Saturday, May 29, 2004

(Tragi)comedie (in)humaine 

An absurd desire to scream or guffaw or cry seizes you. Fifty strangers pressed in a tin can avoiding eye contact. You are close enough to hear faint streams of Radiohead spilling from her headphones. You are close enough to smell the last thing he ate, and how long ago she sprayed her deodorant. But no one speaks. You stare at the ceiling, the steps, out the window, at the seats, anything but your fellow passengers for fear of the internal chortle threatening to bubble over into mad laughter.

You suddenly notice the regular sniffing sounds. A flash of annoyance; you fear contagion, trapped as you are. But you catch sight of a hand wiping a cheek. A foot from your face, sniffs are becoming sobs. You don't ask yourself what magnitude of tragedy could lead her to cry in a crowded train. You don't comfort her. You do nothing but stare in morbid fascination.

The tense silence is broken by the screeching of the train at the next stop. The train comes alive, the crowd seething forwards. Elbows and briefcases become battering rams, terse words are exchanged. Caught against the pole, she is pushed violently. The mass around her doesn't stop, the threat of the mechanical doors clamping shut is more urgent. A hand darts out, seizing her jacket, anchoring her against the tide of bodies.

In the now empty carriage, no one looks at her. You know because you're looking at all of them not looking at her. You are all waiting. She obliges. "Fuckin' blacks", she says. Everyone now avoids looking at the Melanesian girl two seats from her, the owner of that stabilising arm when she was falling. The middle aged woman beside her stands up, without even bothering to disguise her disapproval. "Fuck em blacks, fuck em all." The woman beside you purses her lips primly. Everyone is mentally checking off boxes, conclusion: racist white-trash druggy. Not dangerous, but be wary.

"Fuckin' Aborigines!" She is still sobbing, but she is getting angrier, her words slurring more. "Ten of em ganged up on me, a weak little girl. Stole my purse. Fuckin' blacks! And all around, no one did anything, not a thing, while they were ganging up on me." You still stare. You are so removed you imagine that she can't see you. But she looks up at you, looks you in the eye like no one has during the whole trip. "All as bad as them." You tell yourself you weren't there, you couldn't have helped.

But the accusation lingers after she leaves. You know she is right.






True story, not exactly verbatim.

# posted at 1:15 am

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