The Caltrain penalty for fare evasion is $250, which under civil statute, is a minimum payment subject to which county you’re traveling through. So, you could conceivably be paying well over $380, which is likely if you get caught in San Mateo. To you and me, this amount hurts, enough to make me double check whether or not I’ve tagged on every time the silver double doors close. It’s more than an annoyance. But to the day laborer who’s rushing to his second job after a night shift, someone who’s more likely to be taking public transit…someone who’s overworked and hence more likely to forget, the story changes dramatically. It’s enough to derail an education for their children, affect their livelihood, or prevent them from making their rent payment. It would obliterate them, and there’d be no recourse. California is one of the most progressive states in the country, but institutional penalties like this have the ability to disenfranchise its citizens through what is commonly (and insufficiently) described as a regressive fine.

Indignation. We can do better; we’re Americans, a nation that cares for its own.

As I rush onto the train at 8:38am, this thought has displaced other musings engendered by a depressing survey of Google News’ headlines on current political discourse. And then a distraction. I’ve already begun to hear it through my scarf, which is wrapped around my ears and mouth this frigid Thursday morning. Through the crowded car about eight rows back, the conductor is sternly lecturing an older woman about her invalid ticket. She apologizes with a hint of a Middle Eastern accent. Eavesdropping (admittedly, with little choice but to) on the brief interaction, it is conceivable that this is one of her first rides and that she doesn’t quite understand the rules in this form of public transportation.

I rear my head towards the one-sided conversation that consists primarily of the conductor’s berating. I begin to notice that the train is already decelerating in anticipation of the next stop. While it probably isn’t her stop, the woman rises and makes her way towards me…towards the exit hastily, averting her eyes from the surrounding rows. The conductor looks on behind her.

My mind constructs origin stories for this woman. She had arrived in the U.S. after a long trip from a far off place taking refuge in the land of the free only to forget, one day, to pay for a ticket. Or perhaps, she was visiting grand children, her first time in California, and this morning before work, they dropped her off to see the Stanford mall only to neglect telling her about the pay stations. I replay the image of her deftly navigating through the crowd to reach the double doors. Yes, I’ve been there, pointlessly reassuring her with my thoughts. I have been cut by the judgement daggers that I perceive third parties are throwing at me. I have felt strangers eyeball me after I find myself in a pit of disgrace. It’s okay, lady.

Empathy. I have that luxury, of course. The train conductor does not.

The conductor might care, but he can’t. He is the perpetual villain that ironically upholds the law. He has a job to do, and it’s a hard one. People “forget” their tickets every day and get free rides in a state whose budget is severely constrained. Besides, the other riders treat him poorly even when they do pay. How dare this man question their integrity? Or, how dare this servant of the public interrupt my morning podcast? Conversely, he faces other passengers who are filled with contempt for “meter-maid law enforcement”. After all, public transit operators in the Bay Area make the most in the country, and the notorious SEIU is a likely organization to which this man belongs. Overpaid, they think. Our tax dollars could be spent providing self driving cars, and so they don’t pay, willfully…belligerantly.

Strength. Or is it resignation? He must be desensitized to the range of reactions riders bestow upon him every day.

He makes his way through the rest of the train, mostly unimpeded. A few people do not have their tickets, and their day is ruined with a citation. He snakes through the crowds toward my end of the car. I frantically feel for my clipper card, which I tagged this morning but still derive comfort from its stiff and cool surface. He reaches our row, and I hold my card up for him to check the timestamp of its last swipe. Beep. Thank you, sir.

Relief. Now I can continue flicking my thumb over my cellphone screen. I know that I’ll forget all of this in twenty minutes when I go through my routine of making oatmeal at work. That is, I would have forgotten, but then I hear the conductor, who is out of sight right now:

Ticket? I don’t have one. Why not? I don’t have money. Caltrain tickets are expensive, so I didn’t pay. If I had money, I would pay. You’re going to have to show me your ID. I don’t have ID. No ticket, no ID? That’s right, I have neither. You’re pretty smart, huh? Yes, I’m the smartest. You’re going to have to get off. Yes sir, I’ll get off at the next stop. Alright.

An interaction filled with personality but without indignation, weakness, angst, relief, or anger. No offense delivered, no offense taken, and an encounter that is left surprisingly unsurprising despite the past five minutes in which I have identified with several strangers’ internal turmoil. A man has very simply, very deftly, and very cordially broken social constructs, and that facilitates two thoughts in my head: (1) it’s Thursday morning, and (2) maybe I think too much.