I’ve often envied people who who are able to raise their voices. One time, at Walmart, I was in line at the cash register. In front of me stood a pair of customers—a man and woman, clearly newly in love, their cart loaded well beyond its capacity—who disputed the price of every item and then used six separate cards to pay the bill, still running about one hundred dollars short. This in turned sparked a long discussion about which items to take off the cart. Oh, we can’t put back that cute li’l robe, sweetie! she pleaded, her hand buried in his front jeans pocket. I berated myself for not going to the self checkout, rolled my eyes, and worried about the ice cream melting in my basket. But I said nothing. Finally the customer behind me suggested, loudly, to the cashier that it was time to call a manager so that the troublesome duo’s transaction could be put in limbo or another register opened. The rest of us wanted to make it home by dinner time. She spoke clearly and confidently for the line. We nodded our heads and murmured our agreement. I was glad that not everyone’s default is apology and fear of complaining. I thought about talking to her, maybe about what flavor of ice cream was melting in her cart, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead I shuffled my feet in a grateful manner.
Starting such a conversation would take a lot, however, since experience has made me aware of the risks. I grew up in Virginia, where we smiled and said hi to everyone. My move to Chicago for college quickly broke me of this habit. It was the 1980s, when President Reagan’s callous policies threw a lot of people with mental illness and substance problems out of inpatient care. The streets, buses, and subway cars had folks who were more in their own heads than the rest of us. Some of them communicated their visions forcefully. Even a brief interaction could go sideways in a hurry. One Saturday morning, around 10:30, on a busy street, a stranger said hello to me, reminded me that I was his girlfriend, and told me that I’d betrayed him. Then he punched me in the face and tried to push me into traffic.
I eventually moved to the sedate Boston suburbs and used public transportation infrequently for years. My biggest concern when I’d take the train into the city was usually how much more the car rattled and shook on the tracks than I remembered. The other day I rode the subway for the first time in about six months in order to get to a doctor’s appointment. As is true of many of my recent experiences, I found myself noticing things I’d taken for granted with extra interest and intensity. Braintree Station, the lower level a sussurus of conversations, Charlie card beeps, and gates swishing open and shut. The long escalator ride up to the platform. The joy of seeing a waiting subway car, its motor idling, and the snick of its doors sliding open. I waited politely just to the side of the doors, then scurried inside. The platform was windy and chilly, but mostly I wanted to grab my favorite seat, a forward-facing one at the end of the car, near the extra space for a wheelchair. In the car’s center the seats face one another, with a large empty aisle in between, so that the riders see the scenery going sideways and wind up staring at one another, neither of which do I like.
I’d only seen a wheelchair rider once or twice in my years of subway trips, but as the departure bell sounded a woman pushing a wheelchair and pulling a small suitcase entered the car. Not surprisingly, she headed for the seats near me. The wheelchair was loaded with blankets and a cushion and clothes. She locked the wheels, then unlocked them to move the chair a few inches to the left. Then she dragged the chair to the other side of the aisle and placed the suitcase beside it. Then behind it. Then she moved the chair in front of the door between the cars. As she adjusted positions she spoke softly.
I often talk to inanimate objects as well as myself, but it wasn’t clear this was what she was doing. All that was certain was that she couldn’t get her gear into a satisfactory position. Her speech became louder and more annoyed-sounding.
I stood and moved to another part of the car, walking as casually as possible. This left me in one of the side-facing seats, but I had a paperback thriller to occupy me and keep me from locking gazes with the other passengers. I told myself I was just being considerate, giving the loud lady some room, but that was a lie. I was wary and hoping to avoid trouble.
The ride from Braintree to the Park Street station in downtown Boston was smoother and slower than it used to be. What had been a forty-minute journey took close to an hour. Throughout the ride, the lady spoke. She enjoined, exclaimed, and expostulated, not addresing —at first—us passengers. Maybe the comments were aimed toward her chair, or herself, or a memory. Louder and louder. For the rest of the train ride, until Park Street—my stop and as it turned out, the lady’s—we endured the seconds as they turned into minutes, then into quarter hours. I tried to lose myself in my book. The loud lady eventually turned her attention to us, accusing us of wiretapping her and ordering us to stop NOW!
You’d think I’d congratulate myself on having moved away, but I felt regretful. I wondered what would have happened if I’d started a conversation with her or offered to help her with the chair. I was surprised and confused by this reaction. I remembered my father-in-law coming out of anesthesia, still goofy, talking about the CIA being after him, which was interesting. Also a brief, unpleasant experience with Ativan during my own hospitalization. Ativan is an anti-anxiety medication that’s now on my allergies list. I had what’s called a paradoxical reaction, which happens more often than I’d like with meds. That is, I felt more anxious, not less, and for a while I couldn’t quite figure out what year it was. The urge to communicate…something…was strong. What that something was, I can’t remember. But it felt urgent at the time.
The lady at Walmart got immediate approval for speaking up. We appreciated her comments. And they were effective: a manager appeared and opened another checkout lane, and we all decamped to it.
Moving away from the noisy lady was the sensible thing to do. I’m still on the frail side and not sure that at the moment I’d have the reflexes to dodge a punch in the face or a shove. Still, I kind of wish I’d been brave, or reckless, enough to have a conversation with her. It must be maddening to shout your truth to a subway car’s worth of people who react as if your volume is dialed down to zero. No one looking at you or replying—do you exist?
the jeanSpace 