Observations on the Orange Line to Vienna

By A.E. Bayne

Here we stand, hand over hand, riding this Orange Line train to Vienna.

There you are, a young girl in your steely business suit and crisp tennis shoes. You look like you are playing dress up in your mother’s closet, and you are self-conscious about your armpit being within sniffing distance to the young man next to you. Repeatedly, you raise your arm to grasp the hand hold above, only to lower it when you realize how close the two of you are to one another. Would it be worse to fall into the arms of this man, or embarrass yourself by continuing to stumble about while dangling from the overhead grip when the train jolts? No worry; the young man sees your insecurity and empathizes with your situation. He turns his torso slightly to the right in order to give your underarm some berth. As he does his eyes swing to meet mine, and his mouth twitches subconsciously to form a smile before his ego sweeps in to catch it.

There he glows, lowering his almond eyes to claim a stain on the floor. Mine find the spot and I share a momentary examination of the fibrous dissidence with him, until Xaviar jars me with an involuntary hip bump. I allow myself another glance at the young man: short of stature; muscular arms ending in broad-palmed hands; inch-wide black gauges in his earlobes; and clear skin the color of burnt sugar. He refrains from looking at me, though I know he feels my eyes on him from the way he stares resolutely into the cramped Plexiglas cubicle near the door. The corners of his mouth tweak slightly upward.

Within the tight alcove that draws his attention an old man, half-blind, hovers over a worn Qur'an with a magnifying glass. Like a priest in a confessional, he sits on a folding stool and steadies himself with his white cane as the train pitches forward through the murky tunnel. I follow the glass sliding over the spherical symbols, feminine and flowing on the page, noting his keen devotion and bowed swaying head. His milky eyes don’t leave the book until the train pulls into Roslyn, then he gathers his things to exit through the sliding doors across the car. We part, making way for his tapping cane and hefty sack. The young woman in the business suit follows him from the train.

My gaze slides down the car as passengers move in and out of the doors which warn of imminent closure, and the number of people crammed end-to-end blurs my vision. Now they are drops of paint; now they are part of my farthest reaching sight; and now they are endless, beyond me entirely. I am there and back again.

Among the new travelers is a laughing young woman with a Beatrix Potter tattoo between her shoulder blades. She is budding in her lace baby doll dress, curly crown of ribbon-tied hair, and Peter Rabbit ink. She and her boyfriend clasp hands over a free pole and giggle when the car jostles them into each other, eyes twinkling each time. She steals a kiss and he cradles her body against his, arm wrapped around her slight waist. As the car fills up, barreling west down the line, they move together toward the pole where Xaviar and I are balancing ourselves.

Two burly men in a corner seat of the train are watching them as well, nodding toward the oblivious couple and speaking in hushed Latin tones. The one nearest the window turns away from his friend and leans his forehead against the glass in thought. The man nearest the aisle stares past the heavy plastic frame that separates them from the open car, watching the couple who have reached my pole. Our arms are entwined now; hers snaking under mine to grasp the cold metal, and his searching to secure a spot above. Xaviar’s hand tightens and then releases the beam; he dares to stand alone on the swaying floor, a rush for a teenager on the verge of becoming an adult. The man from the corner seat watches Xaviar now, and I watch too, following his eyes and reading behind their rich warmth the familiarity that he finds in my son’s balancing act.

He and his friend vacate their prime seats just before the train slows at Dunn Loring, and you, a bedraggled mother with weary, glazed eyes, pull your daughter and young son from where they have stood these many stops into the empty confines of the corner. Mother, your children have ridden you as much as the train, grasping your skirt and arms, hanging onto you, their storm beaten Maypole. The boy has had enough of confinement; he cannot contain his joy over the space that has opened up in the car. He sees the wide clear alcove and empty poles, and his eyes widen with mischief. Your daughter rushes out with him, but you call her back in a language I do not understand. He grabs the pole and swings round, allowing the inertia of the moving train to drag him round and round then down to the floor. Laughing and daring, he flashes a devil-may-care smile in my direction. Eyes like the sun ask me if I will smile back. I do. Xaviar and I enjoy his wild mirth on the last leg of our common journey until we pull into the station and exit the car together.