"Only on the Rapid Ride, Ma'am"

On the way back from a visit to the EMP this morning, Simon and I hopped on a shiny new Rapid Ride bus at the north end of Belltown. Not because we wanted to get to West Seattle in a hurry, mind you. More so we could get downtown and transfer to something slower and creakier and Rainier Valley bound. As we settled ourselves near the back door, the bus was boarded by a pair of fare enforcement officers.

Now, these guys often creep me out when I see them on the Light Rail. I mean, I know Sound Transit’s honor system payment plan probably requires at least some random reinforcement, but the way some of the officers swagger around in their paramilitary uniforms feels unnecessarily intimidating to me. I think I’ve mentioned the time I saw three of them detain a couple of young men of color on the platform in Columbia City, while letting me and another white lady walk right on by? They responded reasonably well when I called them on it -- but I still feel like part of their purpose (intentional or not) is to scare off the kind of people who might make the Light Rail’s intended clientele uncomfortable: people emanating earthy smells, people sipping from brown paper bags while loudly explaining their fraught love lives to total strangers, people carrying food bank baskets and chatting in Chinese. The very people, that is to say, whom you regularly encounter while riding the bus.

So it was definitely an unwelcome surprise to see these guys pushing their way down the aisle of the Rapid Ride, demanding to see everyone’s Orca cards. As I handed mine over, I asked what the deal was. "I mean, I see you guys on the Light Rail, but on the bus, you can’t get on without paying, right? So what’s the point of checking again?" The man gave me a condescending smile. "You might not believe this, ma’am, but some people do evade the fare. So we’re just here making sure, and fining people who haven’t paid. Only on the Rapid Ride." 

I'm not sure what to make of the whole “only on Rapid Ride” thing. Maybe Metro is trying to establish the idea that, like the Light Rail, these snazzy red express coaches are safe for (and meant for), nice, clean, prosperous folks who never drink out of paper bags or lose their wallets -- the kind of people who have nothing to fear from guys in black uniforms with multiple holsters, because they “have nothing to hide.” Maybe the dodgy free-loader types, with their funky smells and their profane slang and their crumpled transfers from last month, will be left in peace on the regular routes. Or maybe this is only the beginning, and eventually we’ll be seeing fare patrols on the #7 too. 

I'm sorry, but can this possibly be worth it? I don’t know what fare enforcement officers get paid, but it seems highly unlikely that they’re bringing in anything close to their salaries in recovered fares and fines. (On the Light Rail, sure -- but surely on a bus, once we've all made our way past the fare box in full view of the driver, the law of diminishing returns sets in on further enforcement outlays?) But even if these officers were revenue neutral, they are costing us something far more important than money.

One of the beautiful things about the bus is that the drivers have some discretion in this matter of the fare. They expect you to pay, of course. They can tell you to pay it if you don’t, and if you refuse, they can (as Josie has discovered) leave you on the curb. But they can also choose to give you a break -- if you’re short a quarter, or didn’t get paid this week, or just need a free ride home tonight for whatever reason. They can do this begrudgingly or with a warm smile. They can warn you it’s the last time, if they suspect you’re taking advantage. The best drivers use the leeway they are afforded to create an inclusive, welcoming atmosphere on board, a space where people from every walk of life can coexist and interact and get where they’re going, together. 

This is a precious thing, my friends. Some days it is a miracle. By my lights, it is absolutely worth the loss of a few bus fares among thousands each day.

It is also the kind of thing that rapidly evaporates when a guy wearing dark glasses and a tight black uniform, with an array of mysterious holstered implements clipped to his belt, comes swaggering down the aisle demanding proof of payment.