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In TransitMay 01, 2006 On the South Station subway platform yesterday afternoon, waiting for a Red Line train to Harvard Square -- looking out of one eye I thought, Sparse crowd, Sunday afternoon, voluntary travel only, not the weekday go-to-work crowds. Out of the other I thought, There are more people on this platform than I see in an average week. "Charlie cards" have been introduced since last July, when I last took a trip on the Red Line. I used farecards for years on D.C.'s Metro, so I had the basics down. Only trouble was that D.C.'s farecards were barebones basic, but Charlie cards have a picture of -- you guessed it -- Charlie on the MTA on one side. I kept feeding it to the turnstile with the Charlie side up and the turnstile kept telling me to try again. With a little coaching from a T employee, I flipped it over: voilà, an arrow pointing in the right direction. I fed the turnstile; the gate opened. I thought I was so clever, loading Charlie down with enough value for Sunday's trip from South Station to Harvard Square and Monday's return trip from Harvard Square to South Station. Hah. Harvard Square isn't farecard-friendly yet, so I had to buy a token. Charlie is now stashed in my wallet, waiting for a rematch. It's only when traveling that I remember how many people at any given time are in transit, between one place and another. Danger danger danger. Fantasy writers know this: the vulnerability of the body while the spirit roams the astral planes, of the shapeshifter whose transition goes awry. A writer I workshopped with many years ago confided that whenever she entered the fictional world she was creating she was afraid she'd never come back, never want to come back. My body doesn't travel much these days, but I'm a border-crosser: I live in several worlds at once. The platform is crowded, the platform is nearly empty, both at the same time. Traveling south from Boston on the bus, I had no idea what was happening behind me or in front of me. A friend of mine is dying. For three years she's been fighting a particularly aggressive form of breast cancer, so this isn't entirely unexpected, but a week ago I expected I'd see her in Wisconsin this Memorial Day weekend. Saturday I learned otherwise. Just before I left home early Sunday afternoon I logged on to a website where her partner is posting updates, and where many, many of her friends across the country are posting messages and memories. Traveling south from Boston this morning I didn't know whether she still lived or not. If she had passed I didn't want to know, not yet; if I didn't know, then it hadn't happened, at least not on my bus. Schrödinger's cat is still alive till you open the box. Someone posted to the website: It's easy for her; she has her ticket. It's hard for those who are left behind. All of us who are left on the platform, watching the last lights of the train disappear.
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