I slowly made my way to the back of the train while trying to piss as few people off as possible. The camera equipment that I had used that weekend was taking up space that already wasn’t available. With tripod protruding out into the isle, I sat down and took a breath. It will be a half hour till I can get off and multiple people could flood the space I was occupying. To avoid all the weary eyed travelers I took out a small collection of story’s I had purchased the prior week. I was rather excited because it was written by Soupy, who just so happens to be the singer of one of my favorite bands. Lost in my own little world I read, and took up space.
I knew things were going to get interesting when the man stepped on board. Kenmore was the first underground stop and things were already packed. He didn’t mind much, and with guitar case in hand he made his way into the car, settling himself into one of those seats with the metal bar next to it that no one ever wants. He opened his case and smiled widely at all the passengers revealing yellow crooked teeth. “Would you like to hear a lullaby?” he asked us all with a raspy but enthusiastic voice. I looked up from the page I was reading and quickly glanced around, people were inevitably irritated. It was the morning commute and no one wanted to have his or her allotted reading time for the day disrupted by a crazy old man with a guitar. So naturally every one ignored him, and naturally he began to play us all a song.
He was terrible, and it became plainly obvious to everyone that he had no musical talent to speak of. Strumming wildly all the while singing with the voice of a drunken tone def sailor. As the passengers turned up their IPods, and looked away, he sang of sleepless nights and of lovers lost, dead or gone. I sat in my seat starring at the page, not reading, but listening to his performance. Good for him I thought, none of these cowards in business suits, or self loathing college kids would have the balls to sing their hearts out in front of people who wanted nothing more than for them to disappear.
It was my stop, so I put Paper Boats or Some Poems I Wrote back into my bag (Philadelphia and Boston really do have a lot in common after all). I wanted to clap as I exited the train, but my hands were full of gear and I was a major contributor to the tight quarters and thusly already irritating. The doors shut behind me and the train whined as it launched off into the gloomy tunnel in front of it. I watched the train full of pissed off people who were late to things that didn’t really matter disappear out of sight and out of earshot. A huge smile was on my face because I knew that there was one crazy man inside, singing lullabies about sleeplessness and loss to a group of people who will never get it.
