Engl1020: Observational Essay
Market Street Station looms at the edge of Sixteenth Street with its triangular architecture and cold rusted steel composure. Stamped out of the metal are windows, the shine of the glass hidden with the dirt and grime of the structures existence. At the mouth of the building some commuters hustle into the building, as others emerge glancing up and down Sixteenth while deciding which direction they want to travel. Those entering the doors are met with the descent, a twenty-step escalator heading away from the light of day into the underground darkness.
Lit by only a few dim lights strewn about the rafters and the handful of lights lining the terminals, it takes ones eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. When the adjustment occurs a trivial concession stand comes into view, the products displayed in an un-orderly fashion, differentiated from one another by nothing other than the occasional empty shelf. Various pastries and baked goods toward the front, hanging bags of chips wrapping around the sides, and refidgerator cases hidden in the back filled with energy drinks, juices, sodas, and cold, clear water. At the wake of the stand is a display of approximately fifty various tissue paper like pamphlets topped with bus route numbers. The final kiosk in the station, far greater in size than the preceding structures, is an off-white building covered in sparsely applied plaster, with black glossy script reading Information/Sales. The face of the Information building has two bulletproof windows containing speaker boxes. Behind the glass an information/sales associate sits awaiting customers, that rarely come. These three insignificant structures are all that fill the center of the large room, the true importance of the station lines the walls.
Grave glass doors trimmed with black metal frames stand at the entrance to each terminal, which lead away from the station like veins leaving the heart. These doors, along with dividers of small rippled glass squares, like those of the North Classroom Building at UCDHSC compose the “walls” of Market Street Station. Above each terminal entrance a lofty black board with red lighted writing, which lists the departure times for the bus of the given terminal. The commuters waiting for their busses continuously look up at these listings every few minutes, all the while knowing that the information will never change.
The commuters waiting sit on round concrete slabs; cold, hard, and glossy, placed in an orderly fashion on top of a floor lined with 4 in. tiles of various colors. None of these people notice the janitor mopping around the slabs, using muddy water, and making the grimy situation of the floor worse, rather than improving it. She drags the mud across the tiles sloppily and in an unsystematic pattern adding a layer of dirt on top of the hundreds of layers previously set.
Nearby a man with a mass of keys on a large brass ring walks across the station to a brown change machine with bold white lettering, and an orange ‘out of change’ light gleaming; followed closely by a rather husky security guard. The man bends down slowly to fill the change as the security guard stands, chest puffed, nodding at passers by. Making friendly comments such as "hello", "good day sir", and "hi there madam"; to assert his presence. Change refilled the man closes up the machine and the orange light goes dark; he and the officer walk away smiling and chuckling.
Whilst the men disappear, they pass a group of people, all in their early- twenties, exchanging packages. Couriers, they have come to assemble, a purpose of Market Street Station that many do not think of. As they uphold their meeting, they share food from a nearby restaurant, Noodles & Company, with the traditional green cups and triangular rice crispy treats. A woman looks up at the standing couriers from her seat on the stone slab and smiles, probably directed more at the food then at the couriers themselves, and then turns back to her reading. The lady is one of those readers who move their lips to form the words they are scanning the pages in their book, as if to sound them out.
Suddenly, the rumbling of a bus is heard, the lady, the couriers, the janitor, and the commuters all look up at the terminal simultaneously as the bus passes, as soon as it fades in the distance they continue with their activities. At least most turn away, one young boy stands nose pressed against the glass of the doors creating a tiny ring of fog that ungulates simultaneously with his breath.
Ten minutes until the bus arrives at terminal eight, people begin lining up at the doors, the line always starting at right and going to left. Strange, considering it is opposite the direction that American’s read. Shortly the RTD bus begins rumbling down the terminal, comes to a slow stop at the entrance, and releases the air pressure in the doors to open them. Commuters begin boarding the bus, some flash bus passes and student ID’s, while others drop change into a funnel. The seats are set up in sets of two, with an aisle straight down the center, like you would expect in an airplane.
Oddly, the passengers sit one person per every pair of two seats before any two people will sit next to each other, as if to leave a “buffer zone”. A few passengers go so far as to sit on the outside seat so no one can sit next to them. One young man parks himself on the outside seat and immediately pretends to be asleep, so no one will try to disturb him.
As everyone finds their seats for the trip, the bus shuts its doors and begins rolling forward, traveling down the terminal. Leaving Market Street Station the bus ascends from underground up a ramp, and bright light fills the bus, the passengers squint. It’s as if the few moments they have spent underground have made them forget how the light from the real world looked. Everyone looks forward towards the next destination, never glancing back to notice the triangular peaks of Market Street Station dissipating in the background.
Market Street Station looms at the edge of Sixteenth Street with its triangular architecture and cold rusted steel composure. Stamped out of the metal are windows, the shine of the glass hidden with the dirt and grime of the structures existence. At the mouth of the building some commuters hustle into the building, as others emerge glancing up and down Sixteenth while deciding which direction they want to travel. Those entering the doors are met with the descent, a twenty-step escalator heading away from the light of day into the underground darkness.
Lit by only a few dim lights strewn about the rafters and the handful of lights lining the terminals, it takes ones eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. When the adjustment occurs a trivial concession stand comes into view, the products displayed in an un-orderly fashion, differentiated from one another by nothing other than the occasional empty shelf. Various pastries and baked goods toward the front, hanging bags of chips wrapping around the sides, and refidgerator cases hidden in the back filled with energy drinks, juices, sodas, and cold, clear water. At the wake of the stand is a display of approximately fifty various tissue paper like pamphlets topped with bus route numbers. The final kiosk in the station, far greater in size than the preceding structures, is an off-white building covered in sparsely applied plaster, with black glossy script reading Information/Sales. The face of the Information building has two bulletproof windows containing speaker boxes. Behind the glass an information/sales associate sits awaiting customers, that rarely come. These three insignificant structures are all that fill the center of the large room, the true importance of the station lines the walls.
Grave glass doors trimmed with black metal frames stand at the entrance to each terminal, which lead away from the station like veins leaving the heart. These doors, along with dividers of small rippled glass squares, like those of the North Classroom Building at UCDHSC compose the “walls” of Market Street Station. Above each terminal entrance a lofty black board with red lighted writing, which lists the departure times for the bus of the given terminal. The commuters waiting for their busses continuously look up at these listings every few minutes, all the while knowing that the information will never change.
The commuters waiting sit on round concrete slabs; cold, hard, and glossy, placed in an orderly fashion on top of a floor lined with 4 in. tiles of various colors. None of these people notice the janitor mopping around the slabs, using muddy water, and making the grimy situation of the floor worse, rather than improving it. She drags the mud across the tiles sloppily and in an unsystematic pattern adding a layer of dirt on top of the hundreds of layers previously set.
Nearby a man with a mass of keys on a large brass ring walks across the station to a brown change machine with bold white lettering, and an orange ‘out of change’ light gleaming; followed closely by a rather husky security guard. The man bends down slowly to fill the change as the security guard stands, chest puffed, nodding at passers by. Making friendly comments such as "hello", "good day sir", and "hi there madam"; to assert his presence. Change refilled the man closes up the machine and the orange light goes dark; he and the officer walk away smiling and chuckling.
Whilst the men disappear, they pass a group of people, all in their early- twenties, exchanging packages. Couriers, they have come to assemble, a purpose of Market Street Station that many do not think of. As they uphold their meeting, they share food from a nearby restaurant, Noodles & Company, with the traditional green cups and triangular rice crispy treats. A woman looks up at the standing couriers from her seat on the stone slab and smiles, probably directed more at the food then at the couriers themselves, and then turns back to her reading. The lady is one of those readers who move their lips to form the words they are scanning the pages in their book, as if to sound them out.
Suddenly, the rumbling of a bus is heard, the lady, the couriers, the janitor, and the commuters all look up at the terminal simultaneously as the bus passes, as soon as it fades in the distance they continue with their activities. At least most turn away, one young boy stands nose pressed against the glass of the doors creating a tiny ring of fog that ungulates simultaneously with his breath.
Ten minutes until the bus arrives at terminal eight, people begin lining up at the doors, the line always starting at right and going to left. Strange, considering it is opposite the direction that American’s read. Shortly the RTD bus begins rumbling down the terminal, comes to a slow stop at the entrance, and releases the air pressure in the doors to open them. Commuters begin boarding the bus, some flash bus passes and student ID’s, while others drop change into a funnel. The seats are set up in sets of two, with an aisle straight down the center, like you would expect in an airplane.
Oddly, the passengers sit one person per every pair of two seats before any two people will sit next to each other, as if to leave a “buffer zone”. A few passengers go so far as to sit on the outside seat so no one can sit next to them. One young man parks himself on the outside seat and immediately pretends to be asleep, so no one will try to disturb him.
As everyone finds their seats for the trip, the bus shuts its doors and begins rolling forward, traveling down the terminal. Leaving Market Street Station the bus ascends from underground up a ramp, and bright light fills the bus, the passengers squint. It’s as if the few moments they have spent underground have made them forget how the light from the real world looked. Everyone looks forward towards the next destination, never glancing back to notice the triangular peaks of Market Street Station dissipating in the background.
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3:57 PM
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