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 Summer
2004Rants, Raves, and Chili Dogs Trying to come up with this month’s column was an interesting task because I was dying to do a cutthroat exposé of the underbelly of transportation but sadly lacked investigative journalism skills. Of course, I hit brunch and tasked the girls with finding me a subject. Erika suggested traffic, but I quickly vetoed that. I could just picture a 6-page rant about how long it took me to navigate the Beltway, and, besides, there was nothing to expose. Everyone from Springfield to Gaithersburg was aware of D.C.’s congestion issues. Alison was pushing for an exposé on fare hikes, but as far as I knew, there really wasn’t anything to uncover. Stacey came through, sort of, by suggesting a story in praise of Guaranteed Ride Home (GRH). It was hardly an exposé until the light bulb came on and I mused to myself, “Was the guarantee as good as it sounded?” Stacey was a vehement supporter of the GRH program, having used it several times after her tyrant boss had scheduled her for overtime at the last minute. Erika and Alison had yet to try it, but both were registered. I was shocked that, as the most transit-minded of the group, I was the only one who wasn’t in the loop. I visited the Commuter Connections Web site (www.CommuterConnections.com) and followed the steps to register for the free program, all the while totally disappointed in myself for not having done this sooner. As often as I took transit to work (every day), it was a miracle that I had never had an emergency that had precluded me from getting home on the bus. But still, I lacked my angle. I had nothing to expose. It was dumb luck that I had never had to use the system. My luck was about to run out. The following Friday after lunch, I was visited by violent stomach pains. Nausea overtook me, and I knew I’d never be able to sit on a Georgetown Connector bus as it carefully navigated the potholes to get home to Dupont. I called Stacey to see if she could pick me up, but she was under the thumb of said tyrant. My stomach heaved and I silently cursed not having my car with me at work that day (as well as the giant chili and cheese dog I had for lunch). I began to think that being a transit guru isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I was lying on the floor under my desk with visions of dancing hot dogs swimming in my head when the phone rang and Stacey reminded me that I could take GRH. Clutching my stomach, I moaned and realized that the true test of the system was about to come. The journalist inside me did a somersault at the thought of the exposé while the monster in my stomach did Riverdance on my intestines, both of which made me even more nauseated. After taking a minute or two to compose myself and dial the GRH hotline, I crossed my fingers and hoped for good karma. The operator on the other end of the phone was great and was even sympathetic to my self-induced, chili-dog dyspepsia. She assured me that a taxi would be in front of my Rosslyn office within 20 minutes. I rolled my eyes and assumed I’d be waiting an hour or more. You know what happens when you assume, but not ten minutes later, I was nestled in the back seat of a cab, moaning like William Wallace at the end of Braveheart but happily on my way home. Not only that, but within the 20 minutes I had been promised by the operator, I was in my jammies, snuggled under the covers of my bed, sipping ginger ale and watching the True Hollywood Story of Macaulay Culkin on E!. So what you have is actually an exposé that turned out to be nothing more than a rave review (so much for investigative journalism). The moral of the story is that you can get something for nothing, and it’s not even a hassle to get it. Some guarantees are worth their weight in chili dogs. |
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