Direction(s), or the Lack Thereof

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It was approaching midnight and I was on the subway platform pretending to be engrossed in a particularly uninspiring collection of short stories by Augusten Burroughs. I had invested quite a bit of time idly scanning his belabored sentences and half-following his story line, and so issued the occasional forced guffaw so as to trick myself into believing I was engaged in an enjoyable activity. This type of psychotic behavior (for isn’t the deliberate planning to lie to oneself symptomatic of just that?) also served a secondary purpose. In my years in New York, I had found that evidence of being engrossed happily in a book was a superb method by which to halt directions-seeking tourists and self-promoting New Yorkers in their industrious paths to disturbing one, and intruding like an obtrusive herd of elephants into one’s otherwise disengaged life. Surprisingly, book-engrossed me was at least three times as successful at detracting attention than was demonstratively scowling get-the-fuck-away-from-me me. So I read on, and I chuckled forcefully on.

My game must have been off that day. From the corner of my eye, I could see someone at the periphery of my visual field approaching. I lowered my heard further, turned slightly away, but this did very little in deterring the advance. The footsteps never slowed, and as they approached to within conversational distance of me, I was forced to look up and engage in the pretense of being a social animal.

I found myself to be surprisingly unannoyed by the intrusion, despite my earlier preparations to ward off just that. The gentleman who approached me had a very agreeable air about him. Okay, so perhaps “gentleman” is a generous description. He was far from distinguished enough to warrant the intended usage of the term. His shoes were black, scuffed up leather still showing the ghostly wavy outlines left behind by this past winter’s weather salting. These were worn under visibly pilling navy blue trousers with sewed-in creases at the front – a true relic of days and fashions past. He wore a nondescript shirt, also navy blue with some type of unremarkable striping or checkering in grey. He kept a greying decently-groomed mustache, and his skin was brown and creased in a few endearing spots. Had he looked less tired, they would have looked more like creases caused by excess merriment in life rather than skin crackled and worn by age. His features and clothing choices suggested that he was Middle Eastern.

This last observation flipped switched of both ease and tension within me almost simultaneously. Ease because the perceived similarity of origin immediately created a sense of familiarity on my part towards him – this irrespective of whether he guessed that I too was Arab…which he didn’t. The tension stemmed from previous encounters such as this that ended with an uncomfortable and uninvited intrusion into the details of my life. Amicable beginnings of, “Ah begad? Men fein fe Masr?” quickly degenerating into demands of, “Do you live alone? What is your family name? Where do you live work play breathe are you married?”

So I opted for English. He did not speak it very well, and apparently unsuspecting of my ethnicity attempted no direct communication in Arabic. He stumblingly asked for directions, getting desperate as a train approached which he wasn’t sure whether to take. I explained more physically than verbally that he should wait for the same train I was getting on, and signaled to him when it eventually arrived. He looked relieved, and we sat across from each other in the same car. I got back to my insipid Augusten Burroughs.

Being that by now it was quite late, there were only a few other passengers. I noticed when half-heartedly continuing to read that one of them, another older gentleman, appeared lost. He kept craning his head up to look at the mapped subway route from his seat. He would study this for a while, illumination consistently failing to light up his features. At a couple of the stops (for there were many in my journey back home) he hopped off the train, looking confused and undecided, only to scramble back on as the doors were closing.

He began asking people in the car, one of them my recent companion – I’ll call him Omar. Omar shrugged, even though the station asked for was a major one. Omar looked at me, and looked back the man. I realized I was staring and dropped my eyes to the text I wasn’t reading.

Over the course of the next 20 minutes, the man’s behavior continued, getting more and more jittery as time passed by. He walked up and down the car, making his selection of people to ask seemingly at random, none of whom could or would help. I'll admit here that the man appeared disheveled, was toothless with uncombed hair, and that perhaps that was why he was fhaving trouble finding the samaritan spirit in his fellow New Yorkers. Omar kept swiveling his head in my direction each time the man was rebuffed.

I began silently pleading with the man to ask me. I kept glancing up at him, willing him to make eye contact and recognize the information brimming and bubbling inside me, wanting him to occasion its share.

I was majorly conflicted, experiencing actual anxiety at a situation that was really ludicrous at its core. Despite clearly needing the help, I felt that to approach him without his direct request was too forward, too invasive, intrusive, Arab. I wrestled with this ridiculous stance:

He would appreciate it.

It was none of my business.

The hour of the night meant the he would wait long to get back on the right train if he guessed wrong. It was already so very late.

He would ask me if he wanted my help.

He was an old toothless man – an easy target.

It was none of my business.

Omar kept on looking from him to me, as if spectatoring a tennis match.

The man eventually got off again – one station before he was supposed to. I tried speaking to tell him to get back on the train, but my voice caught as my internal monologue started back up. I spoke to him in my head, as if by sheer force of will I could get him to scamper back onto the train.

Suddenly, inevitably, it was too late. The doors slid closed with finality, and I slumped back into my seat, sweat coating my brow. The old man stood motionless on the platform as the train moved away. He still hadn’t moved by the time we were overtaken by the darkness of the tunnel, and he became no longer visible.

The next stop was mine, and Omar followed me with his gaze as I got off at my destination, each of us lost on our way home.

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