It is a ritual of the city. As we enter the train each of us takes on our protective safety cushion of anonymity. Our personal bubbles of tolerance through practiced ignorance. It’s sounds harsh, but it becomes a necessity. How else could we ignore the presence of so many people every moment of every day?
In the morning there are panhandlers of every make and model, 16 years olds using cell phone speakers as boom boxes, and moms on a never ending quest to quell the wails of their children. By night the scene changes somewhat, to incorporate a different set of norms. Singing erupts from a young group of teens, silenced quickly by yells from a neighboring group. The smells of pizza and perfume and sweat battle in the stale air. A growing puddle of urine pools beneath an ancient homeless man as he nods off into an alcoholic coma. Twenty-somethings pop gum and curse and spit and flirt and pretend not to notice. The conductors voice, sometimes muffled with ambiguity sometimes automated and clear as day punctuates each lurch of the train. If we do not withdraw from it all then we cannot function. The stimuli would overwhelm us.
So we retreat.
Into books and newspapers and play lists, each of us with a routine of self induced solitude. We sit, or stand if we must and stare and block out the things we cannot process. Like looking into the ripples of water on a lake it can induce a headache to try to think about all of it. So we don’t.
Occasionally though, the bubble is broken. Someone speaks, makes eye contact, communicates in some way and eyes turn to observe from all around. The act permeates cocoons and suddenly, we remember that we’re human. Sometimes it’s shocking, a genuine smile or a kind word. More often just numb, a woman crying, a child holding his chest as though his heart has actually broken. It is always a surprise when it does occur and it never lasts long. We are all back within the safety of our bubbles before long.
And then the doors swing open and we rise and scramble out of our temporary metal encasements. We push through the turnstiles and up the stairs into the air. Finally, the air. Crisp, cold city air woven like a tapestry with a new assortment of stimuli, color and smell. We are prepared for it though and take it all in stride.
Next week my daily affair with the train will come to an end for a while as I embark on the spring, and begin life as a bike commuter. I look forward to the change, and to leaving my bubble behind me for now.
So very well put. Sometimes, when someone puts a dimple in your bubble, it can be the most reassuring feeling toward human nature…
I am on the train; my entire life just hurts. I’m looking at my feet, smushed in between two who are completely enthralled with their headphones/most recent issue of NY Mag, completely unaware of the world around them. They don’t notice me at all… a tear drips down – it’s all over from there. It’s safe because I am invisible to them – the tears are flowing. “How can you possibly be so lonely while elbow-to-elbow with 9 million other people?”
I was so startled when I felt the tap on my elbow, that I thought I must have imagined it. A young girl taps on my elbow again – reaching through 2 others to do so, and hands me a square of pocket tissue. She smiles brightly (although I can tell there is a tinge of pity in her smile) and kindly looked away to give me back my personal moment.
And there I am… smiling again
In New York City.