An open letter to the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority

Dear Metro,

We need to talk.

I know, every day you probably get a thousand e-mails and calls and in-person complaints from people who are angry, upset and frustrated at your service. Hell, even I’ve fired off an angry e-mail or two while stuck on a train. I sent you six tweets last night.* But I have to add my voice to the mix in a more reasoned environment.

Look, I love Metro. It’s an invaluable service to the citizens and visitors of our fair city. It’s clean, mostly efficient and still quite safe despite recent events. It’s one of the best systems in the country. I’m an avid cheerleader for public transit — I think we should double Metro’s reach and do more to convert drivers to transit users. Congress should give you piles of cash.

And I realise that cash flow is at the root of a lot of your problems. I recognise that you have severe budget shortfalls, and that your entire funding mechanism is a screwy, multi-jurisdictional fustercluck that results in decreased service, an inability to keep up with an aging and growing system, and pretty much any other problem you can point to.

I appreciate that you have to deal with asshats on Capitol Hill, dickwads like Oklahoma Senator Tom Coburn (Republican, naturally), whose constituents wouldn’t know a subway train if it ran over them. I know that Coburn has placed holds on legislation that would alleviate many of these problems for unfathomable reasons — perhaps he wants a subway in Enid? Whatever. He’s a typical Republican hack who hates it when money goes to communist gay stuff like public transit. I get that.

But here’s the thing, Metro: You can’t blame everything on a lack of funding or on douchenozzles like Tom Coburn. There are some things you can fix without a single additional penny in funding.

I’m talking about communicating with your riders.

Last night, I was heading home from Georgetown to Silver Spring. That’s a long trek, particularly when you consider the trains don’t go to Georgetown. But I was making good time; the bus came straight away, breezed to Farragut North and the transfer was seamless. Too good to be true.

At Takoma, we stopped. And sat. And sat with the doors open for five minutes without anyone telling us what was going on. All we got was a vague “Customers, we’ll be moving momentarily” from the conductor. A few minutes passed. It was 10:45 p.m. on a Thursday. I just wanted to go home and go to bed. Work in the morning, you know.

More minutes passed. Nothing. No announcements. We’re still sitting there, doors open, the cold night air rushing in. Finally, after at least five minutes, we’re told that the train will be taken out of service. Wait, what? So we all disembark and stand on the chilly platform. Nobody tells us when another train might be coming.

Nothing.

Here’s where I’m going to give you some free PR advice, Metro. You don’t have to take it from me. It’s not like I do this for a living or anything.

Oh wait. I do.

The train that was behind us ended up coming within four minutes. But we didn’t know that. It came on the opposite platform, because our train still hadn’t budged. We didn’t know that, either. For all we knew, we were going to have to be standing there, out in the cold, for 30 minutes or so.

You see, this frustrates us and makes us angry. When we don’t have the information.

Oh, sure, I got a tweet from your Red Line feed* that said there was a sick passenger at Takoma, but that was after I was on the new train and underway. And I only got that because I have an iPhone and I use Twitter and I’ve signed up for that service, which is geared mostly for the people who are about to get on the train somewhere else.

But what about all those poor saps actually on the affected train? Those hundreds of people standing on the Takoma platform in 39-degree weather? Who’s talking to them?

You see, when we don’t have information, we passengers get testy. There’s science on this. And the solution is simple: Just pick up the microphone and tell us what’s happening.

It’s like when you’re at a restaurant and your waiter is busy. He hasn’t come by to take your drink orders yet. But he does say, “I’ll be with you in one moment” and you feel better. You know he knows you’re there. Your blood pressure goes down and you don’t hate his guts so much. Those seven words diffuse the situation.

So just tell us what’s going on, Metro. We can handle it; we’re big people. We understand that things happen.

You’ve had a shitty year, Metro. I know. I feel for you, particularly for your PR team, who must wake up every morning and think, “Please, God, don’t let there be another catastrophic failure on the trains today. I don’t have the will to face an angry public and media today.” (Give Lisa Farbstein a raise while you’re at it. And maybe a vacation to the Bahamas.)

And we’ve stuck with you, by and large. But you’ve got to help us out. Because when you come to us, hat in hand, and ask for a fare increase, we’re going to be a hell of a lot more likely to go along with it if we don’t hate your guts. And it’s hard to hate someone’s guts when they talk to you and tell you what’s going on.

Hugs and kisses,
Ed

__________
* And I’ve since learned that that Twitter feed isn’t even an official WMATA thing. Some blessed soul started it on his own. Hey, Metro, using Twitter is free. It’s another way you can communicate with customers. (And sorry for the barrage of nasty tweets, Jeff.)