The man who never returned was not there. But when I was lost — almost forever — ‘neath the streets of San Francisco I knew exactly how he felt.
Plus, I think I now know what happened. There is a secret underground world made up of metro subway lines: Boston’s MTA links through Brooklyn to the DC Metro, continuing south through MARTA in the Atlanta area and then winding over to the Boise VRT, with tentacles in all directions. Its final loop is in the depths of the Civic Center BART station in downtown San Francisco.
There are unfortunates who have gotten off at the wrong stop or descended into an unfamiliar station and have never been seen again. Only the brave descend into the bowels of metropolitan rapid transit systems. The brave and stupid descend into an unknown station in a sketchy part of town without a ticket to ride. Here is an advisory report:
Machines can be found, but they will not sell you a ticket, because they’re broken. This is only part of the problem, since you can’t figure out where the red line boards anyway. You probably wanted the blue line, but tough luck. The blue line links only with the yellow, which runs through a better part of town several levels above.
Functional ticket machines are elsewhere, but you should’ve gotten your ticket at the drugstore anyway, dummy. Once you miss that option and choose the wrong port of entry you are halfway gone. I think one member of the Kingston Trio mistakenly stepped onto an up escalator while he was lighting a cigarette, and that’s the only reason they lived to sing about the MTA.
Uniformed officers can be found on the final level prior to disappearance. If you ask their assistance they will explain somewhat wearily that they don’t work for the transit system, they work for the city. “You need to go to the information booth,” they will say. Information booths are only staffed in the upper regions. The officers will point you to an unmanned information booth, which subtly leads you to deeper underground unmanned information booths because you have already proven yourself unfit for public transportation.
By now you are beginning to mingle with the lost souls. But if you are really lucky — in my own case I like to think it was a matter of wisdom — you will identify a special person strolling among them. He or she might be called Homeless, which is inaccurate because home is only a tunnel away; Street Person is more fitting. The Street Person knows underground. He will lead you to a machine which mysteriously still functions, punch in all the numbers you can’t understand and then look discreetly away while you enter your passwords. He will show you how and where to insert your new ticket and what direction to walk when the gates of hell part.
Thank the Street Person as you pass through purgatory and onto the green line. Better yet, hand him a $5 bill. People get hungry down there.
