Like A Fly On The Wall

Like a fly on the wall. That is what I am. A fly on the wall that is noticed in the underlying conscience that is only considered long after the lights are out and the thoughts are silent. I am a watcher.

The station is large, noisy and very busy. There is a track on either side of the platform. One in the direction of Cote-Vertu and the other toward Montmorency. Underneath them is another platform with tracks heading in the direction of Agrignon and Honre-Beaugrand. For such a busy place it is very clean. There must be a lot of cleaners on staff. For a place so far underground it is bright. Most people do not have time to notice. They are always in a hurry, even when they are not. I wonder in the station does it to them. Do they feel too exposed here, sensing an urge to scurry away before they are seen.

Too late. I grin.

It is a great place to watch, looking over the railing to the open platform below. Four sets of stairs rise up to where I am standing, leading the way to the surface; or descending to the platform below, depending on a person’s perspective. The trains go on, rushing in and out, unaware of the fly. The noise is incredible, exhilarating. So too is the silence that fills the station in the absence of the trains.

Just then another train pulls in from the Cote-Vertu direction. It is fascinating to watch as the people exit. The doors open and they seem to pour out onto the platform as water poured from a pitcher. It is hard to see the faces in the crowd, just a big blur of motion. But I want to see the faces. I want to see the various styles of fashion. I want to see creases of worry and the smiles of friends. I want to take note of the seriousness of the business suites and the haggard look of the mom. I want to share in the wonder of the children as they see it for the first time, and sense their thrill of adventure. I force myself to see them.

The whole thing reminds me of a heart. The tunnels are like the veins bringing in the city’s essence and the arteries taking them out again. The station acts as a chamber where the essence mingles, separates and gets circulated to the extremities. If one stands long enough to notice one can sense the rhythm of the place. In, mingle, separate and out. In, mingle, separate and out. Most of the essence is not even aware of the dance they are part of or of the greatness of its role in the life of the city. I can see it and it makes me want to dance along. It is a wonder to behold and greater still to realize it’s beauty.

I am amazed at the speed of it all. Within seconds of the train’s arrival people dissipate in every direction. The doors open, hundreds of faceless bodies pour out while others push in. Some of the bodies rush across the platform to another waiting train. Others disappear to the platform below. Still others head up, rushing past me as if they are drowning and need to get to the surface for air. Then the trains roar away with the essence of the city safely tucked away. Silence follows and it all starts over again.

As I watch I also see that this place is a great equalizer. It does not matter who you are, where you were born or what errand you are on, everyone is treated the same. Maybe that’s why some people don’t like it and do everything to avoid it. Business suites are mixed with mini-skirts, granny dresses, and polo shirts; lots and lots of polo shirts. It is summer. Tall, short, wide and thin. Black, white, yellow, green, turquoise (the hair). French, Spanish, Arabic, Cantonese, even some English.

What is amazing to me are the millions of people living on the surface totally oblivious to the activities below. Some have never even been curious enough to descend to these hidden places. Perhaps it is more fear than absence of curiosity. People can be funny about these things. It’s their loss. They are missing the dance. But then again, most of the participants miss it as well, not being aware, not seeing, not understanding.

I am startled from my deep thoughts and reflection of the dance. From a faraway place the station comes screaming back into my view. There seems to be a voice much nearer than the din of the passing crowd of essence. It has the same effect on me that a teacher’s voice has a on a student; sucking the student away from his daydream to the cruel reality of the classroom.

I realize the voice is being directed at me. At me!!

It belongs to a middle aged woman who stands three feet behind my right shoulder. I feel caught, embarrassed, exposed as I turn to her, trying to make out what she is saying. She is a foot shorter than me, with back wavy hair. Her face is not quite right. It looks a bit distorted, perhaps from confusion. Yes, from confusion. I see it in her eyes. My mind is slow to focus on her words. Ah, she is speaking French, with a very thick Spanish accent. No wonder. I adjust without realizing I am adjusting. The words become familiar.

She is looking for directions. Vendome? Not far from where I live. Not this platform. The one below. Orange line. Direction of Cote-Vertu. Second stop. You are welcome.
A heavy blanket of realization descends upon me as she hurries away; I was seen.

The spell is broken. I put away my pen and notepad with mixed regret and anticipation. I consider the direction I will take. To where do I want to be circulated? Which of the extremities may benefit from my purpose?

The fly crawls away and joins the essence.

I’m not very good at this.

I grin.

The Faces Are All Different And All The Same

The faces are all different and all the same. They are different in character but the same in essence; sharing the same withdrawn, unrelated, dispassionate look. Why is that? is the question that pushes into my note-taking mind. Why is that? I ask myself in my heart, testing the question to see if there was any validity in asking it out loud. I do not speak it of course because I have no one to speak it to. I am alone, surrounded by a hundred people.

I look again.

The faces have not changed even with the unspoken question; why is that?

Okay, so now the question is just irritating. Yes, it is true that the look is worn like a mask and I am pretty sure it is to protect whatever is hidden beneath it. But honestly, I am not that clever to figure out the answer. Forget about everyone else; why do I wear it? Oh, well, maybe that one is easier to answer.

I am an observer. A watcher if you prefer. I wear the mask to look like every other nobody I travel with. My clothes are bland. My hair is bland. My walk is bland. I do not look when I am being looked at. I do not speak to be spoken to. I barely exist. I am unwatched so that I may watch. Why? Arg! Again with the interrupting questions.

I do not know why. I just do it. Maybe because I can. Maybe because I want to see if I am any different. Maybe so I can ask myself these annoying questions.

What I do is really no different than what everyone else does. Have you noticed how they all work so hard at not entering into anyone else’s existence? They press against people they do not acknowledge. Their nostrils fill with the perfume of that attractive lady they pretend does not exist. They hide away behind daily papers, or drown themselves in unheard music, or lose themselves in fanciful stories they read. My book remains safe, at my side, in my satchel, in case of an emergency. I pat it to make sure it is still there. The fact is that we all try to escape in the crowd, mainly out of fear. Fear of what? Intimacy perhaps. Who can tell?

We are good at the whole hiding thing.

I saw a lady yesterday, an oriental looking woman. She was dressed nicely, had an overtly round face that looked familiar to laughter. She sat facing my direction. She looked to be watching something intently so I followed her gaze to see what had caught her attention in this manner. She was watching two young ladies in conversation directly across from her. I saw nothing of any particular interest. I looked back to her. Her gaze was still intense. I looked back to the conversation. To the woman. To the girls. The girls moved. The woman continued looking straight ahead, intensity creasing her face. It was then I saw the wires leading from her ears, disappearing into her jacket pocket. Ahhh ... she was not part of our world. She was off into the world of her heart, her mind or her soul. She had escaped. Escape is an easy thing.

Not everyone chooses to escape. I am not the only watcher you know. It is true that I watch in order to write but others watch just because it is in them to do so. They are the ones who choose to stand, seemingly doing nothing. They have no book, no music, no daily journal. They may travel with a friend or alone. They are the ones who always seem to avert their eyes as you look up feeling you were being watched. You suspect but you are not certain. Sometimes you catch them as they lose themselves in trying to figure out who you are. This is done by examining the clothes you are wearing, the book you are reading, the friends you travel with. When caught they give you a sheepish grin and then get off at the next stop to wait for the next train. It’s embarrassing to be caught.

The good watchers rely on the window reflections. A person can look right at you and never realize you are watching them. I use this method quite often with great success. Allow me to demonstrate it to you in the context of my journey.

I look around the crowded car. A little boy sits next to his mom, distracted by his toy. Short dark hair, dark eyes, well dressed. He sneezes five times. Odd. His mother smiles at him.

Behind him sits a young woman; twenty, perhaps twenty-one. Her hair has been cut short in some new style I have not seen on anyone else. It does not suit her face but I don’t think she cares. Her hair has been dyed but not in a bold manner. She is a student, probably a new one in town. She travels with her male friends but is quiet. She looks to want to disappear into another world.

A man stands pressed up to one of the doors. His hair is short, well cut with just the right amount of gel. His suit fits him well. He is out of place. Did his car break down? He keeps looking at his watch. He looks my way. Quickly I look to the floor.

Red shoes.

I have learned a lot about shoes.

There is a short lady directly in front of me. Well, that is unfair. Most people appear short to me. She is sharing the same pole but her back is turned to me. She is wearing a nice green dress with just a slight hint of sweet perfume. If I am not mistaken I believe I had seen a cross around her neck when she got on at the last stop. I look to the window to see if my memory was correct.

My heart stops for an eternity.

She is a watcher. She is watching me. She is watching me in the window reflection.

I am shocked. Devastated. Violated. I am being watched. This is not right. I am the watcher. The shock sends a shiver through my body.

In the surprise of this revelation I have forgotten the rules; I have forgotten to turn away. My eyes are locked with hers. I am embarrassed. I feel my face turning red. It’s on fire. I feel like I have broken some unwritten rule shared by a brotherhood of strangers.

Wait a second here; she’s still looking at me. She hasn’t turned away either. She has locked her eyes with mine. She’s broken the same rule. I feel like I need to report her to someone. For a fleeting moment I think that this fact will help me. It doesn’t. I am still feeling shocked and ... well ... awkward.

I realize then that she is looking at me with a sly smile on her face, as if we shared some deep and important secret. She knows me. At least she knows what I am. And I know the same about her. Who is she? What do I do now? Do I speak to her? Would that be breaking another unwritten rule of the brotherhood of strangers? Obviously it is a sisterhood as well. Am I brave enough to even acknowledge the existence of such a thing to this woman who does not seem so much a stranger as she does family? Odd.

Before I can even figure out all the questions, let alone the answers, the doors open. Our gaze is broken. She steps through. The doors close. The train moves. She does not look back.

What just happened here?

Is this loss? Is that what this feeling is? Why?

Silence.

All I know for certain is that, well, I’ve been seen. Life will never be the same again.