I heard the subway train rattle into the station as I was
still walking up the escalator. The
people in front of me sped up and I followed running along the platform to the
last car. I knew I could make it as I
had many times before. Suddenly I was
flat on my back lying beside the open train door. Confused, I recalled feeling my left foot
wipe out as my smooth flip flop hit some water.
I had landed on the huge green back pack that I carry, full of linens
for my work, so my back and head were fine but my right elbow was really
hurting. I lay there like some kind of
turtle woman who had flipped onto her soft shell and couldn’t get righted.
In the strange
extended time of an accident when our brain actually speeds up so we can take
in more information, I looked around me, marvelling at this strange
perspective. The open subway train doors
formed a large white rectangle. There
were yellow stripes on a diagonal and something fluorescent green. Through the distorted view of my progressive
lens I saw shapes moving towards me, kind of blurred streams of light which I
translated as people running to help me.
Suddenly I was on my feet and walking onto the subway car saying that I
was fine. I have no memory of who helped
me but I assume someone did because I wouldn’t have been able to get up with
that heavy back pack and a hurt elbow without assistance.
I walked quickly to the nearest seat, not wanting to hold
the train up any longer. I sat down to
assess the damage. My elbow really hurt
now but I didn’t think it was broken. At
any rate, there were no bones protruding through the skin. Across the aisle from me was a man lounging
sideways on two seats. “You’re rushing!”
he declared in a slow Jamaican accent.
“Everybody’s ruuushing,” he drawled.
“Too much in a hurry.” I smiled
back. “It was the flip flops,” I
explained. “No,” he said. “You were rushing. You shouldn’t rush.”
“So much for sympathy,” I thought.
By now the subway operator had closed the doors and the
train was in motion. He walked down the
subway car towards me. He leaned over
and in a clipped South Asian accent asked, “Are you alright? Are you in need of assistance madam?”
“No, I’m fine,” I said, not wanting to cause any further
problems.
“You don’t need any help?”
“No, I’m fine,” I lied.
“She was rushing.
Too much rushing,” came the voice from across the aisle.
I chuckled at the cross cultural triangle the three of us
formed which is one of the few things I do like about being in Toronto. Three
different worldviews, two genders, one city.
At the end of the day I took the subway back to the bus
station. I did not rush as I felt tired
and hurt. As I walked from the subway
over the covered walkway to the bus terminal I could hear the strains of a jazz
sax being played by a busker. As I got to
the top of the stairs I saw the man sitting on a stool playing. He took the sax from his lips and sang, “The
sky may be grey but it’s a beautiful day.”
It was true. The November sky was
grey and overcast and my mood was grey.
Maybe it was a beautiful day. I
wasn’t feeling it though. I thought I
detected a Caribbean accent in his singing voice and got the feeling that there
something to be learned in all of this.
The next morning, I was back at the subway. This time in boots. This time being careful. I walked up the escalator and carefully made
my way down the platform that was strangely crowded for that time of day. An announcement came over the system that the
train was turning back at St. Clair West and shuttle buses were being ordered
due to serious signal problems. A woman
beside me asked, “What exactly does that mean?”
“I think it means we will have to get on a bus at St. Clair West,” I
answered. “I’m experimenting with
different ways to get to work,” she replied.
“This is probably my fault!”
“Well, thank you for apologizing in advance,” I laughed. The train pulled up and I carefully walked to
it and got on. The train crept ahead
slowly, then stopped and started and sat, inching it’s way south to where I
wanted to go. “Well,” I thought, “I certainly couldn’t be accused of rushing
today.” I read the paper and sat, closed
my eyes, thought and waited. How ironic
to be held up in the tunnel the day after the warning not to rush. Eventually a voice came over the train’s
intercom with yet another Caribbean voice saying, “For those of you stuck here
in this train, St. Clair West Station is blocked.” No. I
was not rushing. I was not even moving. In
my head I figured out how to walk from St. Clair to my office on Dupont St. Would I turn right or left from the station? Was it still dark in the above ground world?
Would it be safe to walk in the dark?
Would I have time to still get a coffee before my first client of the
day? I was sitting still, but my mind
was racing. I took some deep breaths and
tried to be calm.
I heard a train going past us in the tunnel in the
opposite direction and then our train lurched into action. We pulled into the St. Clair West station and
I expected to hear instructions to get off the train because it was turning
back. But no such words came. People were standing on the platform and when
the doors opened they got on. I asked
one man just getting on if the train was turning back and he said not in this
direction. Another man and I exchanged
looks. Should we get off or stay
on. We both shrugged and then sat
down. I noticed the woman across from me
was crossing her fingers and smiling.
The train moved out of the station in our desired direction. The man and I started talking about what time
we were to start work, how long it took to commute, getting coffee and then we
came to my station. It is always funny
how people in the city will not even acknowledge each other until there is a
problem and then we talk like neighbours.
I bid my subway neighbour a good day and got off the train. I still had time for coffee. The sky was still grey but it seemed like a
good day. I could hear the busker’s
voice in my head. After all, I hadn’t fallen and my elbow was feeling a lot
better. I chuckled at all the voices
that I had heard in the past two days.
Two days later I was once again working in the city. As I walked up the escalator to the subway
platform I heard the train rumble in to the station. I took a deep breath and decided not to run,
even though I had sensible foot wear on.
I walked calmly and got to the train.
The subway operator had his head out of the window. I looked to see if it was the man who I had
met earlier in the week. It was
not. This one looked Korean. He had his whole upper body out the window and
was taking in a deep breath of the crisp fall air as this station is above
ground. The woman ahead of me bid him
good morning. I calmly (and without
incident) stepped onto the train and began walking down the centre aisle as the
train moved out of the station. Since I
wasn’t hypoxic and was so intentionally calm, I looked around me and saw face
after face “pop out” at me, with some kind of superclarity. That had never happened to me before. The faces of people from around the world
popped into focus as I walked through the train. The whole world lives in Toronto and it was a
real feast for the eyes. Each one seemed
very beautiful somehow, even at this early hour. Usually on the train, we learn to soft focus,
to not make eye contact, to protect our “personal space”. This week I had been helped by strangers, had
been given good advice, had broken into conversation around the train stoppage
and now I was seeing people in a kind of hyperlucid fashion.
At the end of the day I was once again crossing the
walkway to the bus terminal when I heard a familiar jazz saxophone. I don’t carry money in my pocket and I never
stop to fish around in my wallet for coins for the buskers. This time I stepped to the side of the sea of
people and did just that. As I passed
the “beautiful day” busker I dropped a loonie into his sax case as thanks for
all the experiences of the week that had taught me to slow down in a city that
revs you up and to really see the faces and hear the voices of the world. The impersonal city became a village once I
paid attention.
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