The Caltrain penalty for fare evasion is $250, which under civil statute, is a minimum payment subject to which county you’re traveling through. You could conceivably be paying well over $380, which is likely if you get caught in San Mateo. To you and me, this amount hurts, enough to make me double check whether or not I’ve tagged on every time the silver double doors close. It’s more than an annoyance. But to the day laborer who’s rushing to his second job after a night shift, someone who’s more likely to be taking public transit…someone who’s overworked and hence more likely to forget, the story changes dramatically. It’s enough to derail an education for their children, affect their livelihood, or prevent them from making their rent payment. California is one of the most progressive states in the country, but this is commonly described as a regressive fine.

As I rush onto the train at 8:38am, this thought has displaced other musings engendered by a depressing survey of Google News’ headlines on current political discourse. And then a distraction. I’ve already begun to hear it through my scarf, which is wrapped around my ears and mouth this frigid Thursday morning. Through the crowded car about eight rows back, the conductor is sternly lecturing an older woman about her invalid ticket. She apologizes with a hint of a Middle Eastern accent. Eavesdropping (admittedly, with little choice but to) on the brief interaction, it is probably her first ride and that she doesn’t quite understand the rules.

I rear my head towards the one-sided conversation that consists primarily of the conductor’s berating. I begin to notice that the train is already decelerating in anticipation of the next stop. While it probably isn’t her stop, the woman rises and makes her way towards me…towards the exit hastily, averting her eyes from the surrounding rows. The conductor looks on behind her.

She arrived in the U.S. after a long trip from a far off place taking refuge in the land of the free and then forgot one day to pay for a ticket. Perhaps, she was visiting grand children, her first time in California, and this morning before work, they dropped her off to see the Stanford mall only to neglect telling her about the pay stations. It’s okay, lady. No judgement, here.

The conductor might care, but he can’t. After all, public transit operators in the Bay Area make the most in the country, and the notorious SEIU is a likely organization to which this man belongs. People think: overpaid. They think this of all employees.

He makes his way through the rest of the train, mostly unimpeded. A few people do not have their tickets: citation! He snakes through the crowds toward my end of the car. I frantically feel for my clipper card, which I tagged this morning but still derive comfort from its stiff and cool surface. He reaches our row, and I hold my card up for him to check the timestamp of its last swipe. Beep. Thank you, sir.

Then, he stops at a rather disheveled man. “Ticket?” “I don’t have one.” “Why not?” “I don’t have money. Caltrain tickets are expensive, so I didn’t pay. If I had money, I would pay.” “You’re going to have to show me your ID.” “I don’t have ID.” ‘No ticket, no ID?” “That’s right, I have neither.” “You’re pretty smart, huh?” “Yes, I’m the smartest.” “You’re going to have to get off.” “Yes sir, I’ll get off at the next stop. Alright.”

Well-played, guy. well-played.