Mind the Gap(e)
When taking London’s underground transit, you quickly find that you are becoming a people enthusiast. And by enthusiast I mean to say that you convince yourself (however grossly misleading) that the assumptions you make about these bodies huddled close to you, these bodies swaying as the train car jolts back and forth, are indeed correct. You get a sneaking sense that you know these guys, that you are apart of the same lattice. You are stitches of the same fabric. A fabric that involves getting up in the morning, brushing one’s teeth, fastening one’s belt, drinking one’s tea, and making just enough time to catch the 8:00a rush. People become caricatures, stock characters of a novel that you are writing in your head, a novel that no one will probably read, let alone publish, because you’d rather be a starving failure than a postergirl sellout. And so you begin to greet these people in your head, run through your museum’s mind of preconceptions that are alive and well in the crowded mass before you.
Here, for instance, sits Andre 3000. He is Andre 3000 because he looks exactly like Andre 3000. You always take a second glance because the resemblance is striking! You don’t want to stare because, well, that’s just rude. But then you realize that you are a voyeur. You are a freak. You want to figure this guy out. He’s wearing a grey suit this time, nicely tailored. He works at an investment bank—you know this because you’ve decided this weeks ago. He is into Asians. You are Asian. Asian American. Is there a difference?
The woman opposite you is from Colorado. She is from Colorado because she wears a purple windbreaker and running shoes. Her hair is a frazzled mess. She clutches the London Underground tube map like a bible, glancing back and forth between the string of colored lines, zig-zagging this way and that, via Upminster and via Edgware road. She is fat because she is divorced, but perhaps this trip to London will help her get her groove back. You offer a silent blessing that she will, indeed, get her groove back.
Next to her is a high-maintenance housewife who can afford to be eating takeout breakfast on a Tuesday morning because her maid is tidying their white-furnished home in Chelsea. You know this because she is wearing diamond earrings, and for christ’s sakes her hair is pulled in a neat ponytail, bangs meticulously clipped to the side. She married the first man who could say No to her, because it was exciting and thrilling and new. She is thinking about what to buy the children for their birthdays next month. They are four and two. She is also unknowingly pregnant with child, but she will discover this later today, in a public toilet and mouth agape.
This man that just entered the train is stocky, but he’s in a suit and smells like cigars. He scoffs at the average household income of London because to him it is pocketchange. He takes the tube because it is more a matter of ethics. He is in stocks. He likes to drink scotch and prefers the missionary position. His wife has a rather large bust, and he particularly likes her except when she opens her mouth to speak. He enjoys mahogany and using his Montblanc fountain pen. He likes to compensate for things.
Next to him sits a younger man that resembles Moby. Although he does not so closely resemble Moby in the way that Andre 3000 so closely resembles Andre 3000. He is wearing Asics, and you are suddenly reminded that people still wear Asics. His glasses are rectangular-framed; he is reading some new age book for new age hippies. He believes that the Mayan predictions about 2012 are true, and you know this because you have seen his type countless times before, traipsing the streets of San Francisco in beaded jewels and long, flowing hair. You silently hope that he, like the Colorado woman, will get his groove back. And obviously, he is vegan.
