I was traveling on the T, or to the uninitiated Bostonian, the train, from the stations of Fenway to Longwood. It is a short ride between the two stations, maybe three quarters of a mile, maybe less. However, the distance is elongated by the sluggish pace of the train, which always seems to travel the slowest when traveling the shortest distances.
On this day, like any other Monday through Friday day, I was reading a book. This is what I do now. I read on the train. Reading on the train is an extremely taxing exercise. It is a game one can play with oneself when commuting to and from work. The goal of the game is to find a way to comfortably read and comprehend a book in your hand, all the while keeping your balance and trying to avoid the cluster of human bodies that continually smash you on all sides.
After almost two years of playing this game, I have become quite good. I have learned the best techniques for keeping upright on the rickety train car. I have learned the optimal hand position and grip strength for holding a book in one hand. I have learned how to hold said book in every position my head can turn, as to avoid the mass of bodies all around me. And, most importantly, I have mastered the ability to tune out the world, the music, the conversations, the accidental grope, and enjoy the text before me.
As I said before, I was traveling on the T from the stations of Fenway to Longwood. The novel of the day was The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut. This is the fourth of Vonnegut’s works I have read. I was enjoying it immensely. I was truly winning the game this day. However, the game was about to come to its natural end. The game always ends between the stations of Fenway and Longwood. Longwood is my last stop.
As the train grinded its way out of Fenway, I put my bookmark in my book, pushed it in the center crease to make sure it was snug, and closed my book. I then held the book in my hand, against my chest, so the cover of the book was visible to those in front of me. I chose this position as it was the most comfortable one until I could disembark the train and put away my book safely in my backpack. The reason I could not put away my book sooner, was in respect of my fellow commuters around me. I would never dare take off my backpack, unzip the pouch, place my book inside, compulsively feel around for my wallet and keys, and then put it back on. This would no doubt cause irritation, anger, and animosity from the train riders.
You see, I was already breaking one of the key rules of riding the T on a busy day: take off your backpack while riding the train. Today, like most days, I kept my backpack on. I do this because my backpack usually has so few items in it that it nearly rests flat against my back. When the conductor speaks over the intercom and asks us ever so politely to remove our packs from our backs, I ever so defiantly say “No! I will not remove my pack from my back. It would create no more space for myself or my fellow passenger. Do you see how flat the pack is against my back? It would be an unnecessary hassle. Thank you for understanding.”
This is half-true. The other half is that I am lazy. Plus, in order to play my reading game, I need to be able to switch my book holding hand at a moment’s notice. This would be impossible if I were to hold my backpack in one hand at all times.
Anyways, I was not about to admit to everyone, publically and visually, that I was breaking our social contract by continuing to wear my backpack on the crowded train by taking off said backpack and placing my book inside. I could easily wait and place the book in my backpack off the train, where I could display my sin for only a few individuals on the platform.
I held my book flat against my chest, the cover facing outwards, and waited patiently for the train to reach my destination. Now that I was no longer reading, I was once again able to take in the word around me. I listened in on the conversations of the passengers, heard the faintest sound of drum hits from somebody’s headphones, watched the landscape creep by out the windows, realized how warm the handrail I was holding was, and promptly grabbed higher part of the rail where it was nice and cool.
I took note of the other people around me. For the most part, your average commuters. Men and women in business attire and college students. A group of three teenage girls were giggling incessantly at the other end of the train. A strange sight to see three people so joyous in a space so devoid of emotion or human interaction. One day, they will be like us: quiet and bored.
One this day in particular, I was standing near one of the train doors. On this particular train car, the doors are lower than the main floor of the train, so that you have to climb down two steps to reach them. It was on this lowered stair that I took note of one individual in particular: a woman in mustard colored pants. It was the pants that caught my attention. I’d put her in her late thirties. In addition to the mustard pants, she wore a gray top, had big curly dirty blonde hair, and glasses. In her hand she held what looked like a research paper folded in half long ways as to have a better grip on the material. I immediately decided that she was an academic with her glasses, professional attire, research paper, and us both being in Boston of all places. But what intrigued me most of all was the mustard pants. I continued to observe this woman until I garnered the sense that she could tell I was looking at her. I quickly transitioned my gaze to the window, waiting for my stop to arrive.
My gaze was interrupted by a voice. A voice directed at me. It came from in front of me, and slightly down. It came from the woman in the mustard pants. Since my mind was outside the train, I missed what she had said to me. I looked down at her.
“Sorry?” I said.
She smiled. “I said how are you enjoying the book?”
She must have seen the cover of the book against my chest. I panicked. Who strikes up a conversation with a stranger on the T?
“I think it’s fantastic” I said. “It’s definitely his most unique story. I’m a big fan of Vonnegut.”
“So am I,” mustard pants replied.
At this point the adrenaline was flowing. I had to keep this conversation going or else we would both be subjected to the awkwardness of a stagnant conversation. I reached into my tool belt and pulled out, “I’ve been reading all his works. Once I started I just kept reading one after the other.”
This was a lie. I often lie in conversations with strangers or acquaintances in order to make the conversation more interesting or to make them flow better. I find this is better in the long run for both parties. The lies are never ones I can’t talk myself out of, or turn into half-lies sprinkled with pieces of truth.
It is true, yes, that I have been reading Vonnegut’s works, but I have not been reading them one after the other, nor reading all his works. The Sirens of Titan is the fourth Vonnegut novel I have read, over a two year period. I have read different novels in between, and have no goal of reading all his works. So, in reality, this was not a lie, but another half-truth. One that sounded more interesting to say in the moment. One that would keep the conversation going. As they say in improv, “Yes, and…”
“Which others have you read?” She asked, still smiling.
“Slaughterhouse-Five, Cat’s Cradle, and Breakfast of Champions. Slaughterhouse-Five was my first and favorite,” I said, now smiling myself.
I would never risk allowing the conversation to stagnate, so I tacked on the bit about it being my favorite at the end of my response, hopefully prompting her to reply with an opinion of her own. It worked.
Her smile faded. “Oh, I couldn’t get through that one.”
Now my smile faded. Slaughterhouse-Five is widely regarded as one of Vonnegut’s best works. Perhaps I have a bias, as it was the first of his novels that I read, but I have never before read such an original and inspired piece of fiction. It captivated me from the moment I picked it up. None of his other novels have moved me like Slaughterhouse-Five did.
How could mustard pants say this about such a work of art? My guttural reaction was one of offense. I felt her opinion reflected poorly on me and my ability to judge art. Her being an academic, the identity I prescribed her I remind you, surely she would appreciate such a fine work of fiction. Even if I do not care for a novel, I usually stick it out to the end out of some perceived sense of obligation to show respect to the often dead author. But this woman was above that. She made the choice to pick up Slaughterhouse-Five, read a part of it, put it down, and say to Mr. Vonnegut, “No sir, I will not read your novel. I am not inspired by the rawness of your words and your profound anti-war sentiment.”
The least the woman could have done was lied like me. Lied to keep the conversation pleasant and moving along like I did. She could have said “Yes, I enjoyed that one as well,” or “That one wasn’t my favorite but I can see why many people like it.”
It was at this point I began to question her intention in starting this conversation. It takes a lot of guts to start a conversation with a stranger, let alone a conversation with one on the train. Speaking with someone on the train means that everyone else can hear your conversation, no matter how quietly you can talk. Also, if you’re striking up a conversation with a stranger on the train, there is no knowing how long that conversation may last. One person might be riding for the next ten stops or might be getting off at the next stop, such as myself. Perhaps it was because mustard pants noticed me looking at her, saw me closing my book and waiting patiently that she decided to risk striking up a conversation with me. How long was she planning on speaking to me? She was below me, so it is possible she could have seen the cover of my book from below and was waiting for the perfect time to strike. Or did she only think to say something when I closed the book? What if I had decided to simply take a break from reading in that moment and had no intention of getting off at the next stop? We would have been forced to maintain a conversation for an indeterminate amount of time. Can you imagine the stress of that scenario? Everyone around you hearing you struggle to make small talk. I can’t think of a worse fate.
Perhaps none of these considerations crossed her mind. Perhaps she acted on instinct alone. She saw me stop reading, noticed the cover of my book, and decided to be nice and find something in common with a stranger. Add some emotion and interest to our dull commutes.
After her statement on Slaughterhouse-Five, I pivoted the conversation. “Do you have any recommendations? I’m not sure which to read next.”
This was a truth, predicated on a lie. It was true that I was not sure which of Vonnegut’s novel’s to read next, but I asked this question on the false foundation that I was reading his novels one after the other.
“Mother Night,” she said. “It’s my favorite of his that I’ve read.”
The train was slowing down, ready to pull into Longwood station. I moved to signal that our conversation was coming to an abrupt end.
“Well,” I said, “This is my stop, but thank you for the recommendation. Have a good rest of the night.”
“You too,” she said.
With that final sentiment I turned around and wiggled my way off the train through the mass of bodies. Safely off the train, I took off my backpack, looked around to make sure too many people weren’t watching, and placed The Sirens of Titan snug in its pouch.