Tales From the Metro

I've ridden the Washington area's public transportation system regularly for 20 years. By my very rough reckoning, I have spent 182,400 minutes on Metrorail alone, the equivalent of 127 days with my bottom on a vinyl seat or my hand wrapped around a silver pole.

Metro aggravates me regularly, and I vow to drive. And then I drive, and I get aggravated and I vow never to drive again.

But really, I don't think I could ever give up Metro. It provides too much entertainment.

The Singing Man

There is a man singing on the Metro.

"And baby I'm stronger than be-fore."

I can't see him at first, can't even tell if he's to my left or to my right. His voice is not unpleasant exactly, but it is, oh, insistent.

"One day in my life . . ."

I don't know whether he has headphones on and is singing along inadvertently to a CD -- as so many do -- or whether he just prefers the acoustics of a crowded Red Line train for his a cappella stylings.

"Like an eagle needs it wings, and the fire needs its flames . . . that's how I need you."

Every now and then he slips into a little falsetto: "Like the night needs the mooooooon."

Passengers are exchanging looks, as if trying to confirm that, yes, there is a man singing, quite loudly, on the Metro. I decide to get up so I can see him better.

Ah, there he is: in a gray sweat shirt, its hood pulled up over his head like a cowl. His face is pressed up against the train car's door, his breath fogging the glass as he sings. I still can't tell whether he has headphones on.

"That's how I need you, like the air that I breathe."

Other passengers are smirking. It's hard to ignore this guy. None of us, it is safe to say, wants to hear him sing. But none of us is rushing to ask him to shut up, either. What I want is for a Metro cop to get on at the next station and say, "Please, sir, stop singing." And then maybe tap him in a kidney with a truncheon.

Ah, he does have headphones on, I notice.

"I dreamed of you, yeah."

The sign on Metro says audio devices are not allowed without headphones. But what if you're the one producing the audio? If this guy's gonna sing, he needs a device that goes straight from his mouth to his ears. Or maybe he needs a ball gag.

"I dreamed of you, yeah, yes I did baby."

My stop at last. I get off. He's still singing.

The Crying Baby

The wail of a child fills the train one evening. Waaaah! Waaaah!

So teary and smeary is the little girl -- 4 years old, maybe -- that she can barely catch her breath to speak. Her mother asks: "Why are you sad? Are you mad at me?"

The sobs catch in the inconsolable little girl's throat: "I'm sad at you . . . [choke, gasp] . . . because . . . [gasp, choke] . . . you won't give me caaaandy."

Sitting in front of them, her face buried in "What to Expect When You're Expecting," is a heavily pregnant woman.

The train stops at Takoma, and the mother leads her keening child out by the hand. But before she does, she turns and looks at the pregnant woman.

"That your first?" she asks. The woman, her eyes wide, nods.

"It gets funner and funner," says the mom.

Reading Matter

A tall man stands on the Metro platform. He is dressed entirely in black: black pants, black shoes, a black leather duster that reaches past his knees. He looks like a preacher from a Mad Max film.

In his hands is a book bound in white, its onionskin pages thumbed to a dull softness. The volume's title is stamped in gold foil on the spine and the cover. I can't make out the name at first, but I think I know what it must be.

Then the train comes, the man in black shifts, and I catch a fuller glimpse of his book: "The Courage to Be Rich."

Ah. America's other religion.

Something I Don't Like About the Metro

I don't think I've ever missed a train waiting for a rail-to-bus transfer in the Metro station to print out, but I'm convinced it's going to happen one of these days.

When you push that lighted button near the escalator, there's a pause. Then the paper eases itself out oh so s-l-o-w-l-y. The hesitation can be nerve-racking if you hear your train pulling into the station.

I want the transfer to shoot out like a sporting clay after a gunner has shouted, "Pull!"

Bam, into my hand as I race for the train.

Something I Like About the Metro

You're in the station. Two trains arrive at about the same time. First one train sounds its door chimes, then -- a split second later -- the other does: Ding . . . DING. Dong . . . DONG.

It's like two massive animals communicating back and forth, an impromptu underground symphony.

It's the Thought That Counts

The lighted displays on the fronts of Metrobuses provide some of the area's finest unplanned poetry. My favorite: "Out of Service . . . Have a Nice Day."

Tell me your Metro moments. Send them (with "Metro" in the subject line) to kellyj@washpost.com, or mail them to John Kelly, The Washington Post, 1150 15th St. NW, Washington, D.C. 20071.