Michigander in Mass

My experience with the MBTA has been almost 100% positive, mostly because:

1. I have a reverse commute
   
2. I usually only have to travel 2 stops
   
3. I avoid buses and the Green Line as much as possible
   
4. I usually use a T pass
   
5. In bitter cold weather when all of the Orange Line trains break down, I've never been in any particular hurry to get anywhere
   

That experience changed last night. I neglected to get a T pass this month, because I figured I'd actually be riding my bike or driving to work more than T-ing it. But a persistent flat in my rear tire and no time to fix it meant it was T time. Yesterday morning, following the T's own advice, I purchased my return trip token ahead of time.

Yesterday night, I deposit my return token in the turnstile and cross through the gates before the collector is able to inform me verbally (by shouting through the glass window as best as she could--the speaking apparatus was of course broken) that there are no more trains--and that I would have to take the bus. Fine, I know this happens--they're still "fixing the signals" I guess, whatever that means.*

I exit the gated area, approach the collector in her glass cage, and ask for my token back. That's when things get ugly.

"I can't give you anything," the collector states matter-of-factly.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"I didn't sell you anything, so I can't give you anything."

(I'm a little incredulous at this point.) "But you obviously saw me go through the gate, and I presume you saw me put a token in--I certainly didn't jump the gate. I put a token in, and the T has refused me service. I'd like my token back."

"It's not my fault. A supervisor was supposed to be here to close the gates. I can't give you anything--I didn't sell you anything. I'd come up short. It'd be held against me."

(Okay, it'd been a long day. My temper is starting to flare.) "I don't really care whether you're short a buck twenty-five... It's not really about you. It's about the T giving me proper customer service."

"Sir you can take the shuttle bus..."

(Cutting her off...) "Yes, I know that. But the shuttle bus is free, because of the inconvenience. Now I'm being inconvenienced even more. I'm not asking for a refund, I just want my token back!"

"I can't do that."

"Well what do I need to do to get my money back?"

"You can wait for the inspector to arrive."

"When will that be?"

"She was supposed to be here already."

Perhaps it's because she didn't apologize. Perhaps it's her tone of voice, or the matter of fact way she states that I was screwed. Whatever it was, it makes me really mad.

"This is absolutely rediculous. I demand to speak to your supervisor. Call her again."

She picks up the phone. Deep breath, Van Hoosear, deep breath.

A few people come close to wasting their tokens, but I inform them that train service has ended. They can at least hear me, unlike the collector behind her glass.

Another T patron approaches the collector booth.

"I'd like to buy a token please."

"There's no train service. The shuttle bus is outside."

"I know. I'd like to buy a token."

"I can't sell you a token--there are no trains."

"I know there are no trains. I just want to buy a token," he re-states.

Maybe the glass is making it hard for her to understand? I have to interject.

"Ma'am, I think he knows there are no trains. He just wants to buy a token. Why on earth would you refuse to take his money? If you won't refund my money and you won't sell any tokens, just what exactly are you good for? Tell you what, I'll make sure," I say, winking at the now equally frustrated other passenger, "I'll make sure that he doesn't go through the gate. But please let him buy his token."

"Okay. There are no trains," she repeates in a louder voice to the other passenger, just in case he didn't hear her the first four times. She gets her $1.25. He gets his token. Remarkably, he pockets the token and does not use it to try to get onto a train--there's no train service, you'll recall.

I then watch as, no more than a minute later, my shuttle bus pulls up and departs. I'm not on it--I'll have to wait for the next one. Deep breath, Van Hoosear, deep breath.

"Call your supervisor again. This is incredible. I have to get home. I can't wait here all night! Call somebody. Call the T police. This is rediculous."

(At this point she makes several calls, but of course I can't really hear her because, you know, the glass.)

Thankfully, a supervisor arrives just a few minutes later. Finally, someone can shed some logic and good customer service on the situation. I plead my case to her.

"Well, the collector did the right thing--she's not allowed to just give out tokens," the inspector says.

Bingo. I'm angry again. "So you can't do anything for me? This is crazy. I paid to use your train. I'm just going to head right back up to the platform and wait for the train I paid for, and you can just go ahead and call the T police to escort me off if you want to. I paid for the service. Then we'll see who's right."

"Go right ahead," she says, reaching for the mike clipped to her collar. A challenge! (Of course she probably knew right at that moment that three police cars were on their way to the station--I know, isn't this getting exciting?) But through the angry haze a cooler head prevails. I capitulate.

"How can I get my money back?" I ask, trying to diffuse the situation--none too quickly as the first officer arrives on the scene just a few moments later.

"Well, you can write to the MBTA. They'll cut you a check. It'll take two to three weeks. I can give you the address." Okay, finally, we're at least getting somewhere.

"Two to three weeks? A check? For a buck twenty-five? Doesn't that seem a little silly to you? Fine," I say, shaking my head. "I'll take it."

The inspector asks the collector for a sheet of paper. At this moment, the first officer arrives.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, looking at both of us, but of course mostly me.

The inspector looks at me for a moment, then says: "No, no problem. It's okay."

The cop assesses the scene again, lets her know he'll be outside, and departs.

The inspector turns to me. "How often do you use the T?" she asks.

"Every day. I usually have a pass, but not this month."

"How far do you go, and which T stop do you get on at?"

"Two stops, that's all." I tell her which stations I use.

"Okay, look. I'm going to write you a note for one free fare. It'll have my inspector number on it." If I have any problems, she says, I can ask for her--she tells me when she starts and which station she works at usually.

Now we're talking! My stubbornness, if not exactly patience, has paid off. I thank her, send one more look over to the collector, and head out of the station. On my way out, the MBTA police officer calls me over to his car just as car number two rolls into the station.

"Jeez, I'm sorry--I didn't mean to trouble you guys that much," I say as the third police car pulls into the station. "Out of the frying pan?" I think to myself.

"The collector called in a disorderly, so we send three cars. Standard procedure. What happened? I got yelled at by someone telling me to leave you alone as I was walking into the station. What's going on?"

I explain the situation to him, happy that some other MBTA patrons stood up for me.

He shakes his head. "Yeah, they'll never give you a token like that." Thanks. tell me something I don't know. "Where are you headed? Can I give you a ride?"

Nice gesture, but rides in the back of cop cars aren't as cool as they were when I was a (usually well-behaved) kid. "No thanks," I say. "But I appreciate the offer."

Of course, in hindsight, I should've said "yes, but only if you run with the lights and siren on," but somehow the right words never quite make it in time. Never have. That's why I like writing. I can sound more intelligent than I am. Anyway, that's the end of my story--except that I wait around for the next bus, and so do the three cops, and I think I got an escort to at least the next station just to be safe. Me, a troublemaker! Brad, what do you think of your do-gooder friend now?

TO THE UNNAMED MBTA COLLECTOR: You probably walked away that night feeling like you were in the right. Shame on you, and shame on the MBTA for failing to instill any sense of customer service on its employees. You, Ms. MBTA Collector, are a representative of your company, indeed the only representative for most patrons. You were rude and unhelpful, and offered no recourse to me whatsoever. You, Ms. MBTA Collector, are the MBTA, at least as far as I am concerned. So to say "it's not me, but the T" is a rediculous statement.

TO THE INSPECTOR WHO HELPED ME: You kept a cool head and earned a great deal of respect from me. You also blamed "the T" for the problem, but at least you offered a solution to my problem, which is all I really cared about. It took you a little while to come up with the solution, but in the end you redeemed my T experience as much as possible.

TO THE MBTA OFFICERS WHO RESPONDED: God bless you all for putting your lives on the line every day. I hope I didn't pull you away from anything more important!

TO THE MBTA: I've said my piece. Shame on you for promoting a workforce where personal culpability overrides customer satisfaction and any sense of initiative.

* Yes, I know what it means. It's complicated. Blah blah. But it's certainly taking them a long time, and I think their time and money would be better spent trying to prevent every single train from breaking down when the weather hits zero Farenheit.