COLUMN: Journey to the Dark Side

From Nathan Smith's "South End of the Northbound," Fall '95 You see, I have a peculiar affection for riding the shuttles. There's one driver in particular I always try to get. She talks to herself as she calculates the route, and once she makes the plan it's like the Indy 500. When she drives, either the accelerator is pinned to the mat, or the breaks are slammed. There is no in between. She consciously swerves to hit every large metal sewer opening or trolley track protruding out of the pavement, probably hoping she'll pop a tire and get the rest of the night off. Her three empty packs of Camels go sliding all over the dash as we squeal around every corner. It's actually quite like a ride at the fair, except there aren't any safety precautions like seat belts. Oh, seat belts are provided, but everyone in the van has made some unspoken suicide pact that if we crash, we're all going down together. Anyway, she has no qualms about backing 30 yards the wrong way down a one way street, or cutting off somebody at a four way stop, or letting the occasional colorful expletive fly. What endears me most to this particular driver, however, is her anomalous abstinence from honking the horn. Despite her many typical Philly driving habits, she never hits the horn. I like this because I've already grown to detest the sound of a car horn. I think everyone in Philly should have theirs disconnected by citywide mandate. If the horn is there, people will be tempted to use it even when it serves no purpose except venting the driver's frustration. Yes, it could be a revolutionary town, but I think people are tired as it is of the government's intervention in their daily lives. So instead I've decided to wander the city and rig pipe bombs in random cars, connected to the horn. There's your warning. I may be joking, but how do you know? You better just lay off. Anyway, now that I've made idle threats to the readers, I'd best get on with the subject at hand. Disappointed that I couldn't experience the Shuttle of Doom, I decided to take the subway for the first time since I've been in Philly. I seem to have entered an interdimensional portal disguised as a subway entrance, for things got really weird from then on. It would be interesting to go back today, and see if the entrance is still there. It lead to a fluorescent-lit maze of tiled walls and graffiti, and eventually right to the tracks. "Green line to City Hall" my subway map informed me would be my transport -- into the Twilight Zone. As the train pulled up I realized I hadn't even seen a token or farecard vendor, like I had always seen in the New York and D.C. subways. I got on and asked, "how much?" The driver just said, "You don't have to," and he motioned that I should just go sit down. This struck me as very odd. No fare, no ticket and the response I got didn't really answer my question at all. Could it be, a free transportation system in Philly? No way. Rather than dwell on it, I decided to take the free ride. Eventually we came to City Hall, the last stop. I got out, and found myself once again in a tremendous tiled labyrinth, twisting and turning in odd directions. I just kept following the signs to City Hall, when quite suddenly I rounded the corner and saw a man in blue jeans, a leather jacket, and a conical clown hat. He danced around in a stiff sort of shuffle, like those automated dwarves in shopping mall Christmas displays. To accompany his dance, he made these odd sounds. They reminded me of the "rap" beat button on a cheap Casio keyboard. I noticed immediately he didn't have a cup or a hat for collecting tips -- he was simply entertaining himself. I rushed past, and he didn't even notice my existence. Fortunately, the hall did lead to an exit. I had begun to fear I might be trapped in some alternate dimension forever, continually boarding trains for free and passing this same human beat box at every stop. As I emerged in front of city hall, I sighed, figuring things would settle down now that I'd left the netherworld. Wrong. I had only made it halfway across the street, when to my dismay, on this chilly, rainy October night, in front of City Hall, a woman ran past me in her black underwear, bounding along in short mincing steps, carrying the box to a Panasonic 14" TV. Yes, I did manage to divert my eyes from her butt to the box, thank you very much. Dumbfounded (which is not such an uncommon state for me), I watched her go to the end of the block and turn down another street. As a sort of denouement to the entire episode, I made it to the restaurant, only to discover I had arrived an hour early -- proof to me that I had entered some sort of time warp. I decided to wait and read, and ordered a beer at the bar to pass the time. Then the final stroke occurred. The bartender started hitting on me. In some strange role reversal, she actually came on to a customer! Of course, she couldn't get anywhere -- anyone attracted to me clearly has lower standards than I do. In other words, to rip off Groucho Marx, I wouldn't ever join a club that would have someone like me for a member. This final oddity of the evening convinced me that I, or the entire city perhaps, had been influenced by unidentifiable, alien forces. Unless, maybe, someone wants to tell me this marks my introduction to everyday life in Philadelphia?