The Human Watcher
By nature, I enjoy studying other human beings. In malls or airports, at restaurants or parks, I like to observe my fellow humans to try to understand some of the behaviors we all have. One of my favorite pastimes is watching and creating stories in my head for people I encounter in the subways of NYC. Everyone has a story and some of the folks I see underground make excellent subjects for tales I make up in my head. I can make these people part of my stories or make up entire books around them from merely a glance between subway stops.
I go by what I see on their faces and their body language. I exam what they are wearing or carrying and how they mix in (or not mix in) with the general populace on board a subway car.
This morning I see a man on the Q train holding one of NYC’s two free newspapers, the Metro news. His clothes are mismatched and his hair is uncombed. He looks like he has been up for days and he has a week’s worth of scruffy beard to show for it. Off his left hand, is a plastic yellow supermarket bag holding what looks like a thermos. His chicken skin neck gives evidence of his bony nature, which is well hidden in his oversized tan trench. The newspaper is nothing more than a cover to appear as regular as possible. He stares intently at its pages, but every couple of seconds he looks suspiciously around and then bites his lip and appears pensive. It looks like he has a tremendous burden he is carrying. It is all he could do to keep his tears bottled up.
I imagine that this man is just returning to work following the death and subsequent funeral of his beloved wife. I think that he is kicking himself for not giving her more love or time, as people tend to do when they lose someone. I imagine he wishes he had that extra day with which to share everything he thinks he needed to share with her.
His hard life shows on his face in lines and wrinkles. He skin is burned brown and leathery and he looks tired. He wishes he could be with her for just another day. It is in the human condition to wish that and that is why Mitch Albom is so successful touching upon the subject of death in his books, including the wildly popular For One More Day.
At 34th street, my subject sighs loudly. His eyes look up to check location. He sees the task at hand and heaves his body up, as if its weight holds him back. He rolls the Metro under his arm and moves through people toward the doors, his bagged thermos swing at his side. At the frame of the opening, he pauses for a second, looks up at the flight of stairs and his body suddenly changes. He straightens up, his limp structure suddenly more solid now. He makes himself into the shape of a stronger man than the one contemplating his misfortune not two seconds before. In that second, he makes a decision to live. Now, he takes the stairs with purpose, two at a time, and enters back into his life.
The subway car’s doors close and I return to the magazine I was holding for cover, while I watched the human whose life had started again.
I go by what I see on their faces and their body language. I exam what they are wearing or carrying and how they mix in (or not mix in) with the general populace on board a subway car.
This morning I see a man on the Q train holding one of NYC’s two free newspapers, the Metro news. His clothes are mismatched and his hair is uncombed. He looks like he has been up for days and he has a week’s worth of scruffy beard to show for it. Off his left hand, is a plastic yellow supermarket bag holding what looks like a thermos. His chicken skin neck gives evidence of his bony nature, which is well hidden in his oversized tan trench. The newspaper is nothing more than a cover to appear as regular as possible. He stares intently at its pages, but every couple of seconds he looks suspiciously around and then bites his lip and appears pensive. It looks like he has a tremendous burden he is carrying. It is all he could do to keep his tears bottled up.
I imagine that this man is just returning to work following the death and subsequent funeral of his beloved wife. I think that he is kicking himself for not giving her more love or time, as people tend to do when they lose someone. I imagine he wishes he had that extra day with which to share everything he thinks he needed to share with her.
His hard life shows on his face in lines and wrinkles. He skin is burned brown and leathery and he looks tired. He wishes he could be with her for just another day. It is in the human condition to wish that and that is why Mitch Albom is so successful touching upon the subject of death in his books, including the wildly popular For One More Day.
At 34th street, my subject sighs loudly. His eyes look up to check location. He sees the task at hand and heaves his body up, as if its weight holds him back. He rolls the Metro under his arm and moves through people toward the doors, his bagged thermos swing at his side. At the frame of the opening, he pauses for a second, looks up at the flight of stairs and his body suddenly changes. He straightens up, his limp structure suddenly more solid now. He makes himself into the shape of a stronger man than the one contemplating his misfortune not two seconds before. In that second, he makes a decision to live. Now, he takes the stairs with purpose, two at a time, and enters back into his life.
The subway car’s doors close and I return to the magazine I was holding for cover, while I watched the human whose life had started again.
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