Revelation on the Subway

I got on the subway last night and settled in for a long ride north to Finch station. Across from me was a small group of young, polite looking white folks huddled closely together. The women had bonnets and long floor-length skirts on and looked sort of Amish, but I thought to myself that they could be tourists from some far-away Nordic country.

I liked the idea of the Amish taking the subway. It was a great image, but after a few minutes I forgot about them entirely. I was reading an amazing, bleak collection of short stories by Raymond Carver and stopped paying attention to anyone around me.

When we got to Eglinton station they all got up to leave, but I didn"t look up because I was worried I'd be caught staring in fascination. The subway doors began to close and I noticed out of the corner of my eye that one of the women had dropped several bills inside the subway train as she left. She didn't seem to notice what she'd done. The bills floated to the ground slowly. The subway doors started closing. I hesitated for a second too long. Then I dropped everything on my lap, jumped up, flung myself over to the other side of the train and scooped up all the bills. I threw my full hand into the closing doors while shouting at the tourists, but I was too late and the doors closed. I banged at the window to let them know that I'd take the next subway back to the station to return their money. They didn't seem to hear me and walked obliviously on.

I paused for a moment. Then I turned around to face the other passengers on the train, confused, out of breath, and with a fist full of someone else's money.

That's when the real excitement started. Everyone had a suggestion about what to do next. And everyone seemed genuinely concerned. Young people, old people, people in wheelchairs, people who could barely speak English. People reading Booker prize-winning novels and people engrossed in Harlequin romances. I had barely noticed any of these people when I got on the train. A minute ago we were a collection of anonymous, unconnected individuals. Now we were a community with a joint mission. As the people around me continued to discuss what had happened, I sat down and leafed through the money, looking for some identification. The teenage girl sitting next to me put her hand on my arm. "Mister, you can return that if it makes you feel better, but that's not real money."

And she was right. Everyone in the subway train was still looking at me, so I got up and read aloud to the rest of the passengers from the pamphlet bundled with the money. "'Would you like to be rich? Repent today and trust in Jesus, and god will grant you everlasting life. He who is thus redeemed is truly rich.' Sorry everyone, it was a false alarm. The money is fake. They were trying to convert us to Christianity." People groaned and cursed and laughed and returned to their own separate lives.

I'll admit that for a moment I was angry, and I did feel like a fool for trying so hard to help these people who looked at me and saw only sin, damnation and moral poverty. But what really struck me about the whole episode was how thoroughly those of us who live in large cities are trained to be isolated (alienated?) individuals, and how quickly we gel into a kind of community when something out of the ordinary happens.

Those young Christians were assholes, but watching people react to them was like watching an alchemist transmute base metals into gold. Often, I don't really see the people around me. When I got off the subway at Finch station, I looked around at everyone and thought - whether I am a sinner or not, I don't know. But one thing I do know. I was blind but now I see.

For the moment, at least.