Flotsam and Jetsam: An Essay on Perspective

Dropped into this middle state, as Pope calls it, we are, so far as we are aware, the only creatures on this planet with the capacity to wonder about our own existence and to question it. We stare into the infinite void that surrounds us and try to make order of it. It is the horror of a Lovecraft of Maupassant which scares us, if only momentarily, into believing that beyond the veil we cannot see there is nothing, or, if it is there, we are insignificant. Religion tells us otherwise and consoles us that in the vast universe we are not an accident or an aberration, but a key part of a grand plan. It would be, indeed, a terrible irony if the swirling chaos birthed us only to dump us like so much flotsam and jetsam on the shore of life alone and horrified, cut off from anything else.

Some time ago I was riding the train into work. The sky was overcast and the intermittent splatter of rain drops on the car windows left rivulets that formed intricate patterns as the wind drove the forlorn drops backwards. I had settled into my chair, one of the last on a train that was fully loaded, and like always, I began filling out my crossword puzzle. I always get some sense of satisfaction from forming the words. It is not solely pride at figuring the clues, but something much deeper about putting the chaos of the puzzle to rest. Once I start and answer even one clue, I have to finish.

We rocked gently back and forth. No one talked. No one ever talks during the commute, unless it be on their cell phone to a faceless interlocutor who, for his absence, might as well not exist in our little self-contained reality here. My seatmate stared vacantly out the window; the static of noise that escaped her earbuds did not afford me enough of a tune to identify her musical stylings. We were just fifty some odd people who lives had, for a brief moment, intersected and would, we believed, pass on without ever seeing one another again.

We passed underground and the soft sunlight blinked out to be replaced by a the yellowing glare of the rail car's florescent bulbs. The clacking of the wheels now echoed off concrete walls and the sudden drop in elevation caused a static to hiss in my ears until I could again equalize the pressure.

As we passed out of cell phone range, the last of the conversations died down. Save for the occasional "Excuse me," or "Sorry," there was only the sound of the wheels on the track. At every station, we made room for the new arrivals. The doors chimed and once more the track slipped behind us and was swallowed by the darkness; only the mysterious and occasional light shone in the darkness of the tube.

Not far from my stop, the train eased to stopped. Standing passengers muttered automatic "sorry's" as they jostled one another. A few looked up, but such stops were not unknown. A older gentleman, rotund and red faced, looked nervous. "What is it," he asked. No one answered. With a screech and lurch the train moved forward a few feet then stopped. The red-faced man let out a groan; the passenger next to me just sighed.

"Ladies and gentleman, we are being asked to hold our position. There is a train ahead of us on the track. We will be moving momentarily."

"What does that mean?" asked the nervous older man. Again, no one answered him. The everyday needs no explanation, even when it is inexplicable; it has the comfort, at least, of being familiar and no one bothers to question it. One outsider, though, can provoke a situation.

A lady in front of me with a wide face and a hat that reminded me of ones I had seen in old movies with matriarchal women on their way to church answered, though she did not address the questioner specifically. "Never run good, this train. Been riding it for years. Don't think a day has passed that something didn't go wrong." Whether she intended this to comfort our agitator or not, it failed. His face was flushed and only grew redder as time drew on. Now, more heads popped up from their ipods, newspapers, books, and naps. A svelte, high cheek-boned lady sitting across from me began to bounce her leg in irritation and sigh loudly as she shook her thin face.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for this delay. The train ahead of us is experiencing mechanical difficulties. We will be moving momentarily."

More people grew agitated by the further delay and quiet sounds began to pierce the hum of the background noise: the rustling of papers, the beeping of cell phones, the din of overlapping voices. I sat stock still, taking in the new sensations. A new energy quickened the passengers. Whispered conversations ebbed and flowed. Sentences were let loose and then hung; half ignored, half answered, merely passing each other and carrying only the slightest resemblance to real conversations.

"Not again..."

"This never happens on the New York Subway"

"How difficult is it to get a train to run on time"

"I know! Can you believe it? I was once stuck for over an hour"

"Hiking rates, buying new cars, and they still can't keep the trains running for a single day."

"I hope that doesn't happen today"

"I'm gonna be late again today!"

Somewhere in this concatenation of half-hearted conversations, the confabulations began to coalesce. Two theories emerged almost organically from the crowd and grew seemingly independent. They developed legs and wings and dwelt among us quite as though they were face. Somewhere down at the end of the car the word "fire" drifted from one of these half-formed conversations and was taken up with gusto by our corpulent, ruddy friend.

"Fire?!" he said. "Everyone! We need to find the nearest exits. We going to have to evacuate the train. I'm serious. Look around you." He wiped the sweat from his face, his leg nervously bouncing. A few people laughed at his suggestion, but nonetheless many eyes wandered toward the emergency exit signs. Just in case.

The other theory came from wirery gentlemen of indeterminate age with salt and pepper hair and glasses. To a not very attentive partner, he extrapolated his own interpretation of events.

"It's likely just a stuck door or maybe even a sick passenger. They never tell us what's really going on. They afraid people will panic if they knew the truth. Could be a lot worse."

His would-be interlocutor nodded, but did not raise her eyes from her paper. We waited now; the novelty worn off. Humans are amazing adapters and soon fell back to their papers, their novels, their crossword puzzles or their sudoku. The whispered conversations now ebbed away until only the occasional whisper or soft rustle remained.

"Ladies and Gentleman. We apologize for the delay and would like to thank you for choosing MetroRail..."

--"Choosing?! What other choice do we have?" said the wirery, bespectacled man.

"There is a train ahead of us that is experiencing mechanical difficulties."

The ruddy man with the round face gulped obviously. "Does everyone know where their nearest emergency exit is?" He asked loudly.

"We have been asked to push the train up to the next station, allow the passengers to exit and then push the train forward and unload this train."

"Oh my g--!" shouted the round man. He stood up for the first time and moved closer to the exit.

"See," said the bespectacled philosopher, "I knew it was worse. It's probably even worse than they are letting on. I'll bet there was a fire. Can you see any smoke." He looked out of the window into the dim light of the tunnel. Apparently unable to see any smoke, he said down without saying a further word.

The train jerked forward and with a creaking groan it crept forward. With a jolt, we coupled with the train in front of us and began our shaky journey forward. The train vibrated. Every eye looked up and out as if expecting to see something, though logic said there would be nothing to see.

We sat in a sepulchral silence and we moved jarringly forward. Even the most jaded of commuters now looked up. No one spoke. The rustling and beeping was silenced. Only the groaning of fatigued metal and rusted joints remained. It echoed through the car. The round faced man paced nervously, but never strayed far from the emergency exit. The thin man sat stoically but shot occasional furtive glances in search of smoke.

At long last, the shuddering stopped.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we thank you for you patience. We will be holding here until the train ahead of us unloads all its passengers."

With the last click of the mic, a deep and overwhelming silence stole over the rail car. No one spoke; not the thin man, not the ruddy man, not even the church-hat lady or the peaked-nose business woman. Aside from a stray cough or two, it was total silence.

In a few moments, a creaking groan signaled we were moving again. The train shuddered forward, its engines straining to propel twice its normal load along the underground track. Light broke out around the forward edges of the car as the train emerged into the station. The packed crowds all along the platform stood shoulder to shoulder completely filling the whole area. They watched us with weary glances, more annoyed than angry, but still resigned to their fate. We stared back no less drained of expression by the prolonged exasperation. The trained continued to jerk along. The faces of the passing commuters on the platform shook wildly, but passenger in the car looked inward.

At last we stopped and the doors opened. Crowded as we were on the train, it was even more difficult to find room on the platform which was packed tight with two hours worth of angry passengers. The ruddy face man was the first off, scarcely pausing to say the obligatory sorrys. I saw him last as he exited the station carelessly brushing people aside.

I followed the thin man with the salt-and-pepper hair and the business lady with the aquiline nose. We stood on the platform and waited for the train to depart, weighing whether it would be best to stay and fight for room on a crowded train or take a cab. The business woman typed furiously on her blackberry with her thin lips pursed tightly. She made no sound other than an occasional and much too emphasized sigh of annoyance. The thin man continued to espouse his theories.

"Of course, if they had had the foresight to establish a double rail line, they wouldn't have these problems. This place is so poorly managed, that its no wonder I have to leave so early just to make sure I'm not late every day. This is what happens when you have a socialist model that doesn't allow competition. You get substandard service 'cause they know they're the only game in town. I'm sure their is corruption, skimming from the funds. They why the trains keep breaking down."

He continued his philippic to no one in particular. A blond lady with cheap jewelry and sensible flat shoes who had been on the platform already listened politely.

A new train came and whisked away a sizable crowd, including the bespectacled man and the thin businesswoman. I was not yet late, so I remained for the next train. Instead, I watched the people milling about having parallel conversations speaking at the air and only occasionally intersecting in their words. The only real conversations seemed to be over the phone, but that was only inferential deduction on my part.

Bit by bit, we dispersed until I finally took a train and made it to work, being left only to think about what had just happened. It was, in reality, no spectacular event; nothing worth being recorded in the newspaper or a history book. Yet I saw much of humanity in there. Face to face with the seeming randomness and apathy of the universe, we each sought the divine will. The ruddy man saw danger and evil, unwilled, unwilling, and uncontrollable; something that can only be escaped. The thin man saw a malicious design that actively worked against us in the pursuit of its own interests. The businesswoman saw nothing. She scarcely even noticed the world around her, but absorbed in her own solipsism, she went about her way.

I saw a story. It was story about sight. We all saw and heard the same things, but we each experienced something completely different. Whether it be experience or prejudice, or disposition, we each saw a different shadow of reality. The world, for its part, continued to swirl around us on its eternal course as we scampered about its surface rushing about in artificial haste for unimportant reasons. Important reasons exist, but we mostly miss them while we are distracted by the trivial. I suppose what matters, is what we were before we entered the train.