social

Tomorrow is November 25th. The day of Thanksgiving. As it happens, I have a story to tell. It’s a short story. A human story. A thanks giving story. A true story. I was riding the train to work. Like any regular morning commute, you would see variety of people file into the train car at every station. gradually, and as the train gets closer to San Francisco, the car fills up. If you pay attention and try not to stare, you’ll find all kinds of interesting people. They’re all heading to work. You wonder what each one does for living. Some are more obvious than others. Those that work in financial, hospitality, construction, or … Then there was this guy. Young, between twenty and twenty five. I am usually seated on my ride to work. I start my commute at the beginning of the train’s route, the first station. So I don’t have a problem getting a seat. Usually I am reading or fiddling with my phone. When this guy gets in all the seats are taken and many are standing in the isle. He stands next to my seat and holds onto the bar as the train picks up speed. He is carrying a shoulder bag and quietly starts to pull out stuff out of it, not to bring much attention to himself. I am glancing at him on the corner of my eye, being careful not to stare. Now he’s got papers, clipboard, and a little container in his hands. As he unzips this container I see neatly organized pencils next to each other inside. He pulls one out and zips it back up. I can’t see what he is doing since he is standing and his clipboard is above my head. Since I saw drawings on his paper earlier, I can only guess he is an artist. Among all the passengers, he is probably the only one that isn’t focused on phones, Kindles, iPads, or any variety of digital devices everyone is occupied with these days. He is creating something that had not been seen before, something unique. And he is doing it while the train is speeding to 65 and then 70 miles an hour, with it’s shimmying, shakes, and rattles. I grab my bag, stand up, and get out of my seat. I gently tap him on his shoulder. “Would you like to sit?” I say. He chuckles and says “Oh, yes. Thank you”, and sits down. I put my headsets back on and notice he begins drawing something that I can’t tell what it is. Maybe a car, or a dishwasher, or something. I turn away to the other side of the isle and begin reading news articles off my phone. Couple of stops latter, now, there are fewer people standing and a seat opens in front of me, across the aisle from the artist. I sit down and continue with my reading. After about half hour or so, I reach my station and begin to get up to leave the train, when suddenly the artist reaches out to me with his hand. He is holding what appeared to be a plain piece of paper, while loosely holding the edges together so not to reveal what’s inside. “This is for you” he says. I take the paper and see a drawing of myself. The perspective is from the side, as in from across the isle from me. It is so strikingly similar to me that it feels like looking at a mirror, sideways. “Wow, it’s beautiful. Thank you.” I say. He smiles. I get out of the train. As I stand on the platform and watch the train shoot away from the station, I notice at the bottom of the drawing it says “Thanks for the seat”. That drawing is now my Facebook profile picture.