by olivia

It is natural, at times, to feel that the world is against you; no one understands you, everyone is insane.   I find myself saying that exact phrase, sometimes aloud, as I navigate crowded public spaces.  “Everyone is fucking crazy,” I mutter, under my breath, shuffling along.  Ha! Look at me! Sunglasses on a cloudy morning, carrying multiple canvas bags, paint splattered sneakers, well; it would seem that I am the object of my own disdain.

For a nosy person like myself, or you could say, “curious,” and that would be nicer, I spend quite a bit of time wondering what people’s deal is. “What’s that guy’s deal,” I will mutter to myself, aloud.

Here’s the thing of it: my iPod is broken. The iPod has become, for our generation, a little private church; a new Protestantism as our private relationship with our thoughts and prayers turns ever inward. Without mine I am fiendish, tense, and irritable: how to regulate my moods without the help of my spinning wheel? Must I listen solely to the murky globules of my own thoughts?

The answer is: no! For now, I am the Queen of Eavesdropping.  Until I can steel myself to fork over the necessary dolla dolla bills y’all for a new one, I will make my way in the world, relying on the kindness of strangers and the insanity of their Public Conversations.  You wouldn’t believe what you can overhear on a subway platform in the wee small hours of the morning. The fact of the matter is: no one thinks you are listening to them. The few Luddite maniacs (me) with no headphones in, no Kindles, no intent gaze over a carefully folded Wall Street Journal, well, we must be the crazy ones, and who cares if we overhear.  Because remember: everyone is fucking crazy. So,

Recently:

Two young men, having a discussion on the subway platform. I assume at first they are friends, they look to be about the same age and are dressed in different but equally dapper styles, one in a leather jacket, the other carrying a smart briefcase.

“What is it you do?” asks Leather Jacket.

“I am a… I am a… scholar” replies Briefcase.

“Oh. You mean you teach?”

Briefcase looks at Leather Jacket with wilting pity.

“Teach? Ha. Absolutely not. I study.”

“Where do you study?” asks Leather Jacket, politely.

“What?” says Briefcase, leaning in, as though he could not hear.

“Where do you study?”

“What? Oh. Arts.”

Leather jacket lets this go, though it is clear to me, the neutral observer, that Briefcase is pretending he heard: “WHAT do you study.”  Since, from my unbiased seat of judgment, I can tell that he is 100% clinically insane and out-of-his-mind, I pretend to throw something in the garbage can to get a closer seat to this magnificent free source of entertainment.

“What do you do,” asks Briefcase, eyebrows raised, quickly turning the tables.

“I study acting,” replies Leather, and wow, now am I really interested. Everyone knows for a fact that actors are all 100% totally genuinely certifiably insane and on top of that, have zero sense of the insanity of others. It is possible that Leather thinks Brief is some kind of mysterious guru of the neighborhood, a Great Thinker, an intellect. I note to myself that while engaged in this conversation, Briefcase is holding the New York Post in one hand, lips moving silently as he mouths the words.

“This newspaper slows down your miiiind,” says Briefcase, “you gotta read the Times. Acting? Well good for you man, I mean good for you. Arts degree, woah, woah, but, I mean what about Science?”

The train arrived and Briefcase marched off, after a magnanimous handshake; striding swiftly as though aware of some better opportunity at the fifth car of the train.   I was left to wonder, how did this conversation start? Where was this “Scholar” headed to? Did Leather Jacket Actor realize he just rubbed shoulders with pure insanity?  Or, maybe I have too much free time on my hands, too much space in my head, too much desire for a narrative.

Or maybe… everyone is insane.  When I got off the train that morning, shuffling along the alleyway that leads to my office building, I was struck by an unusual sound: singing.  I turned, quickly, to see  a Philip Seymour Hoffman lookalike, warbling passionately with zero regard for my iPod-free ears.

“Laying in the cold, cold sun” he crooned, a song of his own creation, one can only hope.