Friday
March 10, 2006 at 9:12 Friday is my favorite day of the week. I like it better than Saturday because anticipating the weekend is even better than experiencing it. The promise of late nights and late mornings, lingering in our bathrobes, sharing a bowl of popcorn and a DVD, a chance to shop, a change in routine—it’s all sweet. Never mind that I’ll probably be scrubbing bathrooms, folding laundry, and barking at the kids to clean their rooms—the idea of the weekend as endless leisure continues to seduce me.
Most Friday mornings, I head to see my chiropractor in Brussels. I catch a bus, then take the Metro into the center of the city. Once there I have about a ten-minute walk to get to his office.
I never bring a book to read because I like to people-watch on the train. Everyone puts on their Metro face—composing their features into a blank slate that leaves me guessing what thoughts are passing behind their masked expressions.
The fluorescent lights make us all look tired, with deep blue shadows cast under our eyes. Even the young girls fail to shine. I avoid my own reflection, afraid to confront the image in my window.
Instead I furtively study the other passengers. Does the teenage girl dressed head to toe in pastel pink have a boyfriend? Did her mother tell her her pants were too tight? Is she cold wearing only a hoodie and scarf? What’s playing on her headset?
Is the dark-haired, dark-eyed young man dressed in ivory and beige a student? Will he get off at the stop near the university? Is he Muslim? Is he checking out the young Muslim girls nearby, their flawless olive skin framed by their perfectly arranged head covers? Are they students too?
That middle-aged woman with the yellow curls, each one an individual work of spiral art-- I’ve seen her before. Being a curly girl myself, I wonder how she gets her curls so perfect. Are they natural or has she spent an hour with a curling iron getting each one to look like a giant rotini? I wonder about the bright hair and the heavy-ish makeup. Does she do this every day? Does she work? What type of job would she hold? Do people love or hate her hair? It almost looks like a wig.
Is the black man in the camel hair coat and burberry scarf on his way to a meeting? Where is he from? What is he planning this weekend? What would he consider a perfect day?
Me, I’m thinking about beggars, about the woman sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk with a cup, about the young man carrying a sleeping baby who asked me for money three times while I waited for the train. I wonder if the baby is his or just a “prop,” like a dog or a crutch or a bandage, all used to elicit sympathy and loosen purse strings. Do the props matter? Do I owe these people anything? If so, what?
My thoughts are interrupted when a woman I’ve seen before steps into the Metro car with an accordion and starts to play. I consider this a form of torture—trapped in a confined space underground with an accordion player. My face, however, does not show my dismay. I notice the girl in pink crank up the volume on her iPod. The dark-haired guy across from me does the same.
Meanwhile the accordion lady is smiling and nodding and acting like she’s having the best time playing the same schmaltzy tunes all the other accordion players play. Who are these people? Where do they come from? WHY do they play accordions? Is it the official instrument of some secret society? She passes her cup, I avert my eyes, my Metro mask impenetrable, my force field in place.
She hops off in search of a more appreciative audience, and another group of bodies pushes into the car, including a guy with a guitar and one with bongo drums. Hmmm, now this is interesting. When these two start to play, the corners of my mouth twitch. My Metro mask imperceptibly softens. I want to smile.
They’re playing Beatles songs, the guitar player singing lead, the bongo player singing backup. They do three songs, and each stop I’m secretly hoping they won’t get off yet. The music uncorks happy memories, good feelings, and makes me want to share my Friday face with everyone.
In an entire year of being confronted by street musicians, I’ve never made a donation, but these guys have me reaching into my Kipling bag and picking through my coins. I see the dark-haired guy across me from me digging in his pocket. The woman in the black parka next to me is unzipping her purse. I see another woman shift in her seat.
For one instant, we’re all entertaining the same thought. Without exchanging a word or even a glance, we’re all in agreement that these songs are worth paying for, this moment worth remembering. Behind our Metro masks, we’re smiling, we’re singing, we’re happy it’s Friday. We clutch our coins and anticipate the passing of the hat and the start of another weekend.
© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.
March 10, 2005
Reader Comments (12)
Enjoy every minute of your Friday! I have to take the little Alex monkey to the dentist today, and that's usually torturous and traumatic for all involved. And because it's Spring Break, I have to bring the other two with me also. So *after* the dentist, I'll be able to appreciate my Friday properly and even more than usual. We'll probably spend it at the park, basking like lizards (not to rub it in or anything).
I would've paid for the guitar/bongo duo too. :)
Happy Friday!
I have been on the train when people jumped on and starting yelling and preaching. One time an old homeless woman got on and started trying to sell used batteries. I would have paid the Beatle dudes too.
It makes me want to pack the family up, and move out for our own adventure. The Hubs has been offered short term assignments in India, and I told him we should go...but he said no. :( He is holdong out for the Ireland office. That would be fun. But ANYwhere would be cool to me. It's all in the journey.
So I really like reading about your journey. Thanks.
-Am
Street musicians used to embarrass me, but now, I see them as people who perform a public service.
I hope your weekend is even better than Friday.
Yeah right, who am I fooling? Friday rocks my face off!