For the several years I worked in downtown Minneapolis, my commute from a southern suburb was a 45-minute bus ride packed with fellow commuters who used the time to sleep, read or work. Unfortunately for me, none of these activities were viable time-killers; I've never been able to sleep on transportation of any kind, and I become carsick merely glimpsing at a Strib headline while in a moving vehicle. It was the pre-podcast era, so tuning in to the latest true crime drama or listening to one of my favorite chefs explain his sous vide process weren't options, either.
I passed the time doing something I've been doing for as long as I can remember but haven't named until recently--people wondering. Not to be confused with people watching, which I consider a fun, fleeting activity based on some conspicuous characteristic--a silly hat, an interesting hair cut, a distinguished walk--people wondering is intense and earnest, and it sticks with me long after I lose sight of the person, like a mental aftertaste. Think of it like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, only instead of the cupboards, bookshelves, maps and jars of orange marmalade, the walls are scrawled with questions: Are they happy? Are they lonely? Are they living the life they want? What kind of partner, parent, friend are they? How will they spend the rest of their day? What keeps them up at night? What are they thinking? What are they feeling? What are they going through? The objects of my wonder are always arbitrary; I'll see a woman at the grocery gently squeezing avocados to check for ripeness, and I'll spend the rest of the day wondering about her while trying to ignore a yen for chips and guacamole. I never speak to my wanderees, or even make eye contact with them; though I admit I have asked a number of strangers if they were OK because they looked too downtrodden to simply wonder about while thumping watermelons and go about my day.
I no longer work downtown, and my once 45-minute commute is now 25 minutes at most by car (my WFH, coronavirus commute is a dozen shuffles or so), but I miss people wondering while on that bus because it was the best place to test an assertion a workmate made to me when we happened to find seats next to each other one morning. He was what people refer to as a true gentleman--older, well-dressed and well-spoken, chivalrous. He always carried an umbrella, even when the weather didn't call for rain. He leaned in toward me, and in a low voice, asked: "Do you ever wonder about the people you see while riding the bus each morning?" "How do you know?" I asked back, almost accusingly. "Your eyes," he replied. "That woman you're wondering about--the one in the plaid trench coat--she's thinking about the past." "How do you know?" I asked again. "Her eyes," he shot back with a sly smile. His assertion: When someone is looking down, they're thinking about the past; when they're looking straight ahead, they're thinking about the present; and when they're looking up, they're thinking about the future. I was fascinated. I remember asking a third time: "How do you know?" I know he had an answer--he always did--but I can't recall it now, or perhaps I don't want to. It was a cool morning, the weather had called for rain, and my gentleman friend had his umbrella tucked between his knees. The collective breath of the bus' passengers condensed and fogged the windows from the inside, obstructing the view of the construction workers preparing to transition 35W from two lanes to four and turning the bus into a sort of grey cocoon. We rode the rest of the way in silence, and I worked his assertion. I was at an 8:6:11 (past:present:future) ratio when the bus hissed to a halt at our stop at the intersection of Second Avenue South and South Sixth Street.
It's difficult to work the past, present, future assertion in unconfined spaces, but I try nonetheless. It's become an integral part of my people wondering. If someone is looking down and smiling, I like to think they're reflecting on a happy time in their lives. If someone is looking straight ahead with their lips pressed together in a thin, pink line, I try to "think it forward" and send them the telepathic strength I think they might need to get through the day. If someone is looking up with no expression at all, I like to think they're open to all the possibilities life will present to them.
That's the thing about people wondering--it comes with an adult dose of perspective that reminds me I am sharing life with other humans who have thoughts and feelings, hopes and dreams, regrets and struggles of their own. An adult dose of perspective that doesn't render mine unimportant, but perhaps, relative. An adult dose of perspective that beckons: DRINK ME.
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