Catching the last train out of here By Danielle

**Content warning: This story mentions workplace violence and sexual violence.**

Where I live, we have a fully automated train system called Skytrain. I used to work there as a first responder of sorts—I was a Skytrain Attendant.

Skytrain Attendant… sounds kind of boring, right? Most of the time, it was.

But if that was the real story, I wouldn’t have written this.

I could easily start a whole new Substack on my years as a Skytrain Attendant. I guess we’ll see how this story lands with people before I decide whether to share more.

I know Skytrain stories aren’t for everyone, but my best friend, Jessica, loves them—and maybe hates them a little, too. She and I still have sleepovers—that’s when the Skytrain stories emerge. We lay across my couch in our PJs, surrounded by snacks, talking into the early hours of the morning, just like we did as kids. I pull us into the days and nights at my old workplace; I recount the hilarious and the bizarre. Jessica tilts her head back and laughs until tears roll down her face.

“Your job gives me anxiety!”

This makes me laugh harder. “But I don’t even work there anymore!” I remind her.

Skytrain was home to the funny and the absurd. But it was home to other things too.

My husband used to say it was a dangerous workplace. And he wasn’t wrong. He and my mom were relieved when I finally left, but my feelings were a little more mixed. Part of me felt like I was losing something.

I admit that I loved the feeling of walking into chaos and having a crowd of people look at me like I was their hero.

I wore no cape, but a terribly ugly and cumbersome reflective vest. No matter, I was there to save the day (or the commute, more like). Mechanical failure? No problem. I’ll crawl around on the floor of the train, unlocking cabinets, resetting equipment, getting things running smoothly again.

Train broke down? I got you. Yes, the system is automated, but we drove the trains manually too, when needed. Who else can say they drove trains? Pretty much no one.

Medical emergency? I’m no doctor, but I’ve held bodies together. I’ll do what it takes to keep you calm and alive until the paramedics arrive.

Someone bothering you? Threatening you? I’m there to help with that too.

I miss the charge of responding to these emergency situations. I miss being the one who was called to show up and make it better. But as the years gather between me and my old job at Skytrain, I see things with more clarity. I see how casually we skirted a dangerous, violent edge. I see how we downplayed it out of necessity and survival.

It was easy to pretend that the worst thing about the job was the boredom. Yes, the boredom was terrible, but no, it wasn’t the worst thing. The boredom hid the worst things. The boredom was its own danger because it fooled you into thinking you were safe. It disguised the volatility, dressed it up as excitement, made you thirst for it, even.

It made you forget how quickly and easily violence could punch through the monotony.

Someone is screaming somewhere. It’s your job to respond.

There’s a loud, unfamiliar bang in your station. It’s your job to respond.

You’re alone at 1am, and multiple passengers have pressed the silent alarm on a train. It’s your job to respond