The box
MARC train passengers are fine in the morning until Odenton. The seats are sparsely populated, cell phones aren't ringing incessantly and it is at least conceivable that one can get some sleep.
As the train brakes into Odenton station with the odor of burnt brake fluid permeating the bi-level car, you can see what is coming. The platform covered with suburban commuters waiting to step into the first in their daily series of boxes.
Last week, I sat and listened to a gaggle of metropolitan geese honking about the upcoming wedding of the one sitting directly across from me. She was talking about her brother's recent bachelor party and how it nearly cost him his wedding. I said that obviously the poor bastard hadn't done enough to get out of it, the geese looked at me like I had just eaten a steaming turd. It's amazing what we'll put up with just to avoid being alone. Not that I'm not absolutely guilty of the same, of course.
Today as we began to slide South of the Odenton platform this shit bastard wearing a government tag bearing the name Issenmeyer, Thomas with what had to be an incredibly uncomfortable stick wedged up his boyle's-law defying ass, cleared his throat and said excuse me as he sat down next to me. Not realizing what he wanted I ignored him with relatively mild annoyance like I would anyone sitting down next to me when there were two empty seats directly in front of us. He reiterated himself and said: "Can I get some space here?" The two seats in front of us were still empty.
I held out my hands, palms up and said "Sure, there's space right there!" He ignored me, content to settle for the lack of confrontation. Stupidly, perhaps a bit weakly, I concurred and moved into one of the empty seats. Within seconds, another necktied, blue blazered bastard sat down next to me. Mr. Issenmeyer had two seats to himself until I got off at New Carrollton.
Each one of the people climbing into the MARC train, then the Metrorail and then their cubicle at work manages to isolate themselves from the other people in these boxes. The commute is a wait in limbo; two hours of relative quiet in the morning and a forty five minutes of quiet time in the evening, until the Metro climbs out of its tunnel and into waning daylight.
It's frightening how people scramble for their cell phones as soon as the hint of a viable signal appears. They dig in bags through various pods of make up and feminine hygiene products and stuff hands into pockets, half standing on legs stiffened by sitting in the same position for half an hour. They're desperate for contact with the familiarity of the reality they've walled off from the boxes they deal with during the day. This is their chance to take off one mask and put on another as they congregate at happy hours or arrive at the gym to work off the doughhnuts and take out lunches they consumed in the box.
I don't know if my knowing all this, analyzing all this makes me better or worse than these people. I'm only different in that I'm aware of what I'm doing.
I try to avoid repeating everything twice, projecting as if I'm speaking to the ghost haunting the air five yards in front of me.
"Yes, three thirty. Yes, three thirty. I will be home for dinner. I will be home for dinner." There are always at least six people doing this in my car in the evening. Until they all get off in Odenton, that is.
As the train brakes into Odenton station with the odor of burnt brake fluid permeating the bi-level car, you can see what is coming. The platform covered with suburban commuters waiting to step into the first in their daily series of boxes.
Last week, I sat and listened to a gaggle of metropolitan geese honking about the upcoming wedding of the one sitting directly across from me. She was talking about her brother's recent bachelor party and how it nearly cost him his wedding. I said that obviously the poor bastard hadn't done enough to get out of it, the geese looked at me like I had just eaten a steaming turd. It's amazing what we'll put up with just to avoid being alone. Not that I'm not absolutely guilty of the same, of course.
Today as we began to slide South of the Odenton platform this shit bastard wearing a government tag bearing the name Issenmeyer, Thomas with what had to be an incredibly uncomfortable stick wedged up his boyle's-law defying ass, cleared his throat and said excuse me as he sat down next to me. Not realizing what he wanted I ignored him with relatively mild annoyance like I would anyone sitting down next to me when there were two empty seats directly in front of us. He reiterated himself and said: "Can I get some space here?" The two seats in front of us were still empty.
I held out my hands, palms up and said "Sure, there's space right there!" He ignored me, content to settle for the lack of confrontation. Stupidly, perhaps a bit weakly, I concurred and moved into one of the empty seats. Within seconds, another necktied, blue blazered bastard sat down next to me. Mr. Issenmeyer had two seats to himself until I got off at New Carrollton.
Each one of the people climbing into the MARC train, then the Metrorail and then their cubicle at work manages to isolate themselves from the other people in these boxes. The commute is a wait in limbo; two hours of relative quiet in the morning and a forty five minutes of quiet time in the evening, until the Metro climbs out of its tunnel and into waning daylight.
It's frightening how people scramble for their cell phones as soon as the hint of a viable signal appears. They dig in bags through various pods of make up and feminine hygiene products and stuff hands into pockets, half standing on legs stiffened by sitting in the same position for half an hour. They're desperate for contact with the familiarity of the reality they've walled off from the boxes they deal with during the day. This is their chance to take off one mask and put on another as they congregate at happy hours or arrive at the gym to work off the doughhnuts and take out lunches they consumed in the box.
I don't know if my knowing all this, analyzing all this makes me better or worse than these people. I'm only different in that I'm aware of what I'm doing.
I try to avoid repeating everything twice, projecting as if I'm speaking to the ghost haunting the air five yards in front of me.
"Yes, three thirty. Yes, three thirty. I will be home for dinner. I will be home for dinner." There are always at least six people doing this in my car in the evening. Until they all get off in Odenton, that is.
posted by The Transit Nomad at Monday, October 18, 2004
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