E-Mail This Article to a Friend Notes from the underground From drowsy housecleaners to cranky Springsteen look-alikes to finger-chewing drunks, 20 hours on the subway reveals Boston in all its stripes BY CHRIS WRIGHT

Waiting on the Green Line platform at the Kenmore Square station recently, I noticed a woman standing nearby. This is not unusual. Over the years, I have noticed many women on the T. Sometimes I have noticed them at great length. I have swooned on the Red Line, suffered palpitations on the Blue. I have watched in dismay, the word "hello" lodged in my throat, as girls with sparkling eyes and lovely breasts slipped away through the sliding doors. It’s a bit daft, maybe even pathetic, but on these occasions I have felt an acute pang of regret, a sense that possibility, no matter how distant, has been left unexplored.

But this time was different. For one thing, it wasn’t so much the woman who caught my eye as the gun clipped to her belt — a huge, nickel-plated, bludgeon-you-to-death-if-I-run-out-of-bullets pistol. Despite the fact that the woman had the word SECURITY plastered across her voluminous T-shirt, I don’t think those of us who stood within shooting range felt very secure. And things only got worse when we boarded the train, which lurched fitfully, reluctantly, toward its destination. What if she’s late for a divorce hearing? What if she’s been fired from her job? What if she’s a large-bosomed Al Qaeda operative?

It doesn’t take an armed passenger to make riding the T an unsettling experience. There is, as locals know all too well, a catalogue of T-related ordeals to be endured: the rush-hour cattle cars; the ghost trains of the night; the juddering, screeching trolleys; the yapping, badgering teens. And then there’s the moment we all dread, when the train clatters to a halt, mid-tunnel, and the driver’s blistering voice comes over the intercom: "Schraschtract frrrrrk! Shhskrlick sharshtar!" Good thing we don’t all carry guns.

In the best of times, getting from one stop to another on the MBTA subway can seem to take an entire day. So what would it be like to actually spend an entire day on the T? Questions like this are disconcerting — like contemplating infinity or trying to figure out box scores. On weekdays, the T starts running at 5:01 a.m. and stops at 12:53 the next morning. What would happen if I stuck it out? Would I go insane? Would I die? The day after the Dirty Harriet episode, I decided to find out. Armed with a notebook, I set out on my little local odyssey. This is what I saw.

5:20 a.m., Harvard. On Saturday afternoons, the T station in Harvard Square can make the Carnival in Rio de Janeiro look like a Wednesday in Medford. At dawn on a work day, though, there is very little in the way of joy about the place. Besides a woman munching on an apple, there is no movement. A man with a briefcase gapes at an advertising poster as though reading a terrible credit-card bill. Another man assumes the fetal position on a bench. And then there’s me, notebook in hand, observing a discarded Dentyne wrapper as though it were an ancient relic.

5:40 a.m., Red Line inbound. One of the most uplifting experiences you can have on the T, besides finding money, comes the moment the Red Line emerges onto the Longfellow Bridge. And this morning is particularly fine: the clouds, reflected in the silver-rippled surface of the river, are an orange-sherbet color; the Esplanade is a garden salad. And yet, of the dozen or so people riding the car, only a few look up. Their newspapers all carry the same headline: KIDS LEFT IN SUV DIE.

6 a.m., Downtown Crossing. There’s nothing more creepy than a silent subway station. What happens to all that life? You imagine you can hear the echoes of yesterday’s activity. Then you think you can hear the clicks of flick knives being opened. A child’s voice: la-la-la la-la. Bad things happen in places like this. Apocalyptic things. "Warriors, come out to play-ay!" And then the silence is broken. A burst of laughter. The squeak of a construction worker’s boots. The drum roll of an approaching train.

6:06 a.m., State. Early mornings on the T are a study in sucky jobs. This is the time of day when the hordes of housecleaners disperse from low-rent neighborhoods, when the rough-handed masses stare out of trolley windows or nod in and out of a half-hearted slumber. At State, a paint-spattered guy wearing wraparound shades scribbles something on the back of his hand. A guy in an orange vest mops the station floor, the smell of disinfectant drifting along on the breeze of a beaten, dust-caked fan.

6:25 a.m., Orange Line northbound. Keeping occupied on the T is half the battle, and people go about it in their own ways. Across from me, a middle-aged woman frets over a word-search puzzle. In the corner, a young couple locks lips. "Sullivan," announces a jaded female voice over the intercom. "Don’t forget your belongings." The smoochers stand, she stretching the neck of her shirt and looking down at what’s inside. Her companion watches, interested. I, meanwhile, am bored to my teeth. I spend the rest of the trip to Oak Grove gazing out of the window, recording what I see in a stream of spidery notes: ugly-industrial-highway-graffiti-triple-deckers-trees-sunshine. The air conditioning feels good.

6:45 a.m., Orange Line southbound. For the self-conscious, riding the T can be excruciating. Riding the Orange Line in particular feels like being in a display case. As I take notes, I can feel the curiosity of the people across the aisle, which bothers me. But I am far from being the most conspicuous person here. At Malden, a large, hairy man gets on and starts adjusting his clothing, tucking in his shirt, tugging at his pants, which have a rip in the ass. He ties a sweatshirt around his waist with the kind of manic effort you’d expect of someone trying to escape from a straitjacket. Then he pulls out a cigarette and waits for the next stop.

7:05 a.m., North Station. A dumpy guy in wrinkled khakis sips on a Coffee Coolatta and ogles the legs of the woman opposite. He seems embarrassed to be doing this, or at least to be seen doing this, but still he does it. She crosses her legs and he looks. When an older Asian woman sits next to him, the dumpy guy stiffens. The woman rolls up the legs of her pants to the knees, rips an ad from her paper, folds it carefully, and puts it in her pocket. The guy looks at her legs, then returns quickly to his Coolatta.

7:20 a.m., Green D Line eastbound. "Could we push in a little further, please?" Ten minutes ago, this train was the site of a frantic, tooth-and-claw struggle for the last remaining seats. Now no one’s going anywhere. It’s like one of those Bosch paintings: elbows abutting ears abutting bellies abutting thighs abutting butts. A personal stereo goes tinka-tinka-tinka-tink. It’s a wonder we can be like this without fucking or fighting. We manage for the most part by pretending we are alone. You look down or out the window. You lock eyes with someone, you look away. That’s the rule.

7:40 a.m., Lechmere. A Metro vendor flirts with a pretty blonde, who smiles politely. What is it with these Metro guys? The kids left in the SUV died.

7:55 a.m., Green D Line westbound. The office workers have emerged. They are talkers:

"Oh, so that’s where you were last night."

"It’s not gonna happen anyway, so don’t worry about it."

"That was mean!"

"He was lonely himself. It’s so hard."

Outside, the Zakim Bridge rises from the blight like a wedding-cake decoration in a cow pat. There is something sticky on the floor. Maybe it’s coffee.

8:15 a.m., Park Street. On the stairs, along the platform, we move like a flock. A guy slaps a pack of smokes into his palm.

8:20 a.m., Green E Line westbound. A young woman with a diamond crucifix around her neck worries something on her elbow. Beside her is a middle-aged man with a tapestry-print vest, ruffled shirt, and long sideburns. The woman moves on to a vein in her wrist, then back to the elbow. A newspaper story: N KOREA TALKS OF NUCLEAR WAR.

8:45 a.m., Heath Street. "Last stop!" The driver’s grumpy.

9 a.m., Green E Line eastbound. An elderly woman sleeps, her mouth slack, head against the window. I know how she feels. Three and a half hours on the T is only a small dent in my day, but it is an age in earth time. What was it Hamlet said? "To sleep, perchance to watch TV." Outside, businesses flash by: Divine Styler, Choppin’ Block Pub, Brigham Liquors ("We Deliver"). A guy pulls up alongside in an old Jeep Cherokee. Can’t he afford anything nicer?

9:20 a.m., Park Street. Someone somewhere is playing the sax, "You Gotta Have Heart."

9:55 a.m., Green B Line westbound. A guy with a just-been-noogied wig on his head rotates his jaw, like he’s chewing cud. Behind him, a perfectly good-looking guy sports a perfectly terrible haircut, which tapers in such a way that it gives him the appearance of a silverback gorilla. Nearby is a woman with awful knees. So many people spoiled by a single feature. We pass the street where I lost my virginity. A woman with weapons-grade perfume gets on. I can taste it.

10:40 a.m., Boston College. Waiting in the little railway yard here, two things cross your mind: 1) it must be terrible being run over by a trolley; 2) dying of boredom is probably worse. Birds chirrup. Trolleys idle. Eventually, a guy comes and tells us we’re supposed to wait for all eternity at a temporary platform, located across the road. He says this with a vague wave of the arm, as if shooing a dog away. When the train finally arrives, a woman is almost squished in the doors.

11:10 a.m., Green B Line eastbound. Out of the window, a construction worker teeters on an iron beam three stories above the ground. I can see tomorrow’s headline: MAN FALLS, IS INJURED. Or maybe: REPORTER STARVES ON T, NOTEBOOK FOUND.

11:40 a.m., Park Street. There’s a peculiar smell to subway stations in the summertime: the smell of dirty clothes being ironed. I eat some chips and regret it. There are marks on the floor. Gum. Brown stuff. And a baggie with something white in it, possibly a diaper.

11:50 a.m., Red Line outbound. Here’s an odd couple. Both in early middle age. He’s black, with long waxy hair, a mustache, a leopard-print cravat and lizard-print shirt, all topped off with a leather vest. She’s blond, clad entirely in denim, the bottoms of her pants bearing a six-inch fringe over pointy black boots. Is this the attraction? Shared fashion sense? Above their heads, an ad asks the question, "Depressed?"