Red, Blue, Green, Orange-A Subway Odyssey

ONE twenty-eight a. m. on Wednesday, March 25, was a very special moment in the life of Bennett Beach and, at the same time, in the history of the MBTA. As I emerged from the subway exit and read the time on the top of the Waldorf Cafeteria building in Harvard Square, I realized with satisfaction that I was the new holder of the cherished MBTA endurance record-20:04 consecutive hours on the subways.

It was sweet, as sweet as running 26 miles or eating 40 pancakes at one sitting. The sad thing was that the people exiting with me didn't know that they had been part of such an historic event. In modesty, I let them remain uninformed.

It wasn't all roses, of course. My first problem arose Monday when I went to talk to Woody, our business manager, about funds for my outing.

"How would $1.50 be, Ben," he asked. I explained to him that this trip was scheduled to last 19 hours and that the MBTA no longer costs a nickel.

"Well, $2.50 should do it, right?" Woody suggested. "Actually, the ideal way to do this would be to give you 24 cents and see if you ever come back."

"Thanks, Woody," I said. "I'll take the $2.50."

My big day started at 4:30 a.m. Tuesday when I rol??l out of bed after three hours of sleep, itching to get on that 5:24 out of Harvard Square. I got psyched up on Don Ellis' WMEX religion show (today's topic: "Prayer in Sport"), and then slipped into my subway white socks.

I got my bag lunch out of the refrigerator and grabbed my box of Cap'n Crunch; I was ready to step out into the dark morning. Tim Carlson was still awake at the CRIMSON, so he accompanied me to the Square. It was a classic Gene Pitney situation-my last chance to turn around.

Naturally, I had to run to catch the first train. If I had missed it, I was fully prepared to consider the day a total loss and go back to bed until trying again some other day. I wanted to do this right. As the door closed behind me, I looked through the window and waved goodbye to Tim.

My grip tightened on the box of Cap'n Crunch, and I went to sit down. But there were no empty scats, 5:24 a.m. and I have to stand on the subway! At first, I was outraged, but then my ire mellowed into a bewilderment that all these people were actually on their way to work before 5:30 a.m.

Think of that the next time you struggle out of bed at noon for English 177. I did some arithmetic, and before long realized that these riders must have gotten up at 4:30 a.m., which implies going to bed at 8:30 or 9 p.m. the night before.

I decided that my first ride of this dark morning would be out to Ashmont, that is, Dorchester, the end of that red line. At 5:55 a.m., I yawned for the first time. At 5:55:5, I yawned for the second time. I began to think that I was going to yawn quite a bit before my day ended and wondered if I should start counting them. But there was the danger that I'd lose count at 10 p.m. or so, and then it'd all have been a waste of effort, so I rejected the idea.

At Ashmont, I was dismayed to find that I had to pay another quarter to get back on the train headed the other way. If I wanted my $2.50 to last the day, I obviously couldn't visit Ashmont too often, but that was a minimal disappointment.

"I've got to buy a pair of shoes, Mary. I bought some for $25, but they were terrible. I had to give them away. But I bought a nice pair for my mother for ten dollars upstairs at Jordan's."

On the way back to Park, I saw the sun and reasoned that it must be getting late. And I realized then that I was bored; the excitement was gone. This loss of enthusiasm concerned me since I had more than eighteen hours to go, and I hoped for a derailment or something similar to keep me interested. As it turned out, the whole day passed without a train or a car leaving the tracks. A smelly guy sat down beside me and started reading his Record American .

My first real down of the day came when I arrived at Arlington from Park. Arlington's a great station-you can change direction there without paying. I sat down at a bench at Arlington and pulled out my package of tiny wieners and half pint of milk. What I really craved was some Cap'n Crunch, but I had to eat my lunch before it got too warm. At this point, my head hurt, and after a few wet wieners, so did my stomach. I wondered what Ralph Cahaly was doing, and if he had any idea that his wieners were making me sick. I didn't see how I'd ever last the full day, but I had to hop up then to catch a train back to Government Center.

My next trip was on the blue line. I chose to go all the way to Wonderland, where I could supposedly change without charge. But when I got out there, I was greeted by the condemned roller coaster of Revere Beach and some equally decrepit turnstiles, which demanded another of my precious quarters. But at least on my ride out there, I had ridden in these cars which had heat pouring up through the slats in the wooden seats-really great on this cold morning.

ONE AREA which I was succeeding so far was in my determination not to talk to anyone all day. As I said, I wanted to do this whole thing just right, and talking to people I didn't know just isn't acceptable subway behavior. I was talking quite a bit to myself-but that was permitted. My goal of silence was unfulfilled, however, because several riders asked me directions, and I ran into four people I knew, one of whom I hadn't seen in six months. I just couldn't ignore these people, yearning to hear from me.

The next crisis was the remnants of my bag lunch; it was beginning to leak. Since I couldn't bring myself to eat any more of the wieners then, I was forced to throw them out. It was like putting a little bit of Ralph Cahaly in the trash can at Maverick, one of the best stations in the whole system, by the way. I liked it so much (partically because it was a free switch) that I went there 15 times during the day, frequently shuttling between Government Center and Maverick three times in a row. That killed 50 minutes whenever time seemed to be dragging. And part of the beauty of it was that you could get off the train in Government Center, walk right across the platform, and step in the train back to Maverick. They were that well synchronized.

At around 8:15 a.m., I headed out for Savin Hill, a recently remodeled station between Park and Dorchester and another free switch. Coming back intown from there I got a nice surprise: a ride in one of those new-fangled trains. It was better than any regular train I'd ever ridden; it was spacious, clean, and there was a loudspeaker to announce stops, just as there is in New York.

But my ride on this luxury vehicle was far from pleasant. The train was so crowded that I had to stand in the midst of a tight-packed group of people, and there was nothing to hold on to. So whenever the train made any irregular movements, which are regular on the MBTA, I ended up bumping into a 60-year-old woman in front of me. Each time I did so, she turned around and glared at me as if I were doing it with intent to smash her against the pole she was holding on to.

Her glances really annoyed me because I knew she wanted me to feel guilty, and I knew I didn't want to feel guilty. But somehow I ignored her, and at the same time formulated Beach's First Law of Subway Riding: never betray emotion of any kind. I was glad to get off that train, but I was unhappy that I didn't see another new one all day.

PROBABLY the most crucial few moments of the day were spent at Maverick at 9:30 a.m. I had been in the system for four hours, and I was destroyed. Suddenly, my head began to throb and my stomach threatened. I considered turning back. I could go to Government Center, then to Park, and then to Harvard and bed. It could possibly be the most wonderful thing ever to happen to me. I could try this stunt some other day when I was better rested-Thursday perhaps. But that meant getting up at 4:30 a.m. again, and there was no reason to believe that I could duplicate the feat.

Another possibility was sneaking back to Cambridge and bed, and then pretending I'd stayed on the whole day and writing the story as if I had. Immediately, however, I spotted a flaw in that plan: it was dishonest. The idea of tricking my innocent reading audience was abominable.

So, given that I was going to be honest, bagging my adventure meant returning to Cambridge and telling features editor Mike Wallace that I had crumbled, that I had failed to last more than four hours. I'd also have to face Larry DiCara with the same story. How could I look people in the eyes and admit such failure? That was it; I was staying on. I just couldn't let myself down so easily.

Soon, I was cruising out to Shawmut on the red line, and to Dudley on the orange line, interspersing those long trips with quickies around the Park Street area. My outlook was brightened as 11 a.m. rolled around. I had gotten my second wind. The only discouraging fact was that I still hadn't completed a third of my outing.

My general happiness with life and the MBTA was broken the second time-also the final time-I went out to Shawmut. Shawmut

is a disgustingly dirty station, where a large percentage of the most undesirable subway riders hang out when they're not riding the trains. I almost got locked in there with a homosexual one night after I had jumped on the last train of the night, but one which was heading in the wrong direction I got off that night at Shawmut and waited for a train which I hoped might come. Some guy came down and told me he didn't usually check the place, but that night he decided to, and you've got to leave now, kid.

So, anyway, here I am at noon, stepping off the train to cross over to the inbound side. Four of the local fans, who apparently had decided against school or work that day in favor of running and screaming in Shawmut station, noticed that I had this box of Cap'n Crunch under my arm.

"HEY. Captain Crunchberry," one called. I sensed that I was about to be heckled for my taste in cereals, and I rather doubted that our interaction was going to be confined to words. So how am I going to put these guys off? I told them that it was good stuff. "So's a punch," one replied with a smile. I saw his implication without too much trouble. Without further hesitation. I offered one of them some of my Cap'n Crunch. He liked it, of course, and it seemed to appease him. They wanted to know where I was from and what I was doing, and finally left me so that they could mess around in the station. It was nice to ride out of that place, and I was grateful that my new-found acquaintances had stayed behind.

A BIT later, I was at Washington, looking hard for a bathroom, but when I found it. I noticed that it was out of order. I sensed catastrophe. Failure to find a bathroom would no doubt be a factor in my ability to stay on the subways for 19 consecutive hours. On the bright side, this search for facilities helped to some extent to take my mind off the time.

Going from Washington to Dudley, I was joined in my two-person seat by a woman of some 280 or 300 pounds. Our dimensions complemented one another, but the problem was that she had just come from Filene's and was laden with purchases. On my left, the side bar was pressing in on me, and on the right, the woman's bright green and blue, sharp-corned pocketbook was sticking into one my

my ribs. I could have left the seat and stood up, but that would have been a violation of Beach's Second Law of Subway Riding: Never offend a person by moving away from the seat you share with him. So I sat there and felt sorry for myself; and worried about a bathroom.

Dudley, Government Center, North Station, Maverick-still no place to take a piss except in one of the trains, an idea which was becoming increasingly attractive. Then I got to Park, where earlier I had looked unsuccessfully for a bathroom. I went to the information booth and learned that there was indeed such a depository. When I go there, I discovered that I had to put up a dime to use it; but there was no hesitation.

I never expected a subway bathroom to be the picture of cleanliness, but it turned out to be even more disgusting than I had anticipated. There were four cigarette butts in the sink. Of course, I remember the time that I was in a service station bathroom in Union. Conn., and there were flies zipping around the urinals. I had to admit that that wasn't a problem at Park: the flies were all lying around dead. But you could take a piss, so I did and felt better.

A change of pace was essential, so I took a car out to Riverside. It was a nice trip, and though I slept on and off, I was able to enjoy some of the scenery. At Riverside, there was a free bathroom and I regretted my frivolous expenditure of ten cents at Park. On the way back, I witnessed some of the enthusiasm which I seemed to be lacking. A woman and her two young boys got on at Riverside, and one of them asked, "Can we stand?" Their mother responded with a terse "no." Then one of them started saying over and over, "I love standing up." I was ashamed of myself.

IT WAS 3 p.m. when I got to Park again, and I celebrated the completion of nine-and-a-half hours with a quick pizza and coke at Kwik Snak, the Waldorf of the MBTA system. I was really exhausted, but I never considered bagging it; I just kept riding. On one car, off, change to another, off, and so on. You get so that you just sit there and hope you never get to your destination because it means getting up to board another car or train. I thought about my hurried trips out to the airport in days gone by-the train seems to take forever. It was hard to understand that feeling during a 19-hour ride.

I spent the rest of the afternoon on some of the old standbys around Park, then decided to cruise out to Boston College. At least I was able to sleep some. Car lights were on by the time I headed back in, and that encouraged me quite a bit.

The next big event in my day was riding to North Station with the Moody Blues concert crowd. When the car got to Government Center, it was jammed right to the doors, but I couldn't miss such a ride, so I forced my way on. Unfortunately, my box of Cap'n Crunch was somewhat crushed in the process, but it was fun. So much so that I returned to Government Center and took another crammed car to North Station. I was going back for more, but I noticed that the crowd was thinning, and I went to Dudley.

At 9 p. m. just before Kwik Snak closed, I ate my final meal and thought happy thoughts. I still had enough left for another bathroom stop and a Record American An obvious strategy now was to stay near the center of the line; trips to outpost stations are not advisable late at night.

I saw my first and only drunk of the day during my second trip to Riverside, which is safe after dark. He fell onto some girl, and almost got into a tussle with her boyfriend, but then stumbled off the train. When I finally got back into town, it was nearing midnight, and I figured a couple of more short rides would do it. I went to Government Center, then to Maverick, where I caught the last train back to Government Center, then to Park to wait for the last one of the day: the 12:45 to Harvard. I was beside myself with pride.

I paid for a final piss, then found the guy selling the next day's Record American. If you're going to ride the subways in style late at night, you just have to have your Record.

I stood downstairs waiting for the train and read through Dear Abby. I was beginning to feel really faint all of a sudden and considered passing out, especially since the train was taking forever to come. Then I read Anthony LaCamera's column entitled "Television and Sex Don't Always Mix." Tony was unhappy about all the liberal discussions of-on a certain program, especially since several such programs were scheduled for Holy Week. Some of the guests were pretty free of tongue, it seems. Tony wrote:

"On that Monday stanza , a lady psychologist used a four-letter verb which Boston viewers probably had never heard uttered on the air in 21 previous years of local television. Because the telecast was 'live,' there was no way of blipping it out. The damage was done."

"Fuck," I said to myself as I waited for that train. A big crowd had formed, meanwhile, because the Moody Blues had finished, and the late concert was the reason for the rare delay of the train to Harvard. But, after all, I had had almost no long waits all day, and I had my Record to exercise my mind.

Then it came, and the crowd gave a joyful shout, I smiled. As I boarded I thought of what big, happy family Boston subway riders were-much more espirit de corps than in New York, where shoving was the rule. Charles, Kendall, Central.

The wall read "Harvard," my 418th stop. Think of that next time you sit bored through the four stops to Park. And as I walked up the exits, I suddenly realized that not only had I lasted the day, but due to the delayed train, my ride had been extended to 20 hours and four minutes-a new record. I figured the folks back home would be proud. I was.