Sleeping With The Enemy

Sunday, October 2, 2011

The most interesting part of the daily grind of a 9 to 5 is the commute.  There are some interesting sights in the city:  the man urinating into a bucket in the middle of the subway platform or the guy on the bus who smelled like he had been on the bus for a year.  A walk through the kids at the Minnesota Ave. metro station will almost certainly give you some insight into which 12-year old girl is “f*%$ing who and whose a$$ is gonna get beat later because of it. These are the types of commuter stories that usually make their way onto my Facebook page.  But it’s been a while.  So I thought I’d share my most recent tale.

Last week I’m on the Orange line in a car with just one other passenger.  At the next stop, a woman boards the train and sits in the side seat reserved for the elderly.  I’m sitting in the first forward seat to her left.  This woman, a white woman, not unattractive, late 40’s... maybe 50, weathered skin, t-shirt, hiking pants, ball cap, and a large backpack looks at me and asks, “Do you mind if I sit on the other side of you?”  This is an unusual request for anyone on an empty subway car.  “Tell you what, I’ll switch with you,” I tell the woman.  I’ve only got a couple more stops to go, but I’m not ready to relinquish my subway seat independence just yet.  So she explains why she hates the side seats and we go on to discuss the differences between the subway systems and their riders in New York and D.C.  And here’s where the fun begins.  The woman’s voice now drops to a whisper and she proceeds to lean in and say the following:  “You know, there are a lot of white people that ride the Orange line... and I’ve noticed (looking left and right suspiciously)... that the white people don’t like to sit beside the black people.”  “Really?” I tried to look shocked by her observation, but I couldn’t.  I leaned towards her, looked around the car which now had about 8 riders on it and said, “I’m not really surprised.  I ride a commuter bus filled with white people from Annapolis everyday... and on that bus, I’m that guy... the guy that nobody sits beside.”  Her eyes got sad as if her heart had been broken.  Remember how white people looked in ‘77 after Roots aired?  Well that was the look.  “Have a nice day,” I said with a smile as we arrived at Metro Center.

Fast forward two days later.  I’m sitting on the commuter bus near the back.  The bus is starting to fill up and a white woman, maybe 30, starts walking towards the back.  This woman, an attractive woman with curly brown hair, a form-fitting dress and a build like a brick outhouse, says good morning and sits down beside me.  This never happens and those who do sit never speak.  I give her the courtesy good morning greeting, then put my headphones on and start listening to my iPod.  Within minutes, the brown bombshell is asleep... very asleep... so much so that she sways with every turn of the bus.  She’s kept upright only by the armrest on her left and me on her right.  She’s comfortable.  Her shoulder against mine, her legs kept closed only by her tight dress, which was now 5 inches or so above her knees.  The bus turns left and the woman’s head swivels right so that she’s now facing me... her head almost on my shoulder, her face just inches from mine.  And she stays this way for several minutes at least two or three times during our morning commute.

I’m embarrassed for this lady, who looks so vulnerable.  What would the woman on the subway say about this?  Imagine this lady’s shock and embarrassment if she wakes up nose to nose with me, a total stranger.  Like a felon with malice aforethought, I had to make this look like an accident.  So I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep too.  But I couldn’t rest easily.  To Kill a Mockingbird comes to mind... but I digress.

As we arrive in the city, the lights came on and the woman awakened.  “Fourth Street!”  The bombshell gathered her belongings, pulled her dress down and said without turning around to look at me, “Have a good day.”  “Will I see you again?” I asked shamefully... only in my mind of course.  “You too,” I responded, with equal disinterest.  And that quickly, she was gone.  No kiss, no cuddling, no phone number.  I felt like Eddie Murphy in Boomerang, minus the $200 Robin Givens left on the nightstand.  Ten minutes later, I arrived at my destination... feeling like a modern-day Rosa Parks.  I had passed the integrity test for black commuters citywide.  I can’t wait to bump into that Orange line commuter again.  I want to share my story and restore her faith in commuter humanity.