journey on the T

Hey, you?

Yes, you, standing there, facing me, in my own personal-space-bubble.

You, with the skin-tight pre-holed jeans, pants that are so small they only go halfway up your butt and are snugly held up by a black belt with those stupid metal studs. Yes, I see how your shirt is so thread-bare that I’m sure you got it at a thrift-store, and how you’re wearing a frayed black sweatshirt with the name of some obscure band on it, probably one either you or your friends are in, and how the hoodie is pulled up even though it’s not raining and you’re inside the goddamned T. And your long, black hair that is so intentionally unwashed and probably even artificially straightened.

But still you stare straight out the window, almost imperceptibly bobbing your head to the music coming from your ipod, traveling to your ears through the token earbugs. It’s the best way to be alone no matter how many people are around. Oh, you have a black ipod, how antiestablishment. Obviously, no one understands your pain, no one could appreciate the inner, tortured depths of your existence. It’s only the music, man; it’s the music that gets you through.

Despite the fact that I’m staring directly at your face, and there’s no way you don’t know I’m not-so-subtly trying to get your attention, you determinedly look everywhere but at me. You keep giving disgusted looks at the girl with the big fucking bag behind you, the one that keeps hitting you uncomfortably every time the train hits a bump. I know man. I can commiserate. Let me give you a conciliatory look, a look that says, yeah, people can be such assholes.

No? I’m just trying to be friendly, just trying to strike up a conversation with you. Jesus, we’ve sat next to each other in class twice a week for the past four months. It might be awkward if we started talking now, it’s been so long, but isn’t it more fucking awkward now that, for the love of God, if we were any closer I’d be bearing your child in nine months?

But then I’m not sure. I’m kinda pissed. Not because I’m interested in knowing you, really, but because isn’t that just what people are supposed to do? Exchange pleasantries with familiar strangers? Or do you have the right idea, just cutting out the bullshit of social exchanges with people you have no interest in talking to? But now that 10 minutes have passed with your glaringly forced ignorance of recognition, isn’t it weirder to tap you on the shoulder, to say, hey, you’re in my class, when that’s been the case you’ve been avoiding all along? And if I do, do you take out your earbugs and pretend to have a conversation with me? If it’s painfully awkward, what happens at the point where we have nothing to say, but it would be rude to re-insert the music-device in your aural cavities?

So I just turn, staring out the window myself.

I guess I’ll see you in class.