I've felt an OS rant coming for a long time on this topic.  Perhaps some of you fellow regional rail riders will commiserate.  Some of you may think I'm just a cranky middle-aged woman (nods knowingly at CrankyCuss, who could probably write something far more eloquent and hilarious on this issue).  But it's got to get off my chest or I fear I will have to invest in a larger bra.

I am a daily SEPTA passenger on the R7 train line to Philadelphia, which delivers and collects humans from Trenton, NJ through Chestnut Hill outside the city.  Because the R7 − like its sister the Main Line R5 − shares tracks with the Northeast corridor's Amtrak train, we are beseiged by any number of outtages, electrical issues and 'police activity' alerts on any given day.  We also have to put up with the hyper-speed Amtrak Acela, which blows by my departing station, Cornwells Heights, with such force that I often find my morning Metro plastered in my face or my umbrella departing Mary Poppins-like into the wind.

Back in the early 1980's, I used to ride what was then known as the Chestnut Hill East, when SEPTA was the more customer-friendly Conrail.  Ah, those were the good old days − smoking cars and partying with the conductors, sharing $2 styrofoam cups of beer from the Reading Terminal Bar (see Brian DePalma's Blowout for the full ambience of that place).  Passengers became friendly with one another − hell, I regularly met with some of my fellow smoking-car riders for a monthly Chinese BYOB get-together off the Wyndmoor station.  Politeness was the rule.

No more. 

Maybe it's just the more brutal nature of the Northeast Philadelphia commuter as opposed to the more genteel, suburban/Chestnut Hill character.  Maybe its just that humans have become surlier in general.  But I have to say, in my fifty years on this orb, I have yet to encounter the level of sheer rudeness I've met on the Northeast R7.  And I'm not talking rowdy teenagers, disaffected urban youth or New York passengers passing from or through Philly.  I'm talking 60-plus year-old women.

Case study #1:  While waiting for my after-work train at Suburban Station one day, I observed what I've come to call the NE Hags −a gaggle of late-50's, early 60's bubbleheads nearing retirement from dead-end clerical jobs with center city law firms − going through their usual motions: jockeying for position on the platform, subtly shifting one foot, then another, to nudge out a waiting commuter.  Then there's the ubiquitous member of the Hag Club who has to assault everyone with massive doses of her vanilla body spray. Um, here's a news flash for ya, Hag: vanilla is a food flavoring.  Occasionally, it can neutralize room odors as a candle or air freshener.  But it does not belong on the human body.

The head Hag jockey is a dumpy, dim-witted woman who stands as near as she can to a platform support column, knowing this is where her preferred train door generally stops, swinging her bag like a 5-year old waiting for the school bus and chattering to her fellow Hags like a magpie on Meth.  She just makes me feel...wierd.  And nervous with all that frenetic bag-swinging.

As the R7 rolled in, the NE Hags began to swarm en masse toward the door, well before said door even comes near them.  As the train stops, the conductor steps off and the Hag coterie pushes as a mob toward the opening.  But wait.  What's this?  A passenger is debarking?!  Good Christ, someone actually GETTING OFF THE TRAIN?!!  This has put a serious kink in the Hags' usual daily manoeuvre.

So they decide to just walk over the passenger as a horde.  But said passenger is a rather large, burly man who ain't havin' it.  He'd like to get off the train thank-you-very-much.  Yet the Hags persist.  So the debarker lets fly a few (well-deserved, in my observation) expletives: "Jesus f*cking Christ, can I get off the train?!" among them.   The Hags go all a-twitter,with the head bag-swinging magpie jockey exclaiming to the conductor that this man is "abusing" them.  Meanwhile, the conductor blithely stands just a foot or so from this scrum, not saying or doing a thing.  I'm convinced some  SEPTA regional rail conductors are specifically trained to do just that.  And they do it well.

Burly debarker is still struggling to get off the train and still, the Hags push ever onward.  Finally I can stand no more and address the conductor, "Um...are you going to help this guy get off, or let these women trample him to death?"  I hear a few fellow platform folk mutter, "Yeah...dude...let him off." Finally jarred into action, the conductor flushes and allows, "Ladies, please let passengers off the train."  The sea of Hags reluctantly parts and burlyman finally makes his relieved exit.  I'm sure he's had nightmares for months.  I know better than to try to force myself into this Hag flying wedge and allow them to jostle for their favored seats.  But while waiting, I remark to the conductor, "Yeesh.  These women would climb over their own dead mothers to get on this train!"  He smiles sheepishly and shrugs.

Shrugs?!

Case #2: SEPTA has, mercifully, gone the way of the times and designated the first rail car on all rush-hours trains a "quiet car," free from cell phone noise, over-loud iPods and screaming Hags.  Unfortunately, being that this is only one car among 7 to 8 on any given rush-hour line, it's usually full to the brim before it even hits Suburban Station.  Nonetheless, SEPTA has a posted policy on keeping cell phone conversations quiet, music turned low and passenger conversations quiet on every train car.  Yet daily I am beseiged with the cell phone screamers, heavy metal enthusiasts with their mp3 players cranked to 11, screaming Hags and the occasional loud, misbehaved child.  And again, many conductors do nothing.  Even when you ask them. 

On one particular ride, I was treated to a New York commuter who boarded at 30th Street Station,  headed for the NJ Transit connection with two enormous suitcases and a penchant for extremely loud phone conversation.  As the conductor passed to collect tickets, I quietly asked him if he would implore the woman to turn down the volume of her conversation.  I would have asked her myself (and have done so many times in the past, usually with positive results, being a fairly direct yet polite individual), but she was very large and was glaring at everyone around her.  So I decided to let the conductor do his job.  But he ignored me and moved on.

At the next station stop, I opted to just move cars to escape the insanely loud woman (who was now describing a friend's weekend sexual escapades).  As I passed into the next car, which did look unusually dark and empty, I heard the conductor behind me yelling, "Hey lady!  That car is closed − you can't go in there!"  Perhaps it was the scene of a murder?  Some loud cell phone-talker finally silenced?  Belatedly I realized this, and started back into my car of origin while telling the conductor, "Well, I asked you to intervene and have that woman speak a bit more softly, but you ignored me."  He gave me a pithy look, as if I'd asked him to wrestle a large kimodo dragon (probably not far off the mark), and replied, "You'll have to move forward the other way."  No apology for not doing as I requested and putting the kibosh on Cell Phone Screamer; no apology for anything.

C'est la vie.

Case #3: This was my Waterloo...my breaking point.  Today.  It's a Friday night.  It's hot. I can taste that waiting glass of pinot grigio like nobody's business.  We all want to get home.  So I wait on the platform with the usual NE Hags and make my bedraggled way onto the R7, taking my usual seat in one of the facing 4-seaters at the door of the train.  A group of quieter women, also regular riders, join me in the remaining three seats.  I dive into Courtesans, a marvelous chronicle of the lives of several 17th and 18th century English demi-reps.  All is well.  My seatmates are conversing quietly and the ride isn't long − this train expresses to three stops before my own.  Pinot, here I come.  My fellow Northeast Philly denizens debark at Holmesburg, then onward we go to Torresdale. 

As we leave Torresdale station, another regular rider opposite our 4-seater rises in advance of my own stop, the Cornwells Heights station.  I follow suit behind her as I notice a very short, 60-ish woman in my periphery making her way up the aisle.  This is not an infrequent occurrence: often more aggressive riders will begin making their way from their back-of-train seats toward the door, jockeying to get ahead of those passengers seated closer to the door who, by all rules of etiquette, should be permitted to exit first.  But the NE Hags are excellent at manoeuvering, and not possessed of any depth of character, manners or intelligence.  So often as not, you'll find at least one or more shoving their way ahead of passengers seated closer to the exit.  It's all in the timing and I try to anticipate this level of absurdity, rising well before my station, and I and my fellow front-riders position ourselves such that the Hags cannot pass.

Except that this one little Hag was determined.  When the train rolled to a halt at Cornwells Heights, she decided to show her displeasure with my ranking in the disembarcation order by violently shoving me as I tried to exit.  And I mean violently.  She thrust a fist into my back.  As a survivor of domestic violence, I learned the lesson on bullies when my late husband fired a round into himself and me.  I survived; he didn't.  So I turned and firmly said, "Do not try to shove me again."  At which point she uttered the brilliant retort, "Drop dead!"  Why, so you can climb over me more easily?

Part of the Pennsylvania code on simple assault defines it as an "...attempt[s] to cause or intentionally, knowingly or recklessly causes bodily injury to another."  Hag jabbing her fist into me just because I happened to be standing between her and the train door meets that definition.  Telling me to drop dead probably constitutes a threat as well.

But I curb further response/action, and continue on down the train steps, where the conductor stands waiting on the platform.  I feel another shove in my back and Hag steps on my skirt, causing me to pitch forward and then jerk back.  Luckily I'm holding the stair rail or I'd be face-planted on the platform.  I'm now in a state of a complete and utter shock that a fellow passenger would show such a level of violence for no good reason.  As I gratefully touch down on the platform, I turn to the conductor and say, "Excuse me, she just tried to push me down the stairs...she assaulted me."  I'm expecting immediate, concerned response...cops called...train unavoidably delayed due to 'police activity.'

But that ain't happening.

This fairly regular conductor is named Glenn.  He is not the same conductor as in Case #1, but had been our ticket-taker for some time and is generally a jovial, passenger-flirty fellow.  Although a term like "conscientious" is not one I'd apply to Glenn and his attention to his job.  He's been known to cavort and flirt with his young, female passengers du jour between cars, an area expressly forbidden to SEPTA passengers while a train is in motion.  I don't even want to know what they do or say.  I just keep my nose in my book and mind my own business.

I do have confidence that Glenn is only too well aware of the Hag situation on the R7 (I've heard him joke to some of his young female friends about the "screaming old ladies" and in particular, some pretty scathing comments about the head bag-swinging Hag) and will receive my complaint in a serious, or at least understanding, manner.  So imagine my surprise when he responds to my report of an assault with, "Well, I guess she's not your friend!"

Now, in fairness, I suppose it's possible that Glenn thought the Hag and I knew each other and were role-playing.  Although he sees me ride every afternoon, by myself, rarely making conversation with fellow passengers, and generally absorbed in whatever book I'm currently reading.  So after seconds of my blinking in astonishment at Glenn's laconic assessment and him standing there grinning, with the Hag still hot on my heels glaring menacingly, I am so in shock that I decide the better part of valor is to just continue gamely to the lower parking lot where my daughter waits.  A second, even louder "DROP DEAD!" rings in my ears, and I note the Hag has continued safely beyond me to the waiting Park-and-Ride buses.

By the time I reach my daughter's car, the reality of what I experienced and the complete, utter inaction of our SEPTA conductor has hit and my Irish is pretty well up into triple digits.  I share the experience with my very sympathetic daughter, who has been regaled with countless tales of daily SEPTA foolishness and mayhem.  And then I whip out my cell phone and decide to call SEPTA.

After going through the requisite selections to speak to a living, breathing customer service representative, I finally get to spill my tale of assault.  I provide the rep with descriptions, names (Glenn's) and other details of the incident.  The seemingly-concerned rep asks if I was injured.  I tell him no, but I am somewhat shaken by the event and shocked at the lack of response by the conductor.  The rep then deadpans, "Well, we usually consider assault something like a knifing, shooting or fist-fight..."  So I then treat him to the Pennsylvania code on assault, and explain how Hag's hitting me in the back with her fist and trying to shove me off the stairs meets that code.  At that point, I heard keyboard clicking and the rep muttering, "Glenn...Glenn..." as he's clearly looking up conductor assignments for the R7.  Perhaps he's actually taking me seriously.   I further explain that this sort of rude behavior (minus the fists) is pretty standard fare on the R7  and is not a phenomena I've experienced taking other lines, like the R2 Warminster or R3 West Trenton.  I suggest that maybe it's time that conductors on this line start taking their jobs seriously and put a clamp on the rudeness.  In other words, do their job.

In due course, I am assigned an incident number and asked for a phone number to which someone will (allegedly) respond with a follow-up.  I am told that the incident will be reported to the regional rail management center.  I thank the very polite rep and ring off.

The pinot has partly assuaged the sting of the assault.  It's actually going down quite well, thank you.  But it remains to be seen how seriously SEPTA takes complaints of this nature.  I will have to clamber on board the R7 Monday morning and may well encounter my bully again on the ride home.  Bullies – be they incredibly rude and violent train commuters or those we encounter on the roads around our Levittown neighborhood − seem to thrive in abundance in this neck of the Philadelphia region.  I don't know why that's the case.  Perhaps it's because this is known to be a rough-and-tumble, hard-luck, working-class area where folks have had to fight for every scrap they've got.  But as a widowed mother who raised two kids on a largely non-profit salary, I'm down with the whole working-class ethos and have had to scrabble my own way forward.  Hell, I chose to live in this area because of the cheaper properties and my disgust with the bourgeoisie of our former snooty Bucks County neighborhood. The key difference is I was raised with manners and a sense of justice.  I hold doors open, allow seniors and the infirm ahead of me in line, and otherwise show respect for my fellow humans.  My momma done brought me up that way and I'm all for the good Karma the pay-it-forward approach gleans.

I hope SEPTA starts to enforce some of their 'passenger etiquette' policies on the R7.  A good start would be an orderly disembarcation process: passengers should exit in the order in which they're seated – those closest to the door go first, after anyone needing assistance, the infirm, etc. 

Without order there is chaos, and when you couple that with a Northeast Philly atty-tood you get a primed-to-fire bully.  And one day someone will get hurt.