Clemency In Chaos
Driver! Come, man!
In Jamaica, this gruff cry inside a public passenger vehicle means two things: it signals to the driver he's been at a particular stop for too long, hence it’s time to go. But more importantly, that his passengers’ patience is wearing thin. As sweat beaded my forehead, rushing ever so discreetly (or so I thought) down my back and into my underwear, I yell - albeit inaudibly - the all too familiar refrain, “Driver! Come, man!” But in Paris, an 8000 plus km journey from the bedlam of Kingston and its mercenary bus drivers, my half-spoken demand lacks both brawn and context, sounding more like the strangled plea of a moribund man.
Driver, come man!
Underground, the 27-degree heat feels more like 40, and in thin, grey gym clothes, every bead of sweat becomes more apparent, more embarrassing. Even those I believed discreetly hidden now bear witness to my body’s betrayal. “But, I never sweat!” I tell myself, in an attempt to will my treacherous body into obedience. It's a futile endeavour. The beads of sweat are now streams; my chest, underarms and crotch entirely drenched.
Driver....come man.
I pray silently for him to close the door, thinking briefly back to Jamaica, and the power of coterie, how - in spite of the chaos - I'd find clemency. There, a stern, “Driver! Come, man!” from a disapproving passenger, or two, is enough to persuade any loafing bus driver. But my ‘driver’ - in this case, an RATP subway conductor - could neither understand me nor could he really do anything, to be honest. His commands come from a system of timed, complex mechanics, not human whim. The trains are two minutes apart, with an automatic thirty-second halt per stop. And so it would remain. Sweaty, putrid passengers or not.
Driver!
Finally, the doors close. My discomfort is more visible now, which makes the other passengers stare. I look up at the route marker. It blinks to show the approaching station - Stalingrad. I roll my eyes, annoyed and utterly defeated. Belleville, my stop, is still six minutes away.
Desperately yours,
Mario
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