The Condiments of Strangers
2/3/2012
Special guest blogger Maryjo Powell was recently in town and had the pleasure of once again riding the Metro train. We asked her to share her story from the underground.
I enjoy conducting my own personal social experiments while commuting via public transportation. My experiments are underscored with the notion that the majority of commuters are good, caring people. Seizing the opportunity during a visit to DC this week I experimented with a smile … I smiled at every
person that made eye contact with me and noted each reaction. Most fellow commuters reciprocate. A slight smile. A smile and a nod. And sometimes a smile followed by a “good morning”.
It was the Red Line. Jam packed. I had to stand through several stops, then the man sitting in the aisle seat next to me stood for his stop. I quickly swung into the seat he had just vacated. The shifting of passengers provided another opportunity for a smile exchange. Our eyes met. He was seated two rows up, with his back to the outside wall--right next to the door. He was an edgy kind of handsome. I am guessing mid-twenties. Our eyes met, I smiled. What was happening? He wasn’t smiling back. We remained locked in our gaze. I could feel my smile begin to fade. He opened his mouth to speak.
I must note that, unless someone speaks with the articulation of an NBC newscaster, I am only going to understand about 25 percent of what they say. It’s a horrible affliction but that’s a story for another blog.
The train is well on its way to its next stop and we are still staring at each other. Here it comes. The words leave his lips: “There is mayonnaise on that seat.” The words are spinning in my head. That can't be right. I tilt my head slightly and squint my eyes. He says it again. I blink three times. I realize that he is saying something about my seat. I move slightly forward and look down at the seat. I am sitting on today’s edition of the Express. I pick up the paper. There under the newspaper is an open packet of mayonnaise with a nasty mayonnaise mess on the seat. There is … mayonnaise on my seat. I glance back and wave the paper that has saved me from the mess. I return the paper to its important position and smile at the young man who was looking out for me. He smiles back.
Commuters are good and caring people.
Observer or Participant?
7/25/2010
Special guest blogger Robert Earl Hardy, author of A Deeper Blue: The Life and Music of Townes Van Zandt, shares his Metro story with us.
I rode the DC Metro every day for years, but now, living and working outside the city, I ride infrequently. Last Wednesday, immersing myself in the evening rush hour to go downtown for an after-work drink with a friend, I was able to feel like an observer rather than a participant in the madness. Or so I imagine.
It’s July; it’s 100 degrees; the Metro system is packed to the gills with tourists—often confused, overwhelmed, traveling in packs, trying to stay together among the throngs, sometimes with large suitcases or bulky backpacks or humongous baby strollers—along with the usual crush of the Washington workforce, in full force, in impossibly uncomfortable looking business suits, eyes glued to their BlackBerrys, earbuds wired in place, in their own wired worlds. Heading south into the city on the Red Line, the station stops between Union Station and Metro Center are occasions for more and more people to cram into the cars like cattle, with nobody getting off. The doorway areas are especially packed; nobody wants to get too far from the door for fear they won’t be able to get back off. Hands grasp for a place to hang onto on the nearest pole; arms are raised to hold onto the high horizontal pole; feet are firmly planted to steady those who don’t have a pole. Everyone is extremely close; touching, breathing, sweating.
At some point I can’t help notice two people piling into my car—a young couple, early to mid-twenties, clearly tourists, I think, because of his clothes: pastel plaid shorts with a belt, sandals with white socks, and a dark blue European-cut t-shirt printed in an odd foreign typeface Ezekial. He’s short, with blonde, tightly curly hair, cut sort of square; his face is rodent-like, with a pointy nose, a tiny mouth, no chin, beady eyes. She is lovely, delicate, European-looking somehow, I think, a pale sort of Eastern European beauty, long, fine brown hair, bright, light blue eyes, dressed in a light sundress. I’m against the wall near the door, and they’re standing right in front of me, her hand holding onto the pole right in front of my face. I look down, mostly, as subway riders do, and I look around, and elsewhere, but I also find myself looking unavoidably at this couple. He’s speaking to her quietly. In fact, I notice, he’s speaking to her constantly, with hardly any pause, and seemingly with some purpose. I look at her face. She’s not happy, I suddenly realize, although she betrays no overt displeasure. I begin to sense her growing distress in her expressions as he continues to talk to her, almost a whisper, not aggressive, but somehow pointed. It sounds like Russian, I think. I do not like this guy; I’m keeping an eye on him.
At the next station, she’s able to take a seat in the first row, and he stands next to her in the aisle while I remain standing directly in front of her. I watch them, increasingly concerned about the pressure he seems to be applying on her, about her reaction, and about the turn this could take. He’s almost hissing into her ear now, bending down, never looking her in the eye. She looks up, her blue eyes watery pools, not crying, yet; this is her most overt display, but she holds back still, staying composed. That’s it. If he makes one move to hurt her, I’m going to grab him. In fact, I suddenly think, why don’t I step in now and say something to him, just to stop him—“Excuse me, I was wondering what language that is you’re speaking, sir? It’s fascinating!”—just enough to break his hold on her. And then I’ll make eye contact with her, let her know I’m paying attention. I’m about to step up to him when the train pulls into the next station and they get off on the opposite side of the car, the rat-faced guy following close behind the woman. I can’t see her face; I can’t see them anymore as they fold into the crowd on the platform. I’m left with a chill.
It’s a fine line between observer and participant.
I rode the DC Metro every day for years, but now, living and working outside the city, I ride infrequently. Last Wednesday, immersing myself in the evening rush hour to go downtown for an after-work drink with a friend, I was able to feel like an observer rather than a participant in the madness. Or so I imagine.
It’s July; it’s 100 degrees; the Metro system is packed to the gills with tourists—often confused, overwhelmed, traveling in packs, trying to stay together among the throngs, sometimes with large suitcases or bulky backpacks or humongous baby strollers—along with the usual crush of the Washington workforce, in full force, in impossibly uncomfortable looking business suits, eyes glued to their BlackBerrys, earbuds wired in place, in their own wired worlds. Heading south into the city on the Red Line, the station stops between Union Station and Metro Center are occasions for more and more people to cram into the cars like cattle, with nobody getting off. The doorway areas are especially packed; nobody wants to get too far from the door for fear they won’t be able to get back off. Hands grasp for a place to hang onto on the nearest pole; arms are raised to hold onto the high horizontal pole; feet are firmly planted to steady those who don’t have a pole. Everyone is extremely close; touching, breathing, sweating.
At some point I can’t help notice two people piling into my car—a young couple, early to mid-twenties, clearly tourists, I think, because of his clothes: pastel plaid shorts with a belt, sandals with white socks, and a dark blue European-cut t-shirt printed in an odd foreign typeface Ezekial. He’s short, with blonde, tightly curly hair, cut sort of square; his face is rodent-like, with a pointy nose, a tiny mouth, no chin, beady eyes. She is lovely, delicate, European-looking somehow, I think, a pale sort of Eastern European beauty, long, fine brown hair, bright, light blue eyes, dressed in a light sundress. I’m against the wall near the door, and they’re standing right in front of me, her hand holding onto the pole right in front of my face. I look down, mostly, as subway riders do, and I look around, and elsewhere, but I also find myself looking unavoidably at this couple. He’s speaking to her quietly. In fact, I notice, he’s speaking to her constantly, with hardly any pause, and seemingly with some purpose. I look at her face. She’s not happy, I suddenly realize, although she betrays no overt displeasure. I begin to sense her growing distress in her expressions as he continues to talk to her, almost a whisper, not aggressive, but somehow pointed. It sounds like Russian, I think. I do not like this guy; I’m keeping an eye on him.
At the next station, she’s able to take a seat in the first row, and he stands next to her in the aisle while I remain standing directly in front of her. I watch them, increasingly concerned about the pressure he seems to be applying on her, about her reaction, and about the turn this could take. He’s almost hissing into her ear now, bending down, never looking her in the eye. She looks up, her blue eyes watery pools, not crying, yet; this is her most overt display, but she holds back still, staying composed. That’s it. If he makes one move to hurt her, I’m going to grab him. In fact, I suddenly think, why don’t I step in now and say something to him, just to stop him—“Excuse me, I was wondering what language that is you’re speaking, sir? It’s fascinating!”—just enough to break his hold on her. And then I’ll make eye contact with her, let her know I’m paying attention. I’m about to step up to him when the train pulls into the next station and they get off on the opposite side of the car, the rat-faced guy following close behind the woman. I can’t see her face; I can’t see them anymore as they fold into the crowd on the platform. I’m left with a chill.
It’s a fine line between observer and participant.
Overheard
On the Red Line Metro to Silver Spring, April Fool's Day
"If you're with two people from Michigan, then you're honorarily from Michigan."
"If you're with two people from Michigan, then you're honorarily from Michigan."