2011-05-19
post/5621116304
Every morning, I push the STOP button on the handrail of a number 63 bus. It tells the driver I want to get off at the next stop.
I’m very fond of the button. It immediately radiates robustness: chunky yellow plastic on the red handrail. The command, STOP, is written in white capitals on red. There’s a depression to place my thumb into, with the raised pips of a Braille letter “S” to emphasize its intent for the partially sighted. When pushed, the button gives a quarter-inch of travel before stopping, with no trace of springiness; a dull mechanical ting rings out, and the driver pulls over at the next stop. […]
It’s immediately clear what to do with this button, and what the outcome of pushing it will be. It makes its usage and intent obvious.
This is a good button.
”Tom Armitage on Buttons - The Game Design of Everyday Things at Kill Screen.
This was particularly resonant given the truly atrocious way that Muni handles the same problem. A few buses have the same STOP button, but a majority of them (and all of the modern streetcars, along with most of the vintage ones) have pull-cords along the windows. The cords usually have a two to five second lag before the alarm sounds letting you know it’s actually been acknowledged, so often they ping repeatedly.
Meanwhile, unlike London’s simple “the doors are opened by the driver”, when you go to get off the bus, there are at least three different door-opening mechanisms.
Some buses have you pushing the door, others stepping down, and streetcars ask you to push a bar next to the door. Because each is different, each needs labels (often multiple labels, in inconsistent typefaces). Occasionally the door won’t open until the driver switches something, leading to cries of “Back door!” from frustrated passengers (or, more commonly, those watching someone who’s so tied up in being confused they don’t think to call).
You wouldn’t think you could get homesick for a simple button. You’d be wrong.
