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Inside The Station
The sound of pelting rain gave way to the din of the station as he entered the opportune shelter. He hoped the storm would soon clear so the time he’d have to abide the discordant noise would be brief. Some folks checked the overhead monitors for schedules. Others milled about carrying, dragging, or pushing various amounts of baggage. Here and there, homeless people claimed corners or seats unchallenged. He supposed that others, like himself, were here only to wait out the storm. Crowded together inside the station, they separated themselves each from the other… behind their masks. Do not misunderstand. I’m not speaking of facades. Those are the direct lies intended to suggest something other, and usually more, than the truth. I’m talking about the blank, expressionless faces worn to escape notice, and to announce an unwillingness to notice others — the mask that says “Do not touch me”. It had taken many years to realize he intensely disliked the mask because it was his own reflection. It took longer to learn that seeing beyond another’s mask meant removing his own… He made his way to the snack bar and noticed a homeless woman huddled on the floor among her possessions. He fumbled in his wallet to see that he had cash for coffee, and let a twenty-dollar bill drop as he passed, as if by accident. “Scuse me, Mister,” she says from behind him. “Yes?” he feigns, turning to face her. “You dropped this.” She holds it out to him. “No, I don’t think so,” he says with a puzzled face. “You did, I saw you!” “Ma’am,” he says touching her arm, “you are mistaken.” A sudden smile brightened her face, not because the money was hers, but because the touch was theirs. He sat down at the counter. “What would you like, honey?” asked the waitress. “Is the coffee fresh?” he asked. “I just now made it.” “Well now,” he started with a smile, “if YOU made it, I must have some!” She giggled as she poured his cup. “Where are you coming from or going to?” “Nowhere really. I just came in here to get out of the storm,” he replied. She patted his hand and told him to enjoy the coffee. He smiled. He was a born observer, often told that he thought too much. Indeed, as he sipped his coffee and watched the people around him, he thought about the masks and touch. The sense of touch affects us profoundly, more so than we commonly suppose. Listen to people describe loneliness. “I so miss being touched,” they say in one fashion or another. The eyes can view others surrounding ourselves, the ears can be enveloped by the sounds others make, but touch is the sense that transforms ‘others’ into ‘us’. A man claiming the stool next to his interrupted his thoughts. Grunting and wheezing, the man arranged baggage around him like a fortress. The intent was to keep others away; the result was a broadcast of his presence. “Waitress,” he said too loudly. She came over. “Coffee. Black,” he ordered. He continued shuffling, checking his pockets, and rearranging his bags nervously as she poured the man’s order in silence. He didn’t look at her or thank her when she left. It’s peculiar, thought the observer; how some can call so much attention to themselves yet still wear the mask that says “Do not touch me”. The mask, in this case, tied on with a string of furious activity announcing, “I’m too busy and concerned with my affairs to be interrupted”. The observer smiled inwardly. On the surface the man’s entire routine was a barrier to interaction. Underneath it was a call for attention, a blatant example of the desire to be touched. “Busy traveler, eh?” asks the observer. “Huh? Oh. Well. S’pose so,” says the man grudgingly, immediately sending his cup to his mouth. Ignoring this signal, the observer asks, “You wouldn’t happen to know what time it is?” knowing a watch is a required accessory for this sort to fuss over. The man glances at his watch. “Quarter after.” “Say! That’s one nice looking watch! May I see it?” Finding himself corralled the man extends his wrist over the barrier of baggage he secures himself behind to allow his watch and no more to be viewed. The observer leans over and touches the man’s wrist just above the watch, as if to shield the overhead lighting to better his view. “Very nice! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one like that,” he praises. “Oh.” The man smiles now. “A gift from my mother. They don’t make ’em like this one anymore.” “Look,” says the observer suddenly. “We’re both nearly out of coffee,” and patting the man on the shoulder offers, “let me buy you another cup.” Without pause he turns to the waitress (who has been watching the exchange) and says, “If you please, my friend and I will have another cup of your delicious coffee.” Then to the man, “It IS good coffee isn’t it?” “Um yes. Good coffee,” he replies to his cup as the waitress pours. “The secret ingredient is that she made it,” the observer states, indicating the waitress as if informing the man of a national security matter. She giggles. “Well it’s good coffee,” says the man with the watch, now pressured into looking at her. “Go on with you!” she says mock-pushing his arm. He beams at the touch. “Yes, it’s VERY good coffee!” When the observer excused himself from the counter he left the man eating pie and chatting with the counter lady. It is astounding; this way touch controls the masks. Is it not a thing to realize? Words — like these here — may impart an understanding of the masks we wear, but only touch brings us out from behind them, as we’ve seen. However, touch also creates our masks… A woman with two youngsters in tow walks by, obviously frustrated with the moment. Suddenly one of her children pushes the other, and the victim yells, “MOMMY! BRIAN HIT ME!” She turns to Brian, smacks him on the bottom and yells, “HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU NOT TO HIT!” The observer wondered. How many of us wear the mask that says “I am so bad my own parents hit me”? Without doubt, the touch of our parents teaches us our first lessons in touching, our first perceptions of what others think of us. Perhaps the fidgety man at the counter acquired his mask in such a manner. The mask that concurrently says “Don’t touch me” to preemptively repel hurt, and “I desire to be touched” to satisfy the instinctual need to be cared for. Outside the rain was still coming down on a vengeful wind. He’d have to stay. Wait it out with nothing to do but think. Think too much. The observer sighed. Crowded places troubled him. Either through his external senses or some sort of extrasensory perceptions, he seemed crushed by the amount of what he could only describe as pain in the air. The pain in the station was well-defined, ongoing, and residual. A thousand voices screamed in his head “I desire to be touched - but do not touch me.” Surely his own voice was part of the drone. A boom box was ironically bouncing the synchronistic lyrics “When I think about you I touch myself” around the cavernous station walls, like an answer to the “touch - but don’t touch me” paradox. The paradox born from the duality of touch that both creates and removes our masks — touches of good and evil defining humanity. Tenderness… or pain. Hope… or despair. Enlightenment… or ignorance. Us… or no touch at all… The decision now: Go back out into the storm, or stay sheltered inside… sheltered behind his mask. Either way, he would remain alone. “When I think about you I touch myself” replayed in his head. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Say, I want to thank you again for the coffee!” said the man with the old watch and a new smile, now scurrying to catch his train. “ALLLLLL ABOARRRRD!” called the conductor. The moment increased his choices and so he decided. He’d stay inside the station until the storm passed, but he would remove his mask and appropriately touch as many people as possible. |