Riding

The first thing I see are the two bright round headlights shining through the fog of dusk, then the whole blue tram comes into view, snaking around curves in the track, screeching its brakes to a halt. A door is perfectly aligned to me.

It opens and pulls me in. Within seconds my ride starts.

So many people! No free seats, and there isn't much place to stand either, so I stay near the door and prop my back against the wall and let out a long sigh: aaahh! Passengers shoot glances at me. Did I sigh too loud for you? Or is it the overpowering smell of my aftershave that you disapprove of? But I put it on for you: I didn't the sweet smell of that big joint to offend you. The interest in me dies quickly. Eyes face down, either staring blankly towards feet or laps or fixed on books or magazines. It's too quiet for me--apart from the screeching tram there is nothing and through my pinhole eyes the people are grey. I feel like waking them up with a scream, but all I can manage is another loud sigh: aaahh! This time nobody raises eyes.

It's taken me unusually long to notice the girl I'm standing next to. She must be around my age, but looks as though she's coping better. Her blond hair is curly and her shy face has rosy cheeks and ample puppy fat. She wears gold-rimmed glasses and she's using them to read a fashion magazine. On the page she's reading is an article entitled: Why men love power hungry women. She doesn't look power hungry, especially not compared to the brief-case swinging, suit-wearing brunette pictured in the article. Do I love power hungry women? I'm not sure, so I start reading the text, which is a bit difficult: I have to put my head almost on her shoulder to decipher those small letters. "Today, it's more common to find guys who believe a powerful woman is intriguing, not threatening." Really? Great. But now the shy girl suddenly turns to the next page and leaves me dangling with a head full of questions. "Please, could you turn back? I wasn't finished reading that page yet," I say in my politest possible tone. Eyes rise to look at me again. I can imagine what they think: that I am hitting on this poor girl in the least subtle way in public. The girl, speechless, turns the page back and a feeling of pride rises in me. I put my head even closer to hers now and pretend to read, but the words aren't lining themselves up in a meaningful way anymore. The girl doesn't pull away and I continue pretending to read the article, until we come to a stop where she turns to me and tells me she has to get off. She sounds like she's apologising. "Thank-you," I say, with my biggest, toothiest smile. And then she's gone.

This ride is endless, and it seems that the tram is picking up speed: when it snakes around curves now, those standing have to find something to grab hold of to steady themselves. I don't want to be here. There's no cute girl with a fashion magazine anymore. The tram pulls through a long curve and I feel forces pulling at my body, but I'm sick of all this hanging on and trying to resist, I just want to sit down. Directly behind me I sense something at seat height. I lower myself onto it and immediately feel the relief of no longer standing. I close my eyes. Alas, my rest is short, for almost instantly I hear a shout, clearly directed at me, and simultaneously a firm shove on my shoulder forces me away. "What do you think you're doing?" It's serious now, everyone is staring and the most aggressive stares come from the couple holding the pram I was sitting in. "Oh, excuse me, I'm so sorry," I tell them very politely and bend down to give the sat-on baby a smile and a little wave. "I suggest you get out of here very fast," warns the dad. His stare is wild. And since the tram is just now coming to a stop, I decide to comply. "Goodbye," I say with a friendly smile. "Enjoy the rest of your ride." I don't get an answer.