familiar

She wears odd outfits. Usually shorts, with old or oddly sized t-shirts. She’s brunette with a couple tattoos showcased on her calves. She has a large yellow messenger bag that rides high on her back. To get in and out of it she loosens the strap with a pull, her hands dart around her pockets, and then she tightens it again with another swift tug. She reads sometimes. She has a couple pairs of socks with print—sometimes-witty remarks—on them. Her bike is old, probably older than I am, with padded tape along the two crossbars. The wheels are old, but seem durable. The pedals are that of serious bikers, with the snap-in-place footing. She hangs her U-lock on her seat when she places it in the vertical bike rack. She has a Nextel radio that beeps periodically. She gets on at Forty-Sixth street northbound and off at Nicollet Avenue. She shares the train with me both directions.

He’s older, with a beard. He listens to music—or at least I think it’s music—on his Blackberry-type phone for the entire ride. He typically stands directly inside whichever door he enters. He doesn’t dress formally, and normally wears cargo-style pants. His hair appears disheveled. His gaze wanders around the car unless he’s changing options on the phone. His glasses reflect the sunlight when he stands on the right of the car on the southbound trip. He exits southbound at Fiftieth Street.

He’s younger than I am, with a backpack. He usually dresses in a t-shirt with jeans. He has dark hair and a tuft of hair on his chin. He doesn’t sit. He gets on northbound at Franklin Avenue. He looks around every time he enters. He watches people from time to time.

She reads the entire time she’s on the train. She’s attractive with a perpetual smirk. She usually wears heels about three inches tall. She alternates between her hairs up in a ponytail and her hair down. Gets on southbound at Nicollet Avenue. She finds places to sit.

Her hair is blonde to the point of bright. She dresses smart. She listens to her iPod religiously. She looks around at first, but settles into reading quickly and looks up quickly only when the doors open. She sits in the first set of chairs next to the doors she enters. She has a small black bag. She enters southbound at Nicollet Avenue.

He enters northbound at Fiftieth Street. He wears sneakers with slacks and carries a red and grey backpack. He listens to ear-bud headphones.

He smokes on the walk from where he parks his black Ford pick-up. He stops at the edge of the platform to finish. He’s taller with gray thinning hair. He dresses in a plaid zip-up hooded fleece even on the coldest days. He’s heavy-set. He walks slowly, but steadily. He enters northbound at Fiftieth Street and southbound at Nicollet Avenue. He almost always stands.

She stands only about five and one-half foot tall, but her hair stands another five inches. It’s dark and thinning, but great effort has been put into its vertical prominence. She carries a large bag. She enters northbound at Fiftieth. She waits patiently in the second Plexiglas enclosure until the train becomes visible. Then she walks ten feet to the south to wait again for the closest set of doors to open. She almost always sits.

They are similar in stature, both shorter and stocky. His hair is thinning, but he’s left it to grow to below his shoulder blades on the sides and back. Her hair is only slightly longer, but a shade lighter. They wear matching bags, hers redder and his more yellow. The bags are large and made up of a heavy woven material left over from the grunge era. There is a zipper along the only strap and they hang low. They enter northbound at Thirty-Eighth Street and he exits at the Metrodome. They hug and kiss affectionately before he gets off. They stand directly in whichever doorway they enter.

These people are familiar. I don’t know their names. I don’t know their stories. But I see them frequently in the mornings or evenings. They wear different clothes, have different hairstyles, and stand or sit in different places, but they’re still familiar. It’s almost comforting.

There is a general rule that seems to accompany the rail. Like an elevator, conversation among strangers is frowned upon. A polite “good morning,” or “excuse me,” is all that’s necessary or allowed. It’s not necessarily unfriendly, but friendliness is only out of obligation. Recognition and acquaintance are distinct and separate associations, and the difference is very clear on the tracks.

They are just a few faces in a sea of faces. They are part of a routine. Part of a schedule. Part of the herd.