There are many serious and well-justified complaints against the decrepit Washington Metro system, but sometimes there’s a happy surprise.
There I was one typical morning last fall in full grim-commuter mode: arms crossed, legs spread to claim maximum personal territory. And then I heard this voice, sunny and bright, over the intercom: “Goooood morning, ladies and gentlemen,” the driver said. “Pick up your newspapers and hold onto your morning coffee. We’re going [dramatic pause] downtown!” The doors closed, and we were off. It was exciting. The effect was visible. People sat up a little straighter. I smiled and took my knee out of my seatmate’s ribcage.
Over the past several years Metro has been slowly replacing their most unreliable trains with new 7000-series rail cars. They are spacious, generally clean, and don’t leave you with the impression that you’ve traveled stuffed in the sweaty armpit of a three-piece mustard-colored nylon suit, unwashed since the ’70s. The new cars are nice, but I do have one reservation. Instead of the driver telling you what the next stop is, most of the voice work is done by computer, a new Siri-like character, professional and consistent to a fault.
In the new cars you rarely hear from the driver. Hidden behind tinted glass at the front of the train, he or she might as well not be there at all. One late night, we pulled into the last station on the line in the pouring rain. The car was cold and empty except for a few passengers huddled under their coats, some of them waking up from naps snatched leaning against the smudged windows. And then we heard this voice, quiet and concerned.“Have a good night. Take care. Be safe getting home,” the driver said with all the sympathy in the world. “See you tomorrow morning and we’ll do it all over again.” A few passengers smiled and turned to one another with a “yeah, that’s life” kind of look. I put my book under my fleece and made a run for it through the rain, feeling unusually fraternal toward my fellow passengers.
No doubt recognizable to millions of Americans from their trips to the nation’s capital, the original voice of the Metro (“step back to allow the doors to close”), local resident Randi Miller, has always said she would love to make more recordings for the subway system. “Consistency’s very important,” she told the Washington Post. “You want to have one voice for everything.” I’m inclined to agree. Metro could be improved in a million ways. But there’s a lot to be said for a calm, clear, commanding voice over the intercom.
This past summer I took a bus ride from Baton Rouge to New Orleans. Greyhound was doing its absolute best impression of a port-a-John on wheels. Our driver didn’t show up for an hour and a half after we were supposed to leave. We finally got on the road, but the bus broke down almost immediately. A burning smell wafted through the cabin as the driver turned back toward the bus station. The passengers groaned and cursed climbing off the bus and grumbled getting back on after another round of duct tape was applied to whatever time bomb was ticking under the hood.
Our first driver was replaced by another, clearly more veteran captain. Sensing insurrection, he climbed aboard, put a foot up on the nearest seat, crossed his arms, leaned on his knee, and looked expectantly at the passengers. The bus quieted. The griping lowered to a murmur. We were all in middle school again, hushed by a tough-looking substitute teacher from the south side. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he barked. “I understand you’ve been delayed. I just want y’all to know—I ain’t got nothing to do with that. If you would like to complain I can find you someone else in charge.” I pulled out my notepad, knowing this Gettysburg Address wouldn’t last long. “But,” he continued with a shrug, “this is Greyhound: It is what it is.” Nobody said a word. We arrived in New Orleans without incident. Law and order ruled the day.
Miller is right, consistency is important. That’s why the robots will soon put all of us out of work. But machines cannot and never will be able to empathize or feel excitement. As I write this, a robot vacuum cleaner is feeling its way around my feet. Even if it were programmed to pause at random intervals and say “Boy, am I tired” or “Wow, more dog hair!” it couldn’t make me care. And a robot voice will never relieve the drudgery of commuting or lighten the burdens of the passengers. So please, Metro, keep the intercoms open, for the sake of my own amusement and less rioting.
