I am in possession of a marvelous ability, one that has been honed through millions of years of evolution, and made manifest in a twenty-first century form. I can’t really find a way to explain how I received this gift. For it is a gift, something intangible, inherent in my biological makeup, a sixth sense. I’m speaking of the gift of “ticket-dodging”. And I am obliged to pass this gift on to those that come after me. To further the species as it were.
At least that is the term I have coined for it, for that was the way this gift came to my attention. I was living in Warsaw, Poland and was dependent upon the public transportation system for my traveling needs, when I discovered it. In Warsaw, like most modern cities, you are expected to buy a ticket for the busses you ride, the trams you take, and the subway systems you speed about on. I usually, being a dutiful citizen, would purchase these tickets. But there are those in the world who ignore the law and tempt their fates. Therefore Warsaw had implemented the best, most ruthless ticket enforcing posse east of the former iron curtain, the envy of Eastern Europe.
They would travel in packs of two, usually large, strong men between the ages of twenty five and thirty. When they would board the unsuspecting vehicle, be it bus, tram or subway car they would approach the huddled flocks of people from opposite ends and wait for their strike. It would usually come about 40 seconds or so after a stop had just been made and when the second stop was beyond fleeing distance. With a swift nod to their counterpart at the opposite end of the vehicle and a stern glare, they would remove their insignia from its concealed position underneath a shirt or coat, a badge that showed their authority from the dreaded Warsaw Transportation Authority. This badge would then be flashed in front of the electronic ticket machines installed on the busses and trams, thus shutting them off for any lost straggler who had forgotten to cancel his ticket in time. Next they would shout, “Good day ladies and gentlemen! Please present your tickets to the Controllers!” They would then prowl the vehicle with their ticket machines checking every passenger for the life saving ticket.
When someone was caught cowering before their predators without a ticket with the expression of sheer terror, like a gazelle’s would tend to be once he discovered a rather large lion or crocodile gnawing on their jugular vein. The caught prey was swiftly removed at the next stop, his punishment only left to speculation on the part of the surviving passengers.
Even if you had a valid ticket this process would strike fear into your heart. For these Controllers were invisible to the normal person. They wore no uniform, and their badges were well hidden. This is where my benevolent genetics came into play. I possessed the outstanding ability to spot these predatory beasts at the first glance. To this day I don’t know how this was done. When they would get on, I could just tell. In the metro they would stalk the platforms like vultures waiting to strike. I always knew who they were. There was just something about their aura, their attempts to blend into the crowd, their mannerisms, or their very chi that stuck out to me. I was always accurate. I was never caught off guard. I spent over a year in Warsaw, amongst the different districts of the vast city, commuting daily always watching for the slightest variation in their predatory habits.
One month, money became scarce and I had to decide on a week’s worth of food, or a monthly ticket. I chose the food and left the rest up to fate. I was in my element. When they would board my bus, I would quickly get off and wait for the next one. I did amazingly well. Then inevitably I had to use the Metro, Warsaw’s subway system. It was like stepping into a lion’s den. For the tickets were checked by machines before allowing you to pass down to the platform. One needed to jump over these turnstile machines to get through. I knew I could relax after I saw somebody jump over the turnstiles, for they were like the wounded wildebeests in the heard, destined to get picked off first by the lions. Today, I was to be one of those wounded wildebeests, much to my shame and horror. How could my pride have come to this?
I glanced around me. No controllers in sight. I made a quick dash, and I was up and over the turnstile and heading down the escalator before I knew it. The warm air of the underground platform was welcoming in contrast to the freezing temperatures outside. My glasses quickly fogged up, and I took them off to clear my vision. When I put the newly cleaned glasses back on, I saw to my horror two controllers checking ticket right there on the platform. It was as though they had materialized in the split nano-second my guard was let down. Multiple streams of profanity in multiple languages surged through my head. “Ticket please!” one of them shouted. It was time for my secret weapon.
“I’m sorry I only speak English.” I smiled. The man glared back as though we were playing tag and I had just shouted “No touchbacks!” the moment he reached out to grab me. He let me go. What more could he do? I was safe, and was then able to pass the gene to generations yet to avoid the price of a ticket. After all, wasn’t that the point of genetics?
