The Metro

Photo by David Fettig

I like to pretend to be sad. Much sadder than I actually am.

Honeycomb walls capture my gaze while the wind from the oncoming metro melodramatically blows my bangs across my face in a likely unflattering way. As I stare, I am left to process a devastating life-event. A fake atrocity. Train cars speed by while I deal with the pretend death of a friend or the love of my life leaving me for another woman. Tears threaten to spill over scenarios brought to life by an overactive, morose imagination. Nobody else lives in this world, just me. Storylines are brought to life within the confines of my mind and the commute home. 

I play a character on the metro.

As I enter the train car on my way home from work, I take note of other characters - people -  surrounding me. I wonder if they too are pretending. They must be pretending, in one way or another.

The man, in a tailored suit with a fancy gold watch is pretending to be secure within his life. He is pretending not to be afflicted by financial strains and marital woes. Groomed looks, so perfectly planned earlier in the morning, are failed by the slump of his shoulders and the loose tie that hangs limply around his sweaty neck. Office grandiose and public arrogance will not save him from an impending divorce. 

The lady, who forgot her sneakers at the office, is pretending that her stilettos are not hurting her. Laughter with her work friend, who lives only one stop before her, is betrayed by constant weight shifts, mild grimaces, and cherry-red heels. Her giggles cannot cover the fact that she will find drops of blood in the heel of her shoe when she gets home.

A mother and father surrounded by a gaggle of children pretend to be having fun on vacation. They promise their little ones that they will find an ice cream parlor on the way back to their hotel, since they behaved so well in the blisteringly hot sun. Hands, with iron grips on their kids' backpacks is a clear, tell-tale sign that they are exhausted and nervous. Of course, they don't want their kids to know that they are almost entirely clueless as to which stop is theirs; clueless as to the nearest Cold Stone. Of course, strangers must not know that they are new and temporary to the city.

I see each of them as an honest liar. After all, we can't give all of ourselves away to total strangers. True, authentic feelings are not allowed in public, due to whatever strange societal code we live by. I know this. They must know this.

Maybe they know that I am a faker. Even my most Oscar-worthy performances are thwarted by podcasts that make me laugh or texts from my very-much-alive friends. However, none of these people know that when I really, really laugh, I snort. So maybe I am still a fraud with cracks in my façade exposing glimpses of my true self.

Maybe I hope that one day, a stranger across from me will share in my thoughts. Maybe they will look at me and see how my character that day - a happy, carefree, young 20-something - actually has a bag weighed down with a laptop and jumbled papers that serve as an ugly reminder of a tedious job. Maybe they will see me sigh when someone snags the last seat, moments before I could. Maybe they will notice my fingers anxiously drumming on the pole, not particularly excited about a night of nothing awaiting me at home. Maybe they understand that a smile can only go so far in making up for a bad day at work. Maybe this has already happened. This stranger may already exist.

I like to be happy. Much happier than I actually am. Living in a made-up world where I have no stress, even if only for a short time on the commute home, is a fun game that I play with myself. It is a universal game that is shared either consciously or subconsciously by the general public. Everyone is pretending just a little bit. Everyone likes to be something they're not. They might not know it yet, but I know, and soon, maybe they will too.