An Unusual Trolley Run

Note:  I overheard this conversation while riding the trolley one day and it impacted me a lot. Whoever says we don't still live in such a black and white world anymore is ignorant to the society we are still living in today in the U.S.A and in many parts of the world. As God's children though, we must remember that for us, all barriers of nationality and races should cease to be important because we are all one body in Christ and our nationality is a celestial one. 

"But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ" 

-Philippians 3:20 NIV

An Unusual Trolley Run

My three red trolley cars run about 20 miles over their metal tracks every day. We stop at 23 stations and transport many people. Each morning a different trolley driver maneuvers my cars with care. I hear the driver’s voice sound through the intercom of my three cars. It began as an ordinary ride inside my second trolley car at 8:45 in the morning as I pulled in proudly into Dilcue Station. I was transporting my patrons on my daily Orange Line route towards Downtown. A few seats remained emptied and sprinkled throughout my second car. Already in the priority seating were an elderly white couple. The woman looked around alertly at the people boarding my open doors through her metal-framed glasses. Her partner minded his own business, a cap pulled low over his eyes, his left hand grabbed his gray cane as he rested his swollen and freckled legs on the ground.

Before my doors closed, music began to filter through the car. I had not been aware that I was providing background music for my patrons. I was feeling pretty posh about it until the source was found. The music was not coming from my speakers—no.

“Excuse me, could you please turn that down?” it was the alert woman sitting in the priority section. She was addressing the young scruffy black man with dark shades and faded army cargo shorts. His huge backpack hid his state-of-the-art stereo system away from sight.

The music played on as the young man hunched over and moved his head to the modern jazz with a dramatic passion. It seemed as if he hadn’t heard her.

“Excuse me!” the woman repeated a little louder, “Can you please turn it down?” she attempted to ask again politely, “I have a headache, and that really isn’t helping me.”

Everyone near the end of my car turned to look at her curiously, except for the man with the hidden stereo. It was obvious now that he had heard her and had no intention of listening to her request.

Her patience was wearing thin by now, “Hey! Can you PLEASE turn it down?” the agitation was evident now by her tone. It was no longer a request, but bordering a command.

The young man stooped down to look at her face mockingly, “No, I cannot”, he sounded the last word longer than necessary as if to annoy the woman further.

“You’re not supposed to be playing your music out loud,” she admonished, “You should be wearing headphones like him” she pointed to a casually dressed black man across from her to the right of my car. The man wore large headphones and was oblivious to the drama unfolding in front of him; at least, he rather appeared to be. His head was leaning forward, his elbows on his dark jeans. An elderly black man in a brown suit in the middle of my car had plain view to the scene, and watched cautiously, with suspense showing on his face.

The white man with the freckled and swollen legs only looked at the floor in front of him. His right hand casually thrown over the now irritated woman, rubbing her back in circular motions, as if to calm her.

“You! You think you own the world? That’s what’s wrong with you people. You think you own the world. Well you don’t. This wouldn’t be happening if I had asked a white person,” she said loudly. She had no qualms of being overheard. The woman would have continued with her monologue had not that phrase riled the rude young man with the stereo still blaring loudly.

“Hey, leave race out of it, lady! It has nothing to do with this, you leave race out.” He hoped to quiet her and drown her voice with his loud music.

“It has everything to do with it” her voice now reached a shrill note, “The other day I asked a white young man to turn his music down and he did.” He ignored her comment as she muttered away. Those patrons who had begun to feel sympathy for her earlier, now wore grim faces. “It’s because of people like you that makes me so mad and want to use the “N” word.

The young man who had been disrespectful at first simply warned her, “Don’t you dare used that word with me.”

“I’ll use the “N” word if I want to! I certainly have reason to, you s_n of a . . .” she proceeded to insult him by saying his mother was not of the human variety. “You know, I work for the trolley and I have their number, I’m going to call them right now.” As she dialed away she explained the situation to the operator on the MTS line politely at first and the music went down considerably. She described the homely looking man with the stereo, giving my present location. She turned to him and sneered, “They say, they’re going to put you in jail.” No one believed her.

By this time, my patrons and I both wished to have them thrown out and restore the usual peace of avoiding eye contact and minding one’s own business without anyone entering other’s private spheres.

The young man ignored her. Calling MTS was not enough for her though. Next, the woman called the police. By now, three trolley stops after their confrontation, the young man raised his music full blast, to show that he would not be frightened by her threats.

“Yes,” she answered the ‘police’, “he’s bothering everybody on the trolley, but no one else has the balls to call.” Everyone near her kept their eyes forward or on the ground, pretending to be invisible, but those farther away from the back, craned their heads curiously to see what was happening. “Yes, I’ve already asked like 4 to 5 times.”

“12^TH & Imperial. 12^TH & Imperial is next. 12 e Imperial.  Estación para bordar a la frontera: San Ysidro” The robotic announcement filtered through my speakers.

“Scuse me,” as people flooded in and out of my cars, the man with the loud stereo weaved his way out my door to the right, disappearing inside the morning madness of crowds at the station during my stop.

The woman, who had been so alert before was too busy on the phone with the police that she hadn’t noticed until all my doorways were clear once again. She stood up from her seat, her head peering out in both sides, her eyes seeking the man with the shades and the huge backpack, the one with the faded army cargo shorts and the stereo. Having lost sight of the young man who had run away from her threats, she sat—defeated. Everyone seemed to release a sigh of relief. The casually dressed man with the headphones no longer sat at the corner in front of the couple. The older black man with his brown fedora and business suit had also disappeared through the morning rush.

“I don’t care,” the woman replied loudly several times, “you know what? I don’t care.” Her partner’s right arm remained on her shoulder, his hand rubbing her back softly. It was to him she was answering. His remarks to her had been so quiet, so soothing, that before the quietness had returned to my car, no one would have heard him, only she. 

And she did care, we all knew she did.

Context: For this exercise we were to write down an overheard conversation, whether it was on a bus, trolley or the construction workers below your apartment window. We were allowed to give some context or make up the description. Only the dialogue had to remain true. This short narrative is in third person and I am writing it from the perspective of the trolley-personifying it.