The End of the Line

I live at the end of the subway line. Frequently, I ride home in the late evening. By rights, it's a fairly tame trip home - most people who live around here have their automobiles carry them to and fro, thus negating, in their minds, the need for the train, leaving those unable or unwilling to dole out the money for such a luxury (purchase, insurance, maintenance, fuel) to exercise the public transit option.

On a lonely Tuesday night ride home, I nod off just as the train pulls away from the downtown core and its hip, trendy locales, towards the more drab confines of suburbia. As my eyelids drop, I see a train full of people from all walks of life; by the time they open, the train approaches its final destination, and few of us remain, sparsely scattered throughout the cars, mostly men, mostly non-White. Despite the lack of glamour offered by this form of intra-city travel, there is a beauty in this sombre setting. I look at these few faces and wonder what they might be pondering at that moment, or how they ended up sitting in this car, in the seat opposite me, riding to the end of the line.

This past Sunday evening, as I ascended from the tunnel to the bus terminal, I came across a drunken White man surrounded by eight or so White police officers, all ready to pounce on him at a moment's notice. I suppose his loud, unruly behaviour frightened some customers and warranted a telephone call to the nearest precinct. We bystanders stood and watched, not knowing what to think, not knowing what would happen next: would these eight grown men with truncheons and guns stomp the life out of this surly old man? would cooler heads prevail? Fortunately, the latter was the case, though who knows what happened after he was escorted away in the cruiser. I could not help but wonder: what if this gentleman's skin was coloured differently? would calm and reason rule the evening?

As I write this, I think to myself why I spend so much time at the bars or other social gatherings expecting things to happen and being disappointed when they don't, when the most fascinating portion of the evening is spent traveling there and back, sitting among the people who can't, or don't, throw money at the luxury of a private chariot to carry them around the city, people in deep thought (even as they read those free watered-down mini-newspapers), people on the go, people leading lives, with stories to tell. I've probably interacted with more people on a bus or train than at any bar, night club, house party or other social gathering: I imagine the same can be said for many of you.

It's amazing how expectations cloud our minds: we hit the town on a given Friday or Saturday night expecting to meet that new friend or special someone, expecting to get laid, expecting to have a blast, then end up disappointed after said expectations are not meant, all the while taking for granted the people we see on the ride there, absent from our mind's eye for the sole reason that we do not know them, that they are "others", people not part of our "scene". Mind you, this isn't to say I'm vowing to approach strangers I see on each of my commutes - I'm too riddled with anxiety to embark on such an endeavour: all I'm saying is, there is beauty where you least expect to find it.