One thing I love about the Metro is the train operator. Actually, they’re just station announcers, as the trains are completely automated. Some of them are lazy and hate their jobs – you can tell from their tone of voice. And then there’s the guy who LOVES his job; “The Next Stop is McPHEEEEEEEEEERSON SQUARE!”
But there is one Metro operator that I am in love with. She runs late at night, usually between 10 p.m. and closing on the blue line. I don’t know what her name is, but she sounds like a Samantha or a Cindy or something sexy like that. Her voice sounds more like it belongs on a 1-900 sex number than it does behind the gooseneck microphone of a D.C. Metro car control booth. Riding the Metro one Friday night with some friends, we were lucky enough to get her train.
“The next station is Farragut West,” she softly cooed.
“Holy shit” I said, “Did you hear her voice? It sounds like an angel in lingerie!”
Because I had a few drinks that night, I was loud. And I think I nearly screamed something to the point of her voice sounding hot for everyone else in the car to hear, because when I looked around, strangers I didn’t even know were laughing.
“I’m serious!” I said. “Just wait ’till the next stop!”
One minute later, the train began to brake and the click of the announcing mic was heard.
“This is Foggy Bottom, George Washington University.” It was as if the words she spoke had somehow melted through the speakers, massaging erogenous portions of my mind.
“Wow,” I said.
People on the train burst into laughter. It was pretty hilarious.
By far the craziest thing about this sexy Metro employee is that I got on her train at least four times in the past year – that’s just a strange coincidence, considering I don’t ride the Metro too often. I often wondered what she looked like – she had to be hot – smooth skin, nice smile, soft hair. Man, I bet she even smelled good. Little did I know that I would meet her face to face on a cold January night.
I’m with my buddy Matt (he was with me the first night we heard her), and we’re riding the blue line in some kind of slightly intoxicated misadventure. The familiar “bing-bong” rings and the doors click shut. Somewhere between the “pssssst!” sound of the released air-brakes and the high-pitch howl of the wheels beginning to turn we heard her speak, “The next station is Metro Center, transfer point to the red line.”
Matt and I quickly turned our heads and shot each other a look filled with adrenaline and excitement – we had to see what she looked like!
Standing at the far-end door of the fifth car back, we burst out of the sliding doors and literally sprinted through a maze of people on the platform at Metro Center, racing toward the front of the train. At the front car, we managed to slip through the middle set of doors just as they started to shut. I’m bent over, panting, trying to catch my breath. The train starts up and I nearly fall over. But it’s okay – the moment of truth has nearly arrived. “Ghhaaa!” I say to myself, “there’s some dude sleeping in the chair that I need to peer through the tinted glass to see what she looks like!”
Just as I was about to give up, I remembered that every time the train stops at a station, the operator sticks their head out the window to make sure that everybody is on the train. As the train began to start up again, I practiced over and over again in my head what I was going to say to this fine woman. “I just wanted to tell you that I love your voice . – yea, that’s good – .and I’m your biggest fan. When do you get off work?”
“The next stop is McPherson Square.”
Damn, she sounded sexier than ever! I coolly walked out the front set of doors onto the platform and made a sharp left, my buddy Matt behind me in a state of shock at what I’m about to pull off. A set of coffee-colored fingers with red nails gently slides open the small glass door – and I am right there .
You know that sound clip they use on TV of a needle on a turntable being scratched across the record, like on sitcoms and stuff when something unexpected happens? That’s it. That’s the best way I can describe how I felt right then and there. I’m talking about huge, frizzy hair, big ‘ole gap in her teeth, freckles, pimples and big eyes that somehow widened even further – in fear I suppose – when she saw me approaching her train window.
“I … love your voice,” I slightly mumbled.
“Oh, um . thank you,” she replied. And that was that.
“So Brendan met the sexy-voiced Metro lady,” Matt said to our other friends later that night. “She wasn’t hot. At all.” I felt like a dumb ass.
Moral of the story: don’t call 1-900 phone sex lines.
-The writer, a sophomore majoring in journalism and music, is The Hatchet’s humor columnist.
