And here he comes.
A kindly looking man in his mid-30s, dressed in a plain suit, roughly shaven, with a hair line that has just started to recede, and flakes of grey in his otherwise black mop. After pushing past a purple-coated, older woman, content to stick out her behind and obstruct the entire busy aisle, he drops himself next to me. He sighs, reclines, and lets his briefcase slide down his knees, and clunk upon the floor.
Book in hand, struggling to remain focused on my reading, amidst the surrounding seat-scrambling chaos, I adjust my sitting position. I angle my shoulders, to hide my book, and face away from the man, towards the window. My contentment is obvious, but as the train pulls away I know it is in vain.
“What are you reading?” The man asks, furrowing his brow slightly, to feign intellectual interest. I knew this question had been coming. As he approached, I had been frantically debating with myself on how best to answer. In spite of this preparation, time seemed to stop for a moment. My stomach clenched. I fell into a half-conscious, suspended limbo.
To those who do not know better, my reaction may seem ridiculous and insecure. It seems like such an innocent question.
What book could I be reading to provoke such a visceral, tense response? Perhaps a book meant for children, causing some fear of social judgment? A self-help book, which might expose one of my perceived weaknesses? Or a medical text, on something deeply personal? It does not matter. I have read them all. In terms of explaining the reason for my discomfort, the third is closest to the mark.
Reading can be a very personal thing. Our fantasies, hopes, dreams, loves, worries, and darkest fears, can all be gleaned from the books we choose to read, and are informed by the books we have read. In a sense, the book in my hand, which a stranger now encroached over—sharing his musty, nicotine scented breath—is a shard of my soul.
Coming to my senses, I smile. “Harry Potter—been a while—wanted to relive it, you know?” I lie, with a well-rehearsed, awkward laugh. The man's brow relaxes. I see a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “Ah yes, been meaning to read it myself,” he muses, absently to himself, as he turns away. My stomach relaxes, and I turn again to my book.
It is strange. We call ourselves social creatures, yet there we all sit, coveting our personal space. If the aisle were not now full of people standing, swaying, fighting to remain upright and look composed, we would not sit together at all. Nor would we talk. All of those around me, forced together, sit in silence – with one exception.
“Hey, mind if I?—Awww, I feel it! Due soon, I imagine? Is it a boy or a girl? Have you decided a name? So exciting!”
Looking over, I can now see why the departing purple-coated woman, who had received so many dirty looks, had filled the aisle when collecting her bags. She had been sat beside a pasty faced, tired-looking teen, who looked set to burst. The woman had collected her bags in a way that did not exert any physical pressure on the girl. In her absence, the person who had taken up the seat did not seem to be following the same code. A teenager herself, she was rubbing the girl's stomach, without invitation, and babbling excitedly.
The social liberties that people take never cease to amaze me. Beneath her mask of happiness, I could see that the pregnant girl looked violated and distraught. There was hate there; she was fighting back a long built-up stream of vitriolic words, intermingled with all manner of hormones and uncertainties. But, like a good cookie-cutter human being, her mask remained firm. It only slipped around the eyes, which were darting about, much like a cornered animal.
No matter how personal, people seem to take social license with anything that seems to be an extension of another. If it is not entirely yours, then it is theirs. Theirs to ask about, theirs to encroach over with musty breath, theirs to touch. Worst of all, they do it without ill-intent. Oblivious to the discomfort they cause.
This does not mean that people should not talk. In fact, I wish that people would talk more often. Many of us are haunted by feelings of not being understood, and feel lonely and isolated. A person that genuinely seeks to empathize, and understand, can make us feel less alone.
How different my conversation would have been had the man asked, “I'm always looking for a good book to read, any suggestions?” Yes, he would still have interrupted and distracted me, but he would also have engaged me empathetically, in an open, opt-in discussion. I might then have asked him what kind of books he is interested in, and we might both have benefited from feeling less alone and more enlightened. Instead, I cut the man off. He had cornered me. I left him with a lie, disappointment, and none the wiser.
The real tragedy, of course, was the girl. There was no concealing that bump. There she sat, oggled and harassed. She was a mask, behind which all manner of unknown fears were bubbling. An encouraging smile, and quiet reassurance, would have done so much more good, than the reducing of her to that which she is carrying.
The train slowed. My stop, at last.
The man beside me jumped to his feet, briefcase in hand, and pushed back into the aisle, without so much as a glance in my direction. In joining the crowd, I tried to catch the girl's eye, to give her the most warm and encouraging smile I could muster. Instead, I was pushed away, by the masked masses and my book fell from my hand to the floor.
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