Weary from a long day at work, I get into the metro and brace myself for the long ride ahead. Autumn has abruptly turned to winter, and with it a darker melancholia has replaced the reflective afterglow of summer.
As I take a seat, my co-passengers, huddled in their newly dusted-off coats, seem to share my fatigue and are showing it in different ways. The two girls leaning against the window seat are having a loud, animated but essentially banal conversation about their respective work days and future dinners. The two guys sitting on the corner seats next to me are bent over their books, obviously annoyed at not being able to concentrate because of the girly chatter.
As I open my book and begin to read, an accordion-playing busker gets into the already-crowded metro and begins to play. He sings loudly and out of tune, and I begin to empathise with my annoyed fellow-readers. I try to focus, but the metro is really noisy and the book I’m reading, about a dispirited no-good American man who finds himself caught in the merciless Australian outback, is not doing much to help. I feel the familiar nausea of motion-sickness come back, and decide to give up trying to read.
A new mass of people floods in at the next stop, cramming itself into every nook and cranny. The busker has finished his set. He attempts to walk through the carriage asking people for “a small coin”, but finds himself blocked in the aisle by two new arrivals: a tall black woman holding a small white girl by the hand. He gives up, making a small clicking noise, and gets off.
The little girl begins to jump up and down saying “Mama, why is there no more room in the metro?” As I recover from the shock of knowing that this blonde, blue-eyed white girl is the daughter of an African woman, and berate myself for my own quickness to stereotype; the mother rolls her eyes, half-tired, half-smiling and says “I don’t know, baby”
The little girl turns towards me again, looks at me with her big eyes and says “why is there no room in the metro?” I smile insipidly, moved by her cuteness and innocence, but also too tired to engage. The girl sees that people are beginning to look up from their books and conversations, and spurred on by the attention, repeats “why is there no room in the metro”, “why is there no room in the metro”, as more and more smiles begin to appear on wearied faces.
A homeless young man in his 20s walks in at the next stop. Placing himself in the aisle next to me he begins his plea: “Would anybody help me out with a coin or a meal pass please? It’s cold out on the streets and you can help me eat something tonight.” People go back to their books and conversations. A silence descends.
Then the little girl looks up at him and says “There’s no room in the metro!”
He smiles; then replies with a sigh: “Yes, I know baby, there’s no more room in the metro.”
Comments