Who Are You Calling Crazy?

There are days when cramming your body onto the TTC or waiting forever for someone to let you merge makes you feel as though you’ve reached the end of your tolerance and you are experiencing the last few lucid moments of your life before you lose it all. Or at least, there are days like that for me. When I’m in one of those moments of crisis, I often think with fondness of a situation I witnessed a few years ago on the subway at the height of rush hour. When the going gets rough, I picture this scene and inevitably feel slightly reassured that at least I’ve got options.

It was summer and far too many of us were crammed into the car on the Yonge line heading south from Bloor station. As usual, the train was packed to capacity with its eclectic mix of students, professionals, nutters and mutterers and we were all breathing the same stale, sweaty air. I was standing towards the middle of the car and since I wasn’t getting out for several stations, I wasn’t yet concerned about the mass of bodies that blocked my exit. We reached Wellesley and I observed the struggle of a few unfortunate individuals as they tried to make their way off the train – their paths blocked by pack sacs, readers and people getting on. It was violent, sweaty work and it didn’t look like any fun. I started some careful maneuvering because although my stop was still 3 stations away, it was obvious that no one on the train was in an accommodating mood and getting off was slow, if not impossible, going. As I twisted and shifted my body into open spaces, my internal monologue was attacking all of the inconsiderate riders who blocked the way for their fellow passengers. I enumerated their many sins and reflected on how someone really should explain the concept of letting people out before you get in. As I daydreamed about a Subway Justice League, I heard a loud shout and turned to see what was going on. A woman, whose appearance can generously be described as eccentric, was shouting “I’m going to get off at the next station if any of these assholes will get out of my way.”

That is when I witnessed a subway miracle - before this raving woman, a parting of the sea of bodies. Despite the pack sacs and books and plethora of riders, a navigable path opened up in front of her and when the doors opened at College, she walked out completely unencumbered. As she left, I could hear my fellow passengers muttering amongst themselves about crazy people and how they were glad she got off. There, on the TTC, with one woman’s purse pressing painfully into my chest and a man’s elbow poking me in the back, I experienced an epiphany. Maybe she was crazy, I thought, or just maybe, she was the sanest of us all. After all, she got off easy while I was still working my way to the front, politely saying “excuse me” anytime my body inadvertently connected with another. At each encounter, my fellow rider ignored me since that was far easier than actually making room for me. I shoved and I shunted and I squeezed my way out but I could no longer tell myself there was no other way. I’d seen it with my very eyes and I couldn’t argue with the results.

Since that day, whenever I find myself held upright by the lack of room on the subway, I think fondly of that lone rider and I keep her words on the tip of my tongue. I haven’t used them yet and perhaps I never will but I feel better knowing they are there.