The Charlie Ticket
In 1887, amid much pomp and circumstance, “America’s first subway” opened, running under Tremont St. Boston — and ever since it’s been on a downward track.
Growing up on Cape Cod, riding the subway in the city was always a special treat. The subterranean labyrinth of dark tunnels never ceased to stimulate the imagination, the echoing sounds ringing from the depths and rising to the bustling city.
But as the unique experience became a common routine, the subway lost its mystique.
The mad dash to find a seat, the awkward looks and curious smells, the sweltering cauldron of contagious germs — all led to the gradual disillusionment of riding the “T.”
But all the while, as the treat became a necessity, the mundane ride on the subway had one redeemable factor: one dollar per token, one token per ride.
The simplicity of such a system was of little thought, though in retrospect quite taken for granted. But as the demands for revenue from a bloated bureaucracy and the novelty of new technology coalesced, the days of the token came to an end and the Charlie ticket was introduced.
Since graduating from college, trips into the city have been few and far between. Once again, jumping on the subway was a special occasion rather than a daily occurrence. The city had returned to be the oasis of spontaneity which it once had been, the place of continual discovery.
And so it was last week, when a random trip to the city became the occasion for a discovery of different sort: the Charlie ticket.
I decided on going into Cambridge to a place called the Garment District. So, I hopped on the “T” at an old stop I used to use, Wollaston stop in Quincy. It was there where I discovered that the familiar turnstiles had been replaced by electronic plastic doors and the token dispenser by the Charlie ticket machine.
‘Ah, Touch-screen! How convenient.’
‘Let’s see — All right, easy enough. Five, Ten, or Twenty dollars? Well, I’ll just be needing three or four trips, so five dollars. Put my five dollar bill in. No to receipt. Out comes my ticket. Easy enough, and I’m off.’
I got off at Downtown Crossing for a bite to eat. Then I got back on and headed to Kendall Square at Cambridge. It was at this point that the frustration of dealing with the city began to resurface.
‘Now, where is this Garment District? I know it’s near here somewhere. I think it’s down this street. Or maybe it’s that street. And about 20 minutes and two bad directions later, I managed to find it — closed.’
And then it started to rain.
And then the aggravation.
And then the fateful encounter with the Charlie ticket system.
I headed into the Kendall T stop. Down the flight of stairs. Took out my card. Put it into the slot. And — Buzz! Try it again — Buzz!
‘What? Why isn’t this working?’
I try again and again. Each buzz attracting a new face.
‘Why is this not accepting my ticket? I put 5 dollars in it. I know that the fare’s gone up a little, but something’s must be wrong, I should at least get three or four fares.’
And hearing the train approach, I accept the situation and rush over to the ticket machine and go through the whole process again.
‘Oh, this means I have to buy another five dollar ticket for just one ride. Ugh!’
‘Crap, I only have a twenty. Well, I’ll just get a five dollar ticket out of it.’
And then, Cling clang cling! , as fifteen Sacagawea dollar coins dispense below.
The train approaches. I swiftly grab those metal pieces of the continuous, never-ending failed experiment known as the dollar coin.
And as I briskly run by the MIT billboards which show the progress of technology on our lives, the irony is not lost on me — the day’s experience with the current advance in technology had been a sour one.
And on the ride home, I ponder this experience and the many questions I have:
How can a fare go from one dollar to two?
If I get two fares with a five dollar ticket, where’s that extra dollar go?
Why can’t I buy one fare at a time?
Who came up with this?
Do they realize people like me are getting screwed?
Someone needs to explain . . .
And so with a determination which arises only after experiencing that rare moment of public embarrassment and institutional thievery, I seek the answers I deserve. I want to know who this Charlie is and what’s he done with that extra dollar of mine. It’s time to write the man.
Coming later, the response from the MBTA regarding the aforementioned concerns with the Charlie system. Next stop: Commuter justice.
