By Chris Le
I live in San Jose and typically take Caltrain to my work in San Francisco. It’s about an hour and fifteen minute ride. Today, the trip home began as it always did—fast and smooth. Somewhere, though, between South San Francisco and the city of San Bruno, the train came to an abrupt halt. Confusion filled the passenger car, and soon fear (two weeks prior, there had been a bomb scare on Caltrain, and the memory was still fresh). We waited there on that bare stretch of track—motionless, unable to disembark—for several anxious minutes.
The conductor’s voice finally came on the P.A. system, and he said we would be delayed for an undetermined amount of time. And when it comes to public transportation, an “undetermined amount of time” usually means you’ll be waiting for a really, really, really, really long time. The passengers let out a collective groan, and we slumped back into our seats. But an uneasiness remained: we had no idea why the train had stopped.
We were later told that, at an approaching station, someone had jumped in front of a moving train in an apparent suicide. There was an audible gasp upon hearing the news. I, however, was still annoyed because that meant for sure I’d miss the first half of the Spurs-Suns game.
I wonder if there’s a special circle of hell for NBA fanatics.