This morning on the subway I sit by myself in a forward facing seat. A few stops later a man somewhere in his sixties, gets on and sits directly in front of me in an aisle facing seat. He is wearing a rainbow: orange windbreaker pants over jeans, yellow jacket, red gloves, black toque over grey hair – more colours poking out amongst his layers of shirts. He’s wearing tan runners with no laces.
He leans back and stretches his legs out in front of him as if to relish “taking a load off,” but he’s not relaxed; he fidgets. I wait for the unwashed smell of “homeless” but it doesn’t come – and I see that his clothes are clean – as are his hair and beard. Now and then he makes a gesture, jabbing at the air with his flat hand horizontal in steps down, as if pointing out the levels of something; his mouth moving subtly, carrying out some inner conversation.
Now and then he looks at my black tights-covered knee sticking out the top of my boot on the leg crossed over the other. As many men would – the knee/boot combination is a popular one, I think. Given his potential mental illness, however, I feel vulnerable about it and resist moving my leg out of his line of sight.
Some riders get on at the next stop and he moves his own legs back in and sits a little straighter to let them pass, still fidgeting, still looking around at people with a furtiveness – sort of looking without looking. I study his face when he looks ahead, his line of sight perpendicular to mine. He’s fit, vital and handsome, with eyes that crinkle a little at the corners. I’ve liked those crinkles that some men get ever since I was a child, probably because they indicate good-naturedness – when I was small I could read kindness into those kinds of eyes. Like now – those eyes compel me to like him.
His beard comes down off his chin in a gentle triangle, puffy and shimmery grey with white streaks; growing unruly from his neck beneath his shirt, but otherwise cared for. Perhaps it was admired in the mirror that morning. No doubt, if I met this man at a party I’d find him attractive.
Nevertheless I’m still a little uncomfortable by his jerky movements, haphazard dress and close proximity as he glances at my leg. Like most people, I’m conditioned to try and ignore people who seem to exist on the fringes in the hopes they won’t acknowledge me and threaten my personal safety – even if it’s just my dignity I’m trying to keep safe. But I don’t want this wall, and close the book and set it in my lap. The train has stopped at Bloor Station, and just before the doors close again the man stands and walks out onto the platform.
Feeling a little disappointed, I watch him walk away, waving to the odd stranger with a point and wave that suggests they are old friends. Like me, the strangers work hard to not acknowledge him. But I'm thinking that those strangers might be to him, like he is to me – something like friends, who find their way into your life for the purpose of adding colour to it.
As the train starts to pull away, I admire the colours of his clothing, getting the sense that a good bit of beauty had been sucked out with him, like a fine mist of light particles, when he exited the car.
Yesterday I get off the subway downtown and as I’m climbing the stairs to the street I see a lady, attractive, in her forties or so, leaning over a wall above and watching the people come up the stairs. She’s got short purple hair and black clothing that suggests she works in a vintage clothing or music store. But then I notice she’s hollering things incomprehensible at various people and I think maybe she doesn’t work in a store after all. She’s gesturing with her arms while holding a small, child-sized broom.
I head off down the street to my bank three or four blocks away. When I get there I’m kind of glad for the excuse to wait in line and cool off as the day is close and humid and the sun really hot.
Suddenly, in the door walks the lady with the purple hair, sweeping the way in front of her with her little broom. “Oh!” she purrs as she drapes herself across a counter, “it’s SOoo hot!” She sighs some great dramatic sighs, but none of the people working there seem to notice her.
She then starts to search amongst the brochures and papers on the counter and finds herself a pen. And with more dramatic flourish, she bends over and holds the broom upright and starts to write something on the handle near the tip. There is intention in her pose – she is performing an act for the purpose of being watched. It takes her well over a minute to write on the broom’s tip, but from where I stand the message doesn’t look to cover more than an inch of space.
Then she leaves the broom propped up against the wall and leaves.
I get on with my business and then preoccupied with the few more things I need to accomplish before I go home I leave too, forgetting about the broom. Until I get back to the subway entrance where I originally saw her.
As I wait for the train I wonder what would become of the broom with the purple haired lady’s communiqué. I wonder if she’ll come back to get it. Maybe she was hoping someone would write a message on it in return. Maybe she was offering it as a gift, watching outside and hoping she see someone leave with it. Maybe the message was for me, since I was only person in the place who seemed to notice her. I feel a little regret for not stopping to at least take a picture of the thing.
I'd like to think the message on the little broom reached someone.