This story is not a story in the typical sense of the word, but rather of a short experience that was changing to my perspective on the world. I do not tell this story with a particular plot or storyline in mind, but rather, I suppose, a seemingly unlinked series of events of which I wish to share. It is my wish as the author to show you what can happen if you observe human nature and really all of life, and for a second, think about the life you have led in correspondence to that of others. Someone you passed by and shared a smile with, has a story. The person in front of you in line at your favorite restaurant, has a story. Someone you walked by without so much as a glance, has a story. How often do you think about the stories of the people around you? I encourage you to ponder that.
It was a rainy day in Chicago. It was one of those days when faces are hidden behind umbrellas, some dark and drab, others bright colors, like beacons in the water-saturated grey of such a day. My family had just taken a tour of Northwestern University, and we were headed back to our hotel on the purple line of the L train, until it went out of service. We then had to transfer to the red line, and this is where the story begins.
There was a boy, probably in his young teens, sitting across from my family and me. The first thing to come to the attention of the observer’s eye, was the look on his face as he stared into oblivion. A thick ribbon of light blue fell seamlessly around his dilated pupils. He had acne across his jawline on the left side of his face. His slightly greasy light hair poked out of his backwards black hat. The grease tinted it a darker shade, almost brown. Paris was written in cursive red just above the open space, with a red plastic clasp underneath. The bill was red too. But perhaps the most interesting feature of this boy, was his lips. Not because of their appearance, but because of their expression, especially in combination with his eyes. It gave him a look combined of fear and insecurity, but also of a certain show of interest in things happening around him. I cannot exactly describe the expression of his lips, for I do not exactly understand it, but it was an expression in which his top lip often fell over the other and stretched flatter and wider. And somehow it gave him so much more character, serving as a sort of window to his mind.
There was also a peculiarity in the way he was dressed, for his baby blue t-shirt, as well as his fingers, were covered in white paint. He could have been painting anything from a piece of art to a house, and this only added to my interest. How he gotten here? What was the prior event which proceeded his entrance to the train: alone and covered in white paint?
As this boy stared into oblivion, my mom leaned over to me and whispered in my ear:
“I wish I could take a picture with my eyes.”
She then went on to bring up a topic we had discussed at a previous time. This was the idea of photographing people who don’t know they are being photographed. Not for the reasons that it is forbidden, but because people have the wildest looks when they don’t know they’re being photographed, and the second they see the camera, they pose. This is the concept of true candid photographs.
She wished she could photograph this boy. As we discussed it, I caught the eye of the boy. Throughout the ride we often met eyes, though he would look away quickly when his met mine. I could see the shyness, for it was quite obvious, but I could also sense a bit of curiosity in his look. I could tell he was listening in, but didn’t know if he was aware that the person we wanted to photograph was him.
We named him Tobias, or Toby.
A few stops later, a new group came in. As the train began to move again, my mom pointed out a young man, probably in his twenties, leaning against the plastic divider between the seats and the doors. He had light brown hair, combed into the usual style of the time. When he looked down, strands would fall over his forehead, then he would run his hand through his hair, setting them back in position before he looked down and the cycle continued. He wore baggy faded red sweats in combination with a sweater of many muted colors. Beige, with patterns in forest green, maroon and matching browns. He held a Samsungphone in his hand, and black earbuds traced from it to his ears. His eyes were a beautiful shade of brown, like the color of milky chocolate, but translucent, like irises normally are. His skin was relatively pale and held a close trimmed, beard, that was only a few days past a decent stubble. His lips were shaped ideally. His expression was pensive and thoughtful. He soon cast his phone into his pocket, and turned, still somewhat open, towards the window of the door, and watched the buildings pass by. One could see their reflection in his chocolate eyes.
He seemed rather closed and quiet, like a poet or a writer. He did not absorb himself into his phone like most, but instead watched the world shift around him as we whizzed through the city of Chicago. We named him Christian, after an actor my mom thought he resembled.
Christian tapped his hand to the side of his leg and his toe to the ground; with rhythm. He was very disconnected from his surroundings, in the train at least. His host body in the train appeared affiliated to a separate soul outside it, still linked by such rhythms as the tapping of his right hand and foot.
After a couple more stops, we observed a new addition to our story. He was strong, as obvious by his biceps; large but lean, showcasing thick veins. A vibrant tan encased his tall figure. His shirt was off-white, with a small breast pocket on the left side. It clung to the muscles of his torso tightly. His dark jeans fell below his ankles, well-fitting and pleasant in appearance. His curly almost-black hair was gelled on the top of his head, the sides shaved close, with only a buzz left. His features were that of an incredibly attractive man. His eyes were dark, more the color of dark espresso, but once again translucent. The corners of his lips turned up very slightly. He held a case-less space-grey iPhone in his large hands. A dongle connected his Seven to a black cord that lead to headphones. This man had the appearance of a dancer, or some sort of professional in an athletic field. He did not slouch and stood in an open stance. He did not seem unsure of himself in any way, only purely confident.
We named him Justin.
Christian’s soul returned to the train. He looked over, taking in Justin. He leaned more towards the glass, looking then at his own appearance. He ran his hands through his hair more often then. The scene showed the plight of the very intelligent, but self-conscious wandering poet type in comparison to the confident jock. It was amusing to see this wordless exchange of comedic stereotype. Christian caught my eye a few times, as my mom and I discussed their lives, the ones we imagined them to have. Justin never looked up from his phone.
My mom and I sighed as Christian exited the train and took off up the stairs into the rainy city. At the same stop, a red-headed woman came onto the train. She took Christian’s spot against the plastic divider. There, she looked Justin up and down, her lips forming a beaming smile that could lift the storm clouds from any day. My mom and I could not help but giggle at her lack of composure. She tried to keep a wide grin back as she pulled out her phone and played with it, but the smile was always pestering her lips, begging to burst free. She failed to hold it all back, leaving her with a small closed-mouth upturn of the lips.
After a few more stops of the redhead attempting temperate smiles at Justin and exchanged glances between me and Toby, we had to take our stop, and this is where the story ends. When the characters left, and when I had to leave, there was a bit of me that wished I could stay, for I felt like I knew them. I watched them so constantly and enthusiastically, that I was sad to leave, even though I didn’t know them. Except that I did, for a person’s body language and simple actions can tell you so much about them. So, though I don’t know their favorite color, or what they do, I could tell you about their nature. For observing the actions of others closely can tell you a lot about who they are.