Transport II

                I’m back on the light rail again. Its afternoon, I’m tired, disengaged following a less than noteworthy week of classes. Everyone is the same person that was sharing this car with me this morning, and the day before that, and the month before that. There’s the old couple, the teen with the enormous (and expensive) headphones, the high school kids catching a free ride home.

                And the dregs, there’s always the dregs.  At least that’s what I call them.  These are the outcasts, society’s between-the-crack-filler. The ones everyone stare at but never truly see. They are the unkempt, the subjugated, and the odd. They are comprised of the homeless, mentally ill, (or at least seemingly so) the beggars, the con men, and for political correctness the con-women. Simply, they are the ones that don’t fit into polite society (whatever “polite” society is).   

                I catch myself staring at a man, short raven hair, and light brown complexion. I’m breaking one of the cardinal rules of public transportation. I recall in passing that I thought he might’ve been Hispanic, but far be it from me to cast my ethnic judgments on him. Shortly, I will have many other things to judge him by, and I will.

                I notice his eyes never stop moving; flightily they bounce from here to there, there to here. Like a mosquito or a fly buzzing annoyingly from victim to victim, object to object. It’s plain to see he’ss trying to be discrete, and he too is staring at something, but he doesn’t want anyone to know what or whom. He seems pent up, anxious, like a bad chess player trying to choose his next move.

                Inevitably, his eyes lock with mine. I don’t dare avert my gaze.

                Now I’m blatantly defying the rules.

                I don’t look away because I can see something flickering behind his eyes. They tell me too much.  He hates someone on this rail car. Despises them in fact. I think maybe it’s me.  

                Not that big a deal. I’ve been hated before, people get over it. Or they don’t.  

                But something tells me it’s not me. If it were me, he likely wouldn’t have had the gall to meet my gaze. Hate is subversive when outnumbered.

                I break away from following the man’s actions and try to gather clues as to who it is that has him so silently worked up. My eyes drop only a few feet in front of him.

                There sit three Muslim women; I infer this based on the shadors that cloak most of their faces.  With the women are two small children, boys that are toddler age.

                My eyes jump back to the man with the short hair, who has now had time to decide what he might do with all his hatred.

                “Why did you come here?” he shouts, but does so without looking at any of the women.

                The words hit no mark, ring unanswered and hit the floor. Barely anyone on the car even looks up, although his tone was bold and his projection was quite loud.

                “What are you running from?” he yells again, to none of the three women in particular.

                I suspect the three women don’t speak English, and can’t understand him regardless of what he yells, for they give no reaction to his cries.

                The monotone robotic voice announces my stop is only moments away. Internally, I debate what I should do next.

                Me: What should I say?

                Also Me: Wait, why do you have to say anything?

                Me: Because no one else is.

                Also me: Well our stop is coming up.

                The little robotic voice announces we’ve arrived at the stop.

                Also me: Correction, we are already here.

                I walk towards the doors, and cast a look back towards the man with the short hair. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to anything at all now. He’s silently staring out of the window across from him. If he realizes what he said, his face shows no indication.

                The doors open with a whhsshhh and I look once more, this time at the three women. Two of them are looking at the floor, while one fusses with the two children.

                As my body leaves the light rail, my mind is left with several questions: What draws the lunacy here to these rail cars and why do so many let it continue unabated, without so much as a word of protest? Why didn’t I step in and say something? And why do I still feel guilty for not doing so?