An Open Letter To The Cute Eastern-European-Looking Girl Who Rides The MAX With Me Every Day

Dear Cute Eastern-European-Looking Girl Who Rides The MAX With Me Every Day,

I don’t remember when it was that I first took notice of you, but I know that it was your style of dress that caught my eye. With your vintage/thrift store dresses, tights, and ballerina flats, you remind me of this girl I had a crush on when I worked at Brentano’s in the Bridgewater Commons Mall, some twenty years ago. Urgh, what was her name? It escapes me now. She worked a couple of doors down at the store that sold fancy stationery. Actually, you know what, when your hair was long and all one length, you reminded me a lot of early-’80s Natalie Merchant, and let me tell you, that’s a major compliment. I thought she was the coolest chick in the world back then.

Then you got your hair cut, shoulder-length and layered, with side-swept bangs. At first I was all, “Wha-huh?”, but then I saw how it enhanced your Eastern European features. Seriously, you have the most amazing face. You look like a lost member of the Romanovs--like you should always be sepia-toned and wearing a high lace collar. I wonder what your ethnic ancestry really is.

But mostly what I wonder about you, Cute Eastern-European-Looking Girl Who Rides The MAX With Me Every Day, is why you are always late for the train. We take the same train every day, and every day it arrives at our stop at the same time. Yet every day you come speed-walking along the platform, heading for the ticket machine, while the train is already bearing down on the station. I have to admit I get all angsty on your behalf, especially knowing how peevish those machines can be. Sometimes as I step onto the train I catch a glimpse of you at the other end, bending over to collect your ticket from the tray, or even still feverishly pushing buttons, and I have to turn away, because I can’t stand the thought of that robotic voice intoning, with its grave finality, “The doors…are closing,” and you furrowing your side-swept-bang-covered brow in frustration as you stand there, freshly minted ticket in hand, while the train pulls away and its work-bound riders look dully on. This morning you were even later than usual, and actually had to run the last half-block to beat the doors. My breakfast of shredded wheat, banana, and soymilk was burbling around in my stomach as I nervously but silently cheered you on, and I was thrilled that you made it--but then I started to worry that because you hadn’t bought a ticket, you’d get a citation from a fare inspector. Fortunately (?), there’s almost never a fare inspector on our train. Thank heaven for TriMet’s poor planning, right? By the way, I liked your purple umbrella, and I made a little joke to myself, asking where your fifty-cent hat was.

But again, I’m wondering: why don’t you leave your house just a minute or two earlier? Look, I’m forever running late myself, so it’s not like I’m not sympathetic, but I know exactly how long it takes for me to walk at a comfortable pace from my house to the station, and no matter what, I make sure I’m out the door in time to arrive before the train does. Also, why do you continue to buy single tickets from the machine? Those machines were built by the minions of Mephistopheles. Since it appears that you work downtown, why not stop in at Pioneer Square or PSU and pick up a ten-pack, or better yet, a monthly pass? Seriously, I’m not saying this just because I work at a place that sells passes. It’s not like I get a commission or anything. But trust me, you will love having that pass in your wallet and knowing that you can hop on a train, bus, or streetcar anytime it strikes your fancy, without having to worry about buying a ticket. And this month they are a lovely pumpkin orange.

I know I work in alternative transportation, Cute Eastern-European-Looking Girl Who Rides The MAX With Me Every Day, but I am not proselytizing. I am thinking only of you.

Love,
Jenny