The subway car smelled of Tim Horton’s coffee, and besides myself, there were only seven other people on it. It was around noon on Friday, and each person there chose to sit just as far from another human as possible. Plugged into an iPod or scrolling away on a Blackberry, the commuters all fought to protect their disconnected island status.
A black woman in a vibrant blue coat got on. She was wearing a sun hat adorned with a flower, in spite of the fact that it was a grey, blustery, single-digit kind of day. She had a smile for everybody, and speaking in a clear and beautiful Caribbean accent, declared, “don’t you know that Jesus will be returning? Turn that frown upside down!” An impassive young man in sunglasses looked over his shoulder, hoping she was speaking to somebody else.
A man in a Baltimore Raven’s ballcap wears a rain poncho. He has a sad, sunken face, but intelligent eyes. He speaks quickly into his phone, “I should be there in twenty minutes. Don’t start without me.” He hangs up, having nothing more to add.
A 20 year-old girl with severe pigtails and sharp, black bangs reads a book called World Food 2009. She looks like she wants to look political. She glances around at the other passengers on the train, and then suspicious, puts on her oversized sunglasses. She continues reading, chewing her fingernails thoroughly, one by one.
At St. Clair, two mannish women in practical shoes get on. They both have short haircuts and peace pins attached to the lapels of their jackets. They’re talking about baiting mousetraps with peanut butter. One of them, the happier of the two, explains that the mice often don’t even weigh enough to trip the trap. She smiles, “that’s why you need to get yourself a pussy cat!” The other woman nods, thinking about it very seriously. Maybe she will, her face says, maybe she will.