~ September 05, 2003 - 12:37 a.m. ~
Aboard the Sleeper
Tim sent this to me today, and I thought it was just lovely.Aboard the Sleeper
By VERLYN KLINKENBORG
early everyone on the commuter railroad platform looks immured in a sense of the coming day or, if it's an evening train, the day just past. Everyone projects a certain composure, an awareness of the unwritten rules of commuting, the cautious self-containment in the hopes that others will remain self-contained. The train pulls in. People board and quickly find their seats, and the wheels begin to rumble and clack. And one by one the commuters drop into sleep. Before long, the entire car is asleep, except for some wide-eyed first-time rider whose alertness looks like a kind of perversity. All that workday armor has been shuffled off, and though all the passengers are still wearing suits and ties and business ensembles, you can see the pajamas in their faces.
As long as I've been riding trains into New York � some 25 years by now � I'm still struck by the collective intimacy of a passenger car full of sleeping strangers. It becomes clear at such moments � when the whole car is silent except for a dry gasp somewhere � that the human neck is a useless piece of anatomy, a stem unable to support the ripe fruit of the head. Some people lean against the window, and some just lean back, mouths agape, giving it the full Vesuvius.
A load of sleeping commuters is one of those scenes that make you stop short and marvel at the strangeness of humans. How is it that we plunge headlong into unconsciousness even with the lights staring down at us, the air-conditioning rushing, the wheels clattering, the conductor calling out the stations? Sleep is not only a blessing. It's also a wonderful joke, a truly sportive adaptation. I look around, watching bold chins receding, the appearance of every intention giving way to the haplessness, the aimlessness of sleep. Composure becomes discomposure. The avowed sincerity of wakefulness becomes the far greater sincerity of slumber. And then I, too, drift away, caught in the undertow, forgetful of the rain-streaked windows and the dark world outside.
