Tales of the subway, part 1

I guess it comes down to how you feel about mundane events. Are they just little statistical inevitabilities which we should rightly pay little, if any, attention to? Or are each and every one of them instantiations of the common themes of all humanity which should be treated with equal, if not greater, respect in art and science? Your opinion on this matter will colour the following reading appropriately. Strange drama or not drama at all?

The following is taken from about ten minutes of commuting time. I tried to be the fly on the wall. I realize the names I give the characters are hopeless first-impression synopses. But what else is there? I originally wanted to call this "Lanky scrap metal collector--iPod hipster guy--Bracelet guy & surfer girl--"Allen Ginsberg"--Strategy man--"Ryuji Yamamoto"--Old grasping woman--Compsci grad student--Potential love of my life", but that is too unwieldy and a formatting nightmare. The one thing I regret is that there was little interaction between these characters, all ordinary people caught in a metal tube-induced still life. Anyway, enough preamble to what will probably be a short entry.

Lanky Scrap-metal Collector: looks like someone dredeged him up from a river. Some sort of shapeless clothes hiding a skeleton. Leathery face you try to imagine as your own and shudder inwardly. Baseball cap from some ancient roadside beer tent or steakhouse or diner grand opening or discounted baseball game. He ambled down the car and sat down directly next to the Potential Love of my Life, which irked her, but she did not let it show except through microexpressions. I'll get to her later. I never got up close to Lanky Scrap-Metal Collector to smell him, but I imagine he smelled of sardines. Old sardines. Dumpster sardines?

iPod Hipster Guy: they're not uncommon by a long shot. The iPods, I mean. This dude was the epitome of one tuning out: music blaring, sunglasses hiding the direction of his gaze (I was convinced he was staring at me the entire time). Rolled-up jeans and a skateboard acting as temporary footrest. I've always categorically refused to listen to portable music. It would ruin experiences such as these which, while I admit not very entertaining to read, stimulate something. He was immobile for the whole ride, off on a soma-vacation to which I can reasonably conclude involved crashing cymbals and the rising overtones of electric guitars. His novelty dogtags vibrated in happiness.

Bracelet Guy: jeans & t-shirt. Obviously, a bracelet. A touch of accent in his voice. Something eastern European, something melancholic. He has tattoos down the back of one arm. Cuneiform? Runes? I don't know. I bet he doesn't know either. But they are energizing symbols, so he chose well. I'll bet he knows art. (The italics here signify the peculiar combination of reverence and condescension that have to be thrown into the word: reverence for the concept "art", which the artist has dedicated life & limb to, and condescension to the layman to utter the Sacred Syllable.) He's an animated one. The type that draws the rest of the riders to eavesdrop on him. But I couldn't hear what he was so animatedly discussing with...

Surfer Girl: this was my first impression of her. The schema I have just induced in your mind, the vague but definitely present abstract superstructure of what it means to be a surfer girl, is wrong. In light of subsequent information I found out that: she likes tattoos (in keeping with the earlier schema) and she talekd abotu choreography as something she's studying/doing (which does not fit the schema and is major enough to throw it into disarray. This schema-shattering would probably have happened for every person I chose to profile if I heard them speak or followed them around, but we all have to make some assumptions to start off. And statistically they are valid. But I digress. She wore lots of bracelets: ankle bracelets, wrist bracelets of enough variety to make each general area around the carpals unique. Her bracelet virus probalby rubbed off on Bracelet Guy when they met, which I feel must have been fairly recently.

"Allen Ginsberg": the man practically rode his bike into the car. He then became fascinated with one of the "Poetry on the Way" signs. After finishing the poem (I think it was something to do with this), he began scrutinizing the rest of the ads, his facial expression radiating approval or disapproval. He had a beard, like the man he is named after. Scruffy clothes and a bicycle, like I mentioned. He was lacking the Uncle Sam hat or the academic glasses, but we shall forgive.

Strategy Man: reading a book. The title had something to do with strategy. He, like the iPod dude, was tuned out for the duration of our time together on Actual Earth. He sat close enough so that I could read the paragraph headings. But I desisted, imagining someone reading over my shoulder in the same way.

"Ryuji Yamamoto": as you might imagine, not his actual name. He has the shortest description: Japanese hepcat. He interfaced with his girlfriend. But he only stayed on for one stop, much like the hepcats in my life. And just when I was working up a proper interest level.

Old Grasping Woman: grasping her Metropass the entire time. Afraid: of vultures?, of students?, of terrorists?, of iPods, of bracelets?, of the heat wave?, of her children?, of the wrinkles on her face?, of her guttural breathing?, of the conductor?, of the tunnels?, of UV rays?, barbituates?, caffeine?, Alzheimer's?, varicose veins?, horrible accidents? Enough! There is enough to fear, but what makes me think I can understand the extend of the elderly human's fear? I can't. Not yet.

Comp(uter) Sci(ence) Grad(uate) Student: looked very milky-skinned (for a brown person) and delicate. Educated, obviously. The stare was intelligent and focused. But he was brown. I don't know how many wathced suspiciously, thinking: "he looks different from me, therefore he has a bomb in that backpack. He wants to destroy everything our liberal free educated peaceful kind loving peaceful free peaceful kind country has ever worked for, and replace it with his totalitarian fundamentalist woman-hating fundamentalist theocracy of fundamentalist woman-hating fundamentalism". None. It didn;t occurr ot me to write this until now. On that car, we were all just a little too busy with our own thoughts (even if those thoughts were non-self-directed) to listen to clean-cut officials who, while making a valid point, are one step cloest to authoritarian jackassness. If we die, we die. If we are mauled by shrapnel or paralyzed, so it goes.

The Potential Love of my Life: it's bullshit of course. In fading memory, she is looking more and more average, more and more like putty. But she had curls you could get lost in, tied up and suffocating. Pouting mouth delivering the stern "fuck you" to the wall, the floor, my wandering gaze, Lanky Scrap-metal Collector while appearing to remain motionless. I bet she's a mathematician or something schema-shattering like that. Her potential for sharing my life to the fullest is equal to the potential of all other people there. Except maybe for "Ryuji Yamamoto". I would have told those eyes anything. But he left so quickly.

Setting: Bloor-Danforth Line, early afternoon.

Consider: "...homosexuality in Russia is a crime and the punishment is seven years in prison, locked up with the other men. There is a three year waiting list.