Taking a moment to breathe in the freshly acrid aroma of cleaning solution, which is overpowered only
by dozens of double grande half-calf soy mocha lattes, I step into Boston’s infamous two-dollar amusement park. Having brought with me no second-hand newspaper, no iPod, and not a single copy of whatever most people are reading in Freshman English this semester, I feel a bit out-of-place. I find a slightly sticky seat amongst the suits, the studious, and the overwhelmingly sleepy commuters to endure a jerky journey through the city in the belly of this steel beast.
Riding on a train this early in the morning somehow conjures memories of grey-haired sages-asking for tickets and shouting “aboard” with all of their half-enthused fury. Perhaps I am even sitting in a relatively spacious compartment enjoying the countryside and getting to know my next-seat neighbor on his bi-weekly commute to Tuscaloosa. This train, however, holds no such romance. Synthetic sunshine pounds into my eye sockets, making the meticulously framed advertisements difficult to read. Is it guaranteed Swahili or Swedish?
A not-quite-old but certainly not young woman sits near, reading her water bottle and listening through her earphones to what sounds only of snare drum. Caught staring, I avert my gaze sheepishly to my feet-hoping to blend in with the mass of paper-rattling people trying earnestly not to interact. Despite a few coughs here and there, the silence is essentially palpable.
With the discomfort of a destitute man sitting next to me wielding a stench so thick and brackish and a recent stop along the line picking up several groups of chatty people, I decide to move to the rear car, hoping to be entertained vicariously with a bit of dialogue. Struggling like a salmon fighting its way upstream, I excuse myself past a mass of bleary-eyed commuters, stopping only when I reach a hand-rail-accessible piece of rubber floor. Listening as if my life (or sociology grade) depended on it, I widen my stance and attempt to appear occupied with my thoughts.
With the drone of the computerized baritone man letting us know where the T is stopping next, and the horrible piercing screech of train wheels crying out for some WD-40, hanging on to every word of a conversation is a difficult task. Amidst the shrapnel of conversation, however, some generalities can be formed; most notably of which is that the conversation is boring.
In a city where population is primarily students, there is no shortage of whining. Many complaints of fatigue, and several gripes about the weather rain upon me. There is at least one girl who is quite upset with her ex-boyfriend. Looking around the car, I notice quite a number of “quiet” passengers seemingly hanging on every word of conversation around me. Are these curious folks also investigating urban sociology? Doubtful. Are they too craving an interaction to help them cope with another day of arduous monotony? Possibly. But I have the distinct feeling that these transit patrons are actually annoyed that their silence is being invaded.
Granted, the A.M. train ride holds a different vibe than the ruckus on Friday at midnight, but an absence of a single “good morning” instills an impersonal flavor in a city full of great gossip. There is yet another day of war, an historical election, and probably even a few good concerts coming up in all of our futures. And yet, the overly general ‘chit-chat’ I overhear in a place where people are wedged upon each other and forced to spend the better part of an hour together is underwhelming.
Hearing the baritone voice recording letting me know my stop is rapidly approaching, I shuffle toward the doors. The amusement park ride is over and a new batch of oddly familiar faces wait for their turn to ride. And with a quick spin near the open doors to face those who have suffered with me, I offer wishes of a good day. To which I receive the blank stare of many, a sneer of some, and the return wishes of none.
