will be to pluck the weeds in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, thankyouverymuch.

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