Louise and The Men of Transit

New Way

Trying for another, safer all-TTC route home, Louise rode the subway south one stop to St. Clair and negotiated the maze of the station until she found the streetcar platform. She really had to stop thinking about them as streetcars. Remember, Louise, you're part of the TTC team. We know them as LRVs, she thought as she stepped onto the shabby concrete. A line of Flexity Outlook LRVs all along the long platform greeted her. Their sides shone red and white under the sun in the worn-out station. Louise shaded her eyes. She wondered which one to get on. She saw one or two customers half-jogging past one LRV after another towards the far end of the platform. She hastened her steps, ignoring the way her new brown-suede loafers rubbed the backs of her heels. She slowed as she saw what was at the head of all of the LRVs: an old streetcar. No, a CLRV, she reminded herself. Louise's face clouded over at the state of this intrepid Canadian Light Rail Vehicle with its brown-spattered stripe up the centre of its back where the wire extended from pole to engine; with its battered red, white, and black striped sides like a tank repaired many times; and with its grey curtain tucked around its wheels missing a section. It was first in line. She ascended the tall black white-edged steps, one, two, three. The driver said cheerfully, "Good evening! I was just about to leave."

Louise came to a halt at the top of the steps. She smiled and replied, "Good evening. Thank you." She thought: this is like the Third Way! He's telling customers right away things that might affect their trip. A frisson of thrill swept through Louise at seeing The TTC Way put into action.

The doors folded closed behind her with a squeak and a bang. The driver depressed the foot pedal, and the CLRV jerked into motion. Louise grabbed for the closest pole. It extended horizontally from the metal tubing that went up the window side of the steps. Thick black plastic encased it near the fare box. Her brow lifted, as she suddenly realized with grateful relief that the driver was right here, accessible, face-to-face with her, ready to help her with her transit stop question. The walk back from when she'd missed her stop yesterday had left her soaking her feet in Epsom salts for an hour afterwards. And now her heels were joining the complaints from her toes. Then another query knocked on her memory. Should she be calling him the driver or the operator? Driver was familiar. Perhaps that was an acceptable use for a CCTV member. Maybe she just wouldn't use either word when addressing him and get around the issue that way until she had a chance to listen to what the others called them when back at the office tomorrow. She asked: "Can you tell me when we get to route fifty-three, please?"

She was pleased with herself that she was up to date and asking for the route number and not the old-fashioned name. She'd memorized all the numbers for her route today before she'd left. There was the 510 that she was on and then 53 south. "I know this is five-ten," she said proudly.

The driver braked and looked at her sideways. "This is the five-twelve, the St. Clair streetcar. Five-ten is Spadina." He squinted up to the ceiling, "Or is it the King car?" he mused, lowering his head, smiling at her. He shook his head, "No, I'm only joshing with you. Spadina is five-ten. But no need to use numbers in the real world. That's management stuff. Only them and transit buffs care about numbers. You want to be on St. Clair or Spadina?"

Louise nodded, "Yes, I want to be on the St. Clair CLRV."

The driver snorted, "CLRV? OK, if you want to call it that." He began to accelerate forward again as he added, "I don't know where route fifty-three is."

Louise hesitated. Confusion wreathed her mind. Should she be calling it a streetcar, the name she'd always been familiar with, not a CLRV? Doubt muddled Louise's brown eyes as another question piled on to her confusion: didn't the driver know the bus routes that intersected his?

She straightened herself up, holding the horizontal tubing tightly, her purse reassuringly under the arm that belonged to her holding hand. "I'm going west."