46. Strangers on a Train – Ashley Van Buren
I find a person in my subway car and my whole body knows—they are the one.
I’ve been taking pictures of strangers on the subway for over a decade. I find a person in my subway car and my whole body knows—they are the one. The subway is a place where you can find people in a state of suspension, they’re coming from somewhere and going to somewhere else, but where they are right now is not a place at all. People sit in this public space spending a few minutes alone with their private thoughts. No one really looks at anyone else on the subway, there’s very little judgment. It’s mostly a space of respect, one we all endure as privately as we publicly can, in order to get where we need to go.
After a few years of shooting, I began to feel like the cycle was incomplete. The pictures I took on my phone were like tiny ghosts of unrest that haunted my photo roll. I started to think about what drew me to photograph a stranger. It was because of the stories, the ones right in front of me and the ones I made up about each person I took a picture of.
My brain would keep the imaginary narrative going long after I got off at my stop. I would think about their name, how and where they started their morning, where they work, who they went home to, what their jobs were, how they felt about having kids or being a parent, how they felt about their lives.
I decided to start using the photos as writing prompts. I pick a portrait and I begin to fill in the blanks, adding color to the black and white image. Occasionally, I’d write down snippets of their conversations: “Hold my hand.” “Only if you hold mine back.” “I love my mommy!” “Do you know I’m Spider-Man? You’re caught in my web.” “I’ll see you after the matinee. Don’t forget your cello.” All of these made it into my story sketches of the lives I imagine coupled with the real faces right in front of my eyes.
– Ashley Van Buren
Prompt:
Find a picture of a stranger (it could be one you took, found on Instagram, in a magazine, or even an extra in the background of a movie) and write their story. Start at the beginning of their day: What do they see when they first wake up? What do they smell? What do they have on their schedule? Then begin to answer the bigger questions that come up as they go about their day: Are they restless? Lonely? Afraid? Excited? Joyful? Start to tell the story of a life.
Anonymous
When I found a girl on the subway then lost my virginity.
Most writers draw on their own experiences but change the names and places to fit the circumstances of what they are writing about. I don't. This happened 48 years ago, and I remember it as if it was yesterday.
She was crying. She looked desolate. She looked like Maria Schneider in the Last Tango in Paris, a movie playing at the time which I didn't see until years later. People on the Metro car were trying their best to ignore her, but I couldn't. I was with my buddy Roman and we had been playing the silly game of guess if she is pretty by looking at her back; women play the same game wth men when they look at our butts surreptitiously. But when she appeared - I don't know if she was there already or if we got on first - it was a gut wrenching moment for me.
"What is wrong?" I asked in French. "Ce n'est rien, " she replied trying to hide her tear stained face. "Non, mais, il y a quelque chose qui ne marche pas." I insisted. So began a long walk on the side of the Seine, in the gloaming of a Parisian autumn evening. It was her parents of course. Her father was a high flouting plastic surgeon with a Porsche, and her mother, was either unkind or didn't understanding her. Years later, I know now what young girls are like at that tender age. I think she was on the safe side of 18. The hormones, the desires and ups and downs; all the things a princess has to go through before they are real women and get their big girl pants on.
The night went on and on, like in the movie, and we stopped to eat. I imagine that it might at been at the "Rose de Tunis" but I am probably wrong. Eventually we walked from the Latin Quarter to my place in the 16th near Place Victor Hugo. (There was plan to my madness.) And she lived in the 17th. I don't remember her name. Sorry, I have blanked it out, or censored it from my memory. I just knew then that she was young and I was young, and there was a mutual hunger between us.
"Je suis vierge," she told me, and I must have said the same thing. Or maybe not. A young man who is virgin at 20 is a phenomena. It wasn't from lack of trying; there had been the English girl, then the Italian, and the cashier at Gilbert Jeune, but I flunked out the test that women put to men. 'Are you going to do it or not', they say with their eyes. And that night I also flunked the test, as she lay sleeping in my arms, like brother and sister. Safe and secure from all the ills of the world, she had nothing to fear from me. I had everything to fear from her.
She left, happier than she had arrived. And that was that. I thought. Months went by, the weather turned cold and I began to wear my long John underwear at Art school because they didn't heat, except for a wooden stove near the model's stand. The shorter days, the grey days, the dark nights went by and I began to sink into depression. At the time I had no idea what that meant. I was in a funk.
On the day I celebrated my 21st birthday I decided to get a local hooker - she looked like the motherly type, not the ones nearer the Ave Foch who stepped into Ferraris and Rolls Royces - for a trick. She came up to my place, disrobed and demanded payment, which I didn't have. Not knowing the going rate. I offered her some of my art and she left huffing that she had lots of that at her place already. I think she was a "belle de jour". I guess my art wasn't worth a f...k?
Soon after my birthday I heard a knock on my tiny apartment door. It was her, she who I had secured in the Metro. She had moved out of her parent's apartment, she told me, and wanted to celebrate. I invited her to a Microbiotic place I had discovered, very cheap and cool. We talked like old lovers, without the love. I offered to walk her home, it was late, she invited me up, it got later and then she offered to sleep together like we had done before.
Well, my conscious self kept telling me I had to respect her, while my unconscious was on fire... During that long night, I had a dream that I was making love to her. I woke up, and it was true, I had lost my virginity while sleeping. Unbelievable as it may seem. She was washing her self off on a bidet as if it was the most normal thing in the world. She had told me during the evening that she had met a 'man' who had no problem taking her virginity, so not to worry. This was in the 70s when women were supposed to be on the pill. Or not. We went back to sleep.
Next morning, I heard a knock one the door. We were in a maid's room under the roof of a building. I hadn't grasped that it was the same building that her parents lived in. It was her mother. Oh god. I leapt out of bed, threw my clothes into the one piece of furniture in the room, the armoire. And closed the door. I was stark naked, by the way. I waited in the dark, and the conversation went like, "what are these clothes?" "Nothing mama." "What do you mean nothing, who is here?" "No one."
And then one of the doors is opened, then the other. I said the first thing in my mind, being a polite dude, "bonjour Madame" while covering my privates.
All hell broke out. My mind blanks out at what was was said, rapidly and in French which I had not mastered. Finally I told her mother we should talk it over. (My god, you fool, take your clothes and get the f...k out of there!) So we went down to their lavish and grandiose apartment and we sat in their elaborate and well equipped kitchen, where I met the Doctor and I tried to explain that their daughter was having problems. After a few 'paroles' the young girl said, "je m'en fiche" and left me with her parents. I thought it was time - to quote Falstaff - to exercise "discretion is the better part of valour" and I left.
Back at my place I realized I have left my long jones back at her place, thinking it might not be wise to return to the scene of the crime, I sat there thinking 'this is going to be one hell of a story to tell one day!'
Leah Langley
Location: England, United Kingdom
About: My first love for writing came from creating my own stories. Channeling my thoughts to create a story based on a picture I’d never seen before was an exciting challenge. The story I created made itself known immediately and it is one of my favorite pieces that I’ve written.
Age: 22
Arthur awakes each morning and looks to the left side of his bed. Sitting proudly atop his bedside table is a picture of him and his beloved wife, Betty, on their wedding day. Betty was Arthur’s one true love in life and her passing a few years ago broke his heart in two. They had spent over 60 years of their lives together. They married young (just before World War II started), but Arthur wouldn’t have changed a single second of it, except to give them more time together. Even when the war split them up for a while, Betty still wrote letters to Arthur every day and he replied whenever he got chance. Upon his return from the war, he vowed never to leave Betty’s side again, and he stuck to his word. Sitting next to the picture of their wedding day is Arthur’s favourite family photo. He and Betty are surrounded by their daughter and son (and their partners), and their 2 granddaughters and 2 grandsons – He really did have the perfect family. There are huge grins etched into each of their faces and Betty’s eyes twinkle like the stars – he’d do anything to go back to that moment just once more.
The house smells of the fresh lilies that have adorned his kitchen table for years. They were Betty’s favourite and he made sure to buy her a fresh bunch each week so he could see her beautiful smile. Now, he buys two bunches each week. One bunch gets placed in Betty’s favourite vase on the table, and the other gets taken to her final resting place with a handwritten card expressing his undying love for his beautiful bride. After visiting Betty, Arthur takes a walk to the local park. Besides being next to Betty, this is Arthur’s favourite place because this is where he first caught a glimpse of the woman that stole his breath and captured his heart. She was sitting, on the very same bench which he is sat on now, watching the world go by. He dared to sit next to her and wished her a good morning. The rest is history. He and Betty had sat on this same bench every week for the duration of their life together. They brought their children and grandchildren here and told the story of how they first met. Now, Arthur sits alone, but he always feels Betty right beside him.
Once he’s finished visiting the park, Arthur returns to the home that he and Betty built together, but he is now home alone. The details of the house have remained unchanged since the day Betty left. Other than the weekly clean, everything remains untouched and is kept in the exact same spot, even the misplaced pair of shoes and the shopping list that Betty had begun writing. The walls are lined high with pictures of Arthur and Betty’s life together and it looks like something out of a movie. Arthur loves walking the hallways and reminiscing on the memories held within the frames. If he tries hard enough, he can feel Betty’s hand in his and he can hear her melodic voice reassuring him that everything will be okay.
Arthur is used to spending a lot of time alone these days. He gets once or two visits a month from his children and grandchildren, but they have lives of their own that he made them promise they’ll live. If Betty’s passing taught him anything, it was that no time spent together is ever enough. Most would think Arthur is lonely, but he is surrounded by Betty’s presence and he wouldn’t change that. Everywhere he turns, he gets to stare into the emerald green eyes that he loved so dearly. He plays the same record over and over which was Betty’s favourite song and their first dance at the wedding. He may be without any other human presence, but he always has his Betty and he couldn’t ask for anything more. He patiently awaits the day that they’ll be reunited and able to dance together once more. He wears his smartest clothes every day so he’ll look his absolute best and the lilies are on hand so that he can greet his girl the way she deserves.
Sarah Jane Weill
Location: Vermont
About: These entries are two of the proudest that I've written during these last 100 days. I'm a writer but writing during the pandemic hasn't always been easy. Working on all of my Isolation Journal entries has kept me creating and kept me afloat.
Age: 23
The Stranger on the Street
The stranger wears a faded jean jacket and carries the essential objects of her life on her back. A few t-shirts, ripped jeans, underwear, a toothbrush, spearmint toothpaste, a hairbrush, wallet, maps, a ripping copy of Tess of the d’Urbervilles, a phone charger, her passport. Her shoulders ache from the weight, but she keeps on walking. Sweat seals her cotton shirt to her freckled skin. Her auburn hair is twisted into a high knot. She woke this morning on a moving train and now is wandering along Italian cobblestones. The early sunlight is milky, not yet throwing into relief any potholes or chipping paint. She navigates down the narrow street as if stumbling through a lost memory.
The stranger decided to travel to Europe after her grandmother died. It had been a month since she graduated from college; her summer days were spent scanning job postings on the Internet and cold emailing alumni. Her aunt, the only daughter her grandmother still talked to, called one morning and said Grandma Lucy had died overnight in a hospital bed. A nurse had held her liver-spotted hand. After the funeral, the stranger helped her mother and her aunts box up her grandmother’s clothes and books and photographs. Her jewelry, they all split. From the dresser, the stranger picked up a hairbrush, white hairs still tangled in its grip. As she brought her fingertips to the worn bristles, the stranger realized she should go to England. She should see the house where her grandmother lived until she was twenty-two. The stranger would be twenty-two in September.
In July, the stranger flew into Heathrow and took a train to the city where Jane Austen lived and wrote. Lucy had once called this place home, too. She didn’t know what else her grandmother thought of this place. If Lucy missed it while pacing through the rooms of her Connecticut house. A house her husband bought but she managed. The stranger glimpsed her grandmother’s personality through sparse lines of script on birthday cards, the occasional phone call. Years ago, she had decided it was more important to be a loyal daughter than a doting granddaughter, siding with her mother in an all-consuming war she never understood.
When the stranger got to Bath, England, she felt too nauseous to explore. She thought it was something she ate but then realized it was just something she felt. She didn’t want to learn about her grandmother meandering the veins of foreign streets, stepping in and out of Georgian architecture. She didn’t want to imagine a life she could’ve known about if she had asked.
So, the stranger booked the cheapest flight to Italy. People did this, she reasoned. They gave themselves to wanderlust, so why couldn’t she? At least she had studied Italian in college. It wouldn’t be entirely aimless. The trip would make sense to the distanced voyeurs that will stop scrolling to like her posts.
The stranger picked Varenna because it looks as if it’s snipped out of time, relocated haphazardly in the present. It’s tiny and maritime, awash in pastels.
Walking, now, the stranger exhales. She is trying to focus on the balance of her feet upon the ground. She is making a to do list for the week. She can already taste the fresh pasta dripping with sauce sliding down her throat. The sips of wine. She wants to have something sticky and sweet after every meal. Even breakfast. She wants to soak in Lake Como, to let the water dry on her skin as she naps beneath the burning sun.
Doing these things, she might be happy. Then she might be able to sleep through the night.
When the stranger was a little girl, running away seemed pointless. Where would she be without her mother? How would she survive? Even when she felt rage surge through her, molten and thick, she knew she’d never pack her life into a bag and slink towards the train station. It felt like betrayal to even think about it.
But something has shifted, hasn’t it? A piece of her trust, in her mother, in herself, has chipped and fallen away. Death rearranges normalcy. For years she had clung to her mother’s view of the world. But was it right? Was it right that her mother said she didn’t care either way that Lucy was dead? Was it right that she had to be persuaded by the stranger to go to the funeral in the first place?
The stranger now sees that the truths of her family are just myths. She doesn’t know what to do with that fact. And now she is here.
Here, no one knows her name. No one knows she feels like her life is opening up into nothing. No one knows that before she slipped into the taxi to go to JFK, she yelled at her mother. No one knows that she didn’t call her mother when she landed, safe but tired, across the Atlantic. No one knows that she regrets being an art history major. No one knows that she’d like to be an artist instead of reading about Renoir and Duchamp and Kahlo. No one knows that she’s in a casual relationship that she’d prefer to be solid and stable, but she can’t bring herself to craft the text. No one knows that the person she looks most like in her entire family is her late Grandma Lucy. No one knows that she suddenly feels like she can’t trust the world around her, its softness or its hardness, and she doesn’t know why.
The stranger looks up and spots a girl leaning out of a window. The girl can’t be more than fifteen. Dark hair curls and twists around her olive face. She holds something in her hand. A mug. She brings it to her mouth. Drinks. The stranger passes by, not sure if she’s been noticed.