Where Are We Going?
Where Are We Going?
Dark. Cold. Silent.
You could hear the pitter-patter of the rain above our heads as a group of us awaited the metro headed westbound to Owings Mills. Not too much to remember, mainly just the faces. Went calmly down the stairs, no point of rushing. Relieved that my belongings were no longer at risk of getting wet. A couple of books from the library — can’t afford any more fees. Swiped my ticket and stepped through the turnstile. I’ve always been paranoid of turnstiles — makes me wonder what would happen if one ever closed on me before I could step all the way through. Turnstiles are impatient. They give you mere seconds to decide whether you want to stay or go. There’s little time to regret or redeem your choice.
Stood on the platform and read whatever was left of the advertisements on the rusted wall. I looked down on the platform & examined the use of those rails over the years. Years of wear and tear and they still held up. Mind ran back to the night where I got drunk at the Red Emma’s Bar and needed some serious help getting on the metro. Some friends that I was with got permission from the transit worker to accompany me onto the platform even without a ride pass of their own, just to ensure that I got on the correct train. Even had to help me to my seat. Unsure of what the occasion was, but truth be told it could’ve just been an ordinary Wednesday night. Felt a draft coming from one side of the tunnel, dark and extending out into the void. Wondered what would happen if the train blew by and the wind knocked my bus pass out of my hand. Got paranoid — tucked it in my jean jacket pocket, wishing the metro would come soon.
Metro arrived and the platform sliding doors opened. Paranoia about those doors kicked in. It reeked of cigarettes. The formerly white walls didn’t age well. Now they look like an adhesive beige. You can tell that all of the overhead lights once shined brighter, because there were a few more that clinged on to their vibrancy. All others succumb to the long term use, giving in to the longevity of time. Scoped out the cart, looking for a seat that was as reclusive as I needed it to be. Didn’t want to be bothered. Was dreading the long ride and wanted to get a move on. Made an attempt to walk towards the back without making eye contact. Hard to do with so many eyes staring back at you. I was so close to making it but my eyes averted. Looked right in the eyes of a man somewhere my age staring me square in the face. The looked pierced me. Didn’t know what to make of it. I tried to look back with the same forcefulness that he gave me, but I only felt weakened by his gaze. I looked away and made my way towards the rear of the cart, careful not to sit on a piece of gum.
Something about the metro always made me sad. For years I felt this way, but could never put my finger on it. I just always avoided riding it altogether, just to spare myself of the feeling. Today, I had no choice. The double doors swiftly shut and the train sped forward with a slight jerk. You could hear the screech of the train — it’s body grinding against the tracks like nails to a chalkboard. It was no subtle sound. It was conspicuous — forcing you to wonder how a fire hadn’t been sparked yet, or when they’d decide to make the necessary repairs. I took inventory of the sights and sounds around me. I looked into the eyes and faces of some of the other riders. I finally realized why I didn’t like the metro so much — everybody looked so sad, so defeated. You could smell the stench of poverty, despair and homelessness. People who had so many things taken from them, with hardly anything returned. People with nothing left to their name but some stories, often stories of war. It was easy to be oblivious to it and to just tuck it away for a time, but not on the metro. There was nowhere for you to go. You had no choice but to sit and look at it, come to grips with it face to face, bump it head on and dissect it with your very own existential ideas of life and prosperity.
I wondered, “where are we going?” For so many of us, there was no destination — just a ride that we knew we had to take if we were to stay afloat. Whether we knew our “true” destination or not, we knew one thing to be true — we were always down for the ride. The irony in all of this is despite not knowing our destination, we ALWAYS know when we miss our stop…
I peered out the window. Grey skies on the verge of tears. Green grass and trees — slightly greener than they should be this time of year. Passing underneath shabby bridges with graffiti sprayed on their underbellies. The screeching has come to a halt and now I can hear the shouts of a man sitting a few rows behind me. He had both eyes closed, rocking back and forth in his seat and shaking his legs uncontrollably, as if he were on a roller coaster…
“Hold me tight baby!
Yeah baby baby baby baby!
Hold me tight baby!
Yessir!
Ya holding me tight baby!
Yeah baby baby baby baby…
Yeah baby baby baby…
Aww shit!
UHH!
Yessir!”
“What in the Hell… boy, he high as shit!” said one of the younger guys sitting in front of me, chuckling.
“He on that Fetty Wap!” said the other guy sitting across the aisle from us both. They laughed in unison. I shared a bit of concern, but remembered that we all had to reach a destination and perhaps he had reached his. The metro stopped abruptly. I stepped off of the train onto the platform and looked around in both amazement and extreme confusion —
