Disconnected Modem

I stepped onto the A train at 5:00PM Friday, the 1st of October. Anyone who rides the rails can tell you that the hours of 5-6 are.... a nightmare. Never will you have such an ambrosial bouquet of sweat, cologne, and onion breath packed into the sardine cans that take us to and fro.

What a great place to people watch...

I stood for my 20 minute journey back home and noticed a lucky mid-20's bastard to my left sitting comfortably. My first visual was that this guy was a "thug". I am not going to bother explaining why I thought this or what the definition is even. Just, go with me here.

Anyway, this "thug" was sitting quietly and not bothering anyone. The bass from his mp3 player was audible but not loud by any means and his hands were folded. He looked like he had been riding awhile and still had a long time ago. Everything was very common about this guy until I noticed the bit of tattoo on his left arm. Which was also right around the time I noticed he looked rather sad.

The tattoo became more and more visible and miserable as he moved about and as we moved about. I eventually reasoned it to be "RIP MOM" with no visual on the birth date but the death date was clear: 10/1/2003.

Now I feel like King Ass hole III. Here I am calling this guy a thug and wishing him to be drawn and quartered for his luxury seat, and he is currently "celebrating" the anniversary of one of his darkest days. I judged a book by it's cover and felt guilty immediately.

Then, the reason for this entry hit me. How disconnected are we from one another? NYC is a given. We are each an independent machine puttering along and far more important than the other. We all do it.

Here is a prime example of how connected we really are without realizing it.

This guy had a mom and a dad. I hope his father is still with him. But, we know his mother is still not. This guy has the same pain and anguish we all share. He rides the rails for an hour a day just to get home like many of us do. He goes home to his apartment and wishes his mom was there to tell her about his day and the last seven years she has missed. But, he cant.

In the suburbs; things are a little different. People are arguably a bit closer to one another, but the judgement still takes effect. A disabled person at the grocery store, a senior citizen greeter at Wal-Mart, and god forbid that feeling when you see a minority pulled over by the police. 

We want to think we are all so important and so different from one another. In opposition of conformity, we develop individual styles and interests. Some wear Mohawks and some pierce their face. Isn't that conformity, anyway? Just be you. Find a shirt you like? Buy the damn thing. Don't worry if it's not a "label" or "this season" On the other end, do not worry if it has a severe shortage of animal stripes or the color purple.

I know a woman who wears teal...every day. Every damn day. Why?. I wonder if it's your favorite color?

Tell you what: I'll get you a teal casket when you pass on and that pretty much covers it, right? Take the deal and wear mauve.

I got off the subway at my stop and the grieving thug stayed on. He will continue his day the same way he does every day. After all, it's just a Friday. The dark gloom that hangs over his weekend will fade just in time for next year's anniversary. When he wears a long sleeve shirt, no one will really truly know him without digging deeper.

Next time you are on the subway, or in the market, or laughing at that poor schmuck getting pulled over think about this: they are in the same private hell that you are living. Memories of good and bad fill their head just as often as your own. They are not better or worse. Only different. But, exactly the same. ......and if you are reading this; please stop wearing teal.... thanks!