She began to lean instinctively against the concrete barrier, catching herself in the nick of time. The dirty wall wouldn't do - this skirt would have to last a few more wears between the cleaners.
"Ohhhhh, Sweet child of miiiiine." Now the constraint was even harder to fight. The urge to dance, to sing aloud, it all seemed so natural in this charade of an underworld. The worst she could do was to throw her head back, slightly swaying and tapping her feet to the music. They all saw one another, these fellow inhabitants. Everyone waiting for a train to take them to their own abodes, or that of an obliging friend. Heaven forbid, a stranger.
It was the pretense of not seeing that most amused her most, tempted her to break the social precepts so tangible one might imagine tapping up against them like glass. She had been closer to her sister 700 miles away than she was to the man now leaning almost too close beside her. This was not the time of night he should be leaning so close. Only 8 minutes until the next train now.
"I'd go hungry, I'd go black and bluuuue." Oh Garth, would you really? How long would you care for her to feel your love? Something in her doubted. Still she wanted to soak it in, wanted to believe. And this time, as she threw her head back and opened her eyes up at the cubed arc of a ceiling, she remembered distinctly what it was to experience this city. Her initial fascination, and how she still felt it from time to time. Nights like these when she stepped outside herself.
That first time she had stepped into the metro otherworld. She remembered how the mod-styled tunnels had reminded her of the Death Star from Star Wars. So grey, so geometrical, and so foreign-feeling from the outside world. Especially in contrast to her small, small, small-town world.
And now, here she stood, enjoying the assignment. She fancied herself a regular commuter. She concentrated on concentrating on nothing at all, losing herself in her own music and mind and world. That wasn't so much of a challenge anyway. But still she found her focus waning. Too curious, too distracted by the novelty of it all, too worried about the man almost brushing her arm now. The man on the other side of her, he must be a veteran of the trains. He was too detached, too absorbed in his own thoughts as the people passed by.
She found herself studying the people on the trains passing by. The very separate emotions, separate lives, all scrunched together, forced to share space for the briefest time. Their bodies lurching in unison with the stopping and starting of the train cars. This movement, the space, the holiday spirit. They shared it all, yet it seemed a farcical common-ground. So many people intersecting, yet going in very different directions.
They moved forward as her train approached and she noticed how the close-creeper stepped up in tandem, even closer now. Others followed suit, but something about him in particular made her hair stand on end. A woman's intuition perhaps? Nothing in his dress or mannerisms (other than standing too close for comfort) screamed danger. True, his crew cut and swirlyscript gangsta-style button down looked a tad awkward with slimfit jeans and Vans. Perhaps it was the lack of a read she could get on him that disturbed her most.
As she stepped on the train, she found other targets easier to peg. The lady leaning wearily against the window pane, an overworked mother trying to make her big corporate break. Perhaps she was bemoaning the fact that she'd missed tuck-in time with her small child once more? Or was she worried about tomorrow's proposal? Perhaps what she would wear to tomorrow night's dinner party?
The twenty-something, barely post-college crowd standing in the center of the car seemed oblivious to the rest of the train's passengers as the called down the aisle to one another. They seemed intoxicated, and it would serve to reason that they would be on this St. Patrick's Day. Green Mardi Gras beads decked with clovers hung about their necks and plastic party hats donned their heads. They swung about the carpoles recklessly while it stood waiting with other passengers loading and unloading. The necessity-riders pushed past, mild disdain on their faces. She chose to join them, digging in her heels and steadying herself with the rail above.
Perhaps the most striking sight was the man with the pizza boxes. His face spoke of exhaustion, but there was an unmistakable light in his eyes as well. Nothing else special about him; an African-American male in his late thirties, taking a late train home after work. His uniform gave him away, peeking out from underneath his pleather jacket. Lord, are you what's sustaining that light in his eyes, coming home from the late-shift on a crowded train? It was something they shared, she and he. She knew, even after this longest of days, it still burned out of her own green eyes, even if absent from those around them.
And she marvelled at this. Surely, these cynical-looking yuppies, tuned out to ipods or hiding in the papers- surely your children are here Lord! What of the frazzled woman in her forties, brow furrowed, eyes closed. The elderly, scowling gentleman, shifting his nonglances around the car? The tight-lipped, sari-shrouded woman sitting stiffly upright, eyes downcast on her folded hands resting in her lap.
What has snuffed out the light? What has buried and burdened it away in this city?
She braced herself for the next lurch as the trained slowed to her stop and found herself brushing once more against the creeper.
As she made her way to the door, she breathed a sigh of relief as he made no move to follow.
Child, you only imagine you can see what I see. You only imagine you can read their hearts, can feel and understand the weight of their struggles, their triumphs, their worries and failures.
She looked back once more as the train sped away and said a quick and thankful prayer. Yes, this Jesus; he could read their thoughts, meet their needs and give perspective to the most desperate of situations.
Even to a lonely, pretentious girl making her way home on the metro.
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