Everything Lost in Rapid Transit May Turn Up Here
By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Jan. 4, 2004
Jeremy Russell, a freelance writer in Berkeley, caught the last BART train out of San Francisco one evening.
Then, he fell asleep.
When he awoke, startled, he found himself in Rockridge -- in other words, not where he wanted to be. "In a panic, I got off."
Alas, his leather jacket, bundled up for use as a pillow, was left behind on a train that hissed off into the darkness. Gone.
Like bad TV reruns, this scenario unfolds nearly every day in the Bay Area Rapid Transit system, which hustles 300,000 riders across 104 miles of track.
In the process, BART collects from its absent-minded travelers all sorts of misplaced booty, including crutches, clocks, gloves, artificial limbs, dentures and cell phones. Lots of cell phones.
If the items are not snatched by other riders first, they end up in a cramped, unventilated room at BART's 12th Street station in Oakland. The tiny department, open three days a week, serves as an East Bay memorial to the lost in thought.
Wall-to-wall cubby holes feature labels for medications, folders, binders, purses, lunch bags, hats, Walkmans, women's gloves, helmets, shoes, umbrellas, sweaters, wallets and so on.
One is labeled "miscellaneous," and includes a paint brush, a plastic A's mug, a broken cell phone, a mirror, a gold-plated alarm clock and a jug of antifreeze. Another section serves as a cell phone morgue, the tiny devices stacked in neat rows and bound by rubber-bands.
This department is staffed by a single person, Nicole McCamish, a sort of gatekeeper to the distracted, Lord of the Things.
"It's funny," she said. "A lot of the people I see here are the same people."
The department, which logs about 1,200 items a month, also receives 120 phone calls a day from its bumbling ridership.
"We get wheelchairs, crutches," said McCamish, 23. "How people get off the train, I just don't know. We also get gold teeth and dentures. "People don't seem to come back for the wheelchairs," she added. "But they usually come back to ask about their teeth."
In the early 1980s, Queen Elizabeth II, visiting San Francisco with her entourage, found herself in an unexpected downpour. Without an umbrella. This was a bad thing.
In a pinch, someone from the British Consulate had the presence of mind to contact BART's obscure office, which turned over 50 unclaimed umbrellas. One (it had to be black) was used to cover the queen's royal head.
"We wanted to help the queen," said BART spokesman Mike Healy, who personally signed off on the request. "What the heck."
On a recent day, several people stood in line in front of the lost and found department's service window.
Karen Kaczorowski, a grad student at UC Berkeley, showed up to see if her eyeglasses had turned up here.
"I dropped my purse in a train last week," she said. "Everything spilled out. I guess I forgot to pick up the glasses. I was more concerned about the money and my phone."
A few minutes later, an agent came out and dropped a blue crate labeled, "November glasses." Kaczorowski sifted through. No dice. "I think I'll try again," she said. "It's only been less than a week."
All this stuff is held by the transit agency for 90 days. Then, the leftovers are loaded into cardboard boxes and sent to Nationwide Auction Systems in Benicia.
There, the pieces are sold at auction for, depending on the item, $10 to $300. All the proceeds are steered back into BART's general fund.
"We sold an artificial leg," said Philip Marshall, a senior account executive for the auction house. "I don't know what it went for."
With the passing of the holiday season, BART anticipates a fresh wave of careless passengers, their minds numbed at 80 mph.
"It helps to listen when the train operator announces to look around," said McCamish, who receives a flattering share of personalized thank-you cards. "Or just hang on."
Contra Costa Newspapers
Jan. 4, 2004
Jeremy Russell, a freelance writer in Berkeley, caught the last BART train out of San Francisco one evening.
Then, he fell asleep.
When he awoke, startled, he found himself in Rockridge -- in other words, not where he wanted to be. "In a panic, I got off."
Alas, his leather jacket, bundled up for use as a pillow, was left behind on a train that hissed off into the darkness. Gone.
Like bad TV reruns, this scenario unfolds nearly every day in the Bay Area Rapid Transit system, which hustles 300,000 riders across 104 miles of track.
In the process, BART collects from its absent-minded travelers all sorts of misplaced booty, including crutches, clocks, gloves, artificial limbs, dentures and cell phones. Lots of cell phones.
If the items are not snatched by other riders first, they end up in a cramped, unventilated room at BART's 12th Street station in Oakland. The tiny department, open three days a week, serves as an East Bay memorial to the lost in thought.
Wall-to-wall cubby holes feature labels for medications, folders, binders, purses, lunch bags, hats, Walkmans, women's gloves, helmets, shoes, umbrellas, sweaters, wallets and so on.
One is labeled "miscellaneous," and includes a paint brush, a plastic A's mug, a broken cell phone, a mirror, a gold-plated alarm clock and a jug of antifreeze. Another section serves as a cell phone morgue, the tiny devices stacked in neat rows and bound by rubber-bands.
This department is staffed by a single person, Nicole McCamish, a sort of gatekeeper to the distracted, Lord of the Things.
"It's funny," she said. "A lot of the people I see here are the same people."
The department, which logs about 1,200 items a month, also receives 120 phone calls a day from its bumbling ridership.
"We get wheelchairs, crutches," said McCamish, 23. "How people get off the train, I just don't know. We also get gold teeth and dentures. "People don't seem to come back for the wheelchairs," she added. "But they usually come back to ask about their teeth."
In the early 1980s, Queen Elizabeth II, visiting San Francisco with her entourage, found herself in an unexpected downpour. Without an umbrella. This was a bad thing.
In a pinch, someone from the British Consulate had the presence of mind to contact BART's obscure office, which turned over 50 unclaimed umbrellas. One (it had to be black) was used to cover the queen's royal head.
"We wanted to help the queen," said BART spokesman Mike Healy, who personally signed off on the request. "What the heck."
On a recent day, several people stood in line in front of the lost and found department's service window.
Karen Kaczorowski, a grad student at UC Berkeley, showed up to see if her eyeglasses had turned up here.
"I dropped my purse in a train last week," she said. "Everything spilled out. I guess I forgot to pick up the glasses. I was more concerned about the money and my phone."
A few minutes later, an agent came out and dropped a blue crate labeled, "November glasses." Kaczorowski sifted through. No dice. "I think I'll try again," she said. "It's only been less than a week."
All this stuff is held by the transit agency for 90 days. Then, the leftovers are loaded into cardboard boxes and sent to Nationwide Auction Systems in Benicia.
There, the pieces are sold at auction for, depending on the item, $10 to $300. All the proceeds are steered back into BART's general fund.
"We sold an artificial leg," said Philip Marshall, a senior account executive for the auction house. "I don't know what it went for."
With the passing of the holiday season, BART anticipates a fresh wave of careless passengers, their minds numbed at 80 mph.
"It helps to listen when the train operator announces to look around," said McCamish, who receives a flattering share of personalized thank-you cards. "Or just hang on."
posted by Corey at 2:40 PM
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