I was at Symphony this afternoon to get some art supplies at the Utrecht shop there. So I took the green line back to Park. There was no attendant in the token booth, of course, and even though, as it turned out, I had exact change, I decided to buy a token from a machine there. Ha ha.

So one of the two machines that dispense tokens was unabashedly, undisguisedly defunct. The other was deceptively operative. It beckoned with the promise of tokens and change if I inserted BILLS ONLY!

You already know how this ends, don’t you? I did, too.

Step one: insert two dollars. The machine sucked ‘em right up, with a slurp and a belch. Did I hear a knowing chuckle in there, too?

Step two: punch the button that tells the machine feeding time is over. Now, here’s where it gets tricky. There is a sign on the machine that specifically says that if you feed it two dollar bills, it will shit out one token AND–NOT AND/OR, depending on its mood, but AND–75¢ IN CHANGE in the tray below.

I got my token. I did not, of course, receive my change.

Now, there were a number of ways it could have gone from there. Yes, I pressed button #2 five or six times, banged on the machine a little, and cursed it under my breath. But then I got to thinking, well, at least I got my token. The T has conditioned me to be grateful for small mercies such as this.

Then, too, there is this issue of rage. Should I let them get to me, for a measely 75¢? I mean, does the T really think they can push me over the edge for 75¢? Shouldn’t they have to work a little harder to elicit emotion from me? Isn’t my rage worth more than that?

Plus, what did I expect? Wasn’t it somehow–perversely–worth it to have my expectations so perfectly met? I mean, 75¢ to have my worldview confirmed in an instant? I didn’t even have to wait in line. These machines aren’t just token dispensors–maybe not even primarily token dispensors–they are, truly, fonts of wisdom. Boston’s own version of the Bocca della Verità.

On my way from Park to JFK there was an Asian woman in eghties-esque brightly-colored leggings. She shouted at the woman seated across from her: “do you need a T-pass?” The woman tried to ignore her at first, but the enticement of a free T-pass was too much to pass up. “A monthly pass?” the woman asked. It seemed too good to be true. What was the catch? The Asian lady cackled and delivered her punchline: “It is a February pass! Haw haw haw!” The woman across from her didn’t get it, so she explained: “It is the last day of February! Haw haw haw!” The Asian woman was totally amused with herself.

To her credit, she was still willing to give her pass to any taker, and it was a nice gesture, if anyone didn’t have a pass and needed to ride the T later that day. But the way she was cackling and carrying on made it seem like you’d be the butt of her joke if you actually took her up on it. So, in the end, no takers.

The car fell silent for a couple stops.

Then all the sudden she bursts out again. She’s holding out a crumpled Dunkin Donuts bag, presumably with a now empty cup in it and offering it to any takers, cackling like before. “You wanna cup of coffee? I take fifty cents for it. Haw haw haw!” This tickled her even more than the previous offer. She was cackling and stomping her feet and carrying on like crazy.

I was glad to be getting off at JFK, let me tell you. It’s a slippery slope.