The #62 bus rolls past the window of Hackney's on an aberrant schedule. The protrusion of bowed glass and LED-infused commerciality gleam under the calm lights of Dearborn St. as the height of Chicago's modern public transportation comes to rest, for a moment, directly in front of me. The individuals waiting for a ride hastily reference mobile phones and wristwatches, flex on tiptoes and even walk into traffic for a view of the upcoming bus. It seems as though they are willing the bus to arrive. These are not heroin-ridden bums, but professional, 9 to 5 types donning well-brushed wool pants, polished leather satchels, nubuck loafers, starch-pressed collared shirts and anguished facial expressions that leave one to believe this momentary lack of Knowing spells panic.
There are no schedules for the damn bus. Nada. You merely wait. It could be a minute. It could be an hour. It could be never.
When I first moved to Chicago, I would consult the train schedule posted under the heat lamps. I made notes, believing it would allow me to streamline my morning routine. Ok, I would think, the southbound Red Line arrives at 9:04 AM, just enough time to make my 9:30 class. On the opening day of the semester I awoke with confidence, knowing I had perfected this commute. I hit the platform as it buzzed with the muffled music of iPod ears and eyes fixed on the day's RedEye at 9:02. 9:04 arrived without a train. No light peaking through the tunnel either. Surely disaster had struck. A suicide. Yes, some forlorn soul finally decided they'd had enough. Perhaps a mechanical failure had strewn smoke through all 8 cars and the passengers were weeping openly, holding one another and praying the rosary somewhere near the North/Clybourn stop. Or a mugging. This made sense. The police would enter the train after ascending down through a manhole in order to apprehend the villain who'd destroyed my championing of public transit...it was 9:15.
I made my way over to a petite brunette and gently tapped her shoulder.
"Sorry to bother you."
She removed one iPod earbud and looked blankly into my eyes.
"Are the trains always this late?"
"Huh?" She said--removing the other earbud.
"The trains. Are. They. Always. This. Late? The scheduled arrival time was 9:04."
"Ah. Total bullshit. Don't look at that."
"So the sch-"
"The. Schedule. Is. Pointless." She said, completely and perhaps viciously cutting me off.
At 9:23 the train arrived. I was 20 minutes late for class.
I was no champion. I was a dunce in the face of public transit. From then on I simply awoke with enough time to wait.
* * *
A few years later, I bought a Blackberry. My email and internet interests would be immediately accessible. At this point I'd moved and the bus was the most efficient option for public transit. I flexed on my tiptoes, wandered into the street and clenched my jaw in the wake of uncertainty at almost every stop I encountered. Until I found CTA's bustracker.
Mayor Daley in all of his clout-filled glory had actually stuck gold in my commuter heart with this application. He ordered every bus to be fitted with a GPS tracking device corresponding to a server which in turn displayed to a computer or mobile device the exact time a bus of your choosing would arrive.
Which brings us up to speed. My distaste for the train schedule stemmed from its fixed medium. The theory of a train schedule--especially in Chicago--is preposterous in the internet age. The perception of fixed text in a non-digital medium has changed, for good or ill. For example, the train schedule fails to clarify who made the schedule, when, or what authority they had to do so. This never mattered before. You simply trusted the schedule. What were you to do? Call CTA headquarters and demand to know whom, when, and how the timetable was created? Of course not. But, in the internet age, when someone posts a blog or a comment, you immediately know who made it, when they did so and more importantly, how. Immediacy is what we crave and the internet age has provided it. Call it the generation of immediate gratification. Call every Man a journalist. Call your shot.
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