If Walls Could Talk

If walls could talk, this wall would tell you that even though I’m ugly, cold, and I’ve never seen the sun, I wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else, because I prefer to watch the people.

I’ve thought about being the outer wall of a skyscraper, having a beautiful view no matter what the weather while getting to watch the city swell and expand like a beast. But unless there is a citywide celebration, like New Years Eve or an Olympic win, the people would feel too far away.

The wall of a kitchen would be cozy, but too close with only one family to watch. Yes, I could witness their triumphs, laughs and late-night confessions, but they may also make bad choices, fight and fall apart. I wouldn’t be able to bear it.

No, I like where I am, a section of wall in an underground subway station with an unhindered view of the platform that becomes a stage where dramas unfold. I see a lot of bad here, but I see a lot of good too. My glimpses of people may be brief but I can still patch a few of their stories together.

There is Joe, my favourite janitor. I have never heard anyone confirm that is his name but it’s stitched on his uniform. He keeps me company at night. I don’t know if he’s enrolled at a school but he listens to textbooks while he works and he’s partially deaf so I’ve learned all kinds of things that maybe only walls in libraries or classrooms get to learn. His interests are surprisingly eclectic which makes me well rounded. Metaphorically speaking. Physically, I’m perfectly flat. Joe does his best to keep my tiles clean but they are a gross shade of yellow that people assume is dirt despite his best efforts, because no one should have chosen that colour in a place that would only have a fluorescent lighting.

Another favourite human of mine to watch for is the young Indian woman. For the first year she lived in this neighborhood I had never seen her walk. She was a beautiful blur, always in a rush no matter what time of day, but especially in the morning. Long, thick hair loose with her skirt or dress flying behind her. It became a favourite game; would she make her 8:00am train? Even though the young man was large, she didn’t see him coming until she was horizontal. The collision left him unaffected. I’m surprised a crash hadn’t happened sooner but it must have been meant to happen with him. A crowd gathered around and I feared the worse but when they eventually parted I realized she had only knocked the wind out of herself. She was trying to reassure the onlookers but it was hard to do while gasping for air. Once she could breathe, she looked up at the young man and blood rushed to her face. Realizing she wanted to disappear, the young man reached down with both hands, pulled her to her feet and they slipped away.

I try to imagine how their conversation must have gone. Obviously, apologies were made by both parties but I feel like the young man most likely made a joke of some sort to help her forget her embarrassment. Then names were exchanged, a few more laughs, flirtatious comments, and finally, phone numbers.

I don’t know, I didn’t get to see it, but a couple days later I saw her running to catch a train around dinner time and when she came back, she was walking hand-in-hand with him. She continued to run everywhere else but when she was with him, she slowed down.

Eventually, while they waited on the platform one night, I learned her name was Madiha and his was Andy. They were teasing each other about something. They held onto each other for support as they threw their heads back in laughter and when they’re chuckles finally died, they stared at each other, lips parted, eyes sparkling, not wanting to say or do anything that would end the moment. But the next moment brought music as a violin was played so they adjusted their hold on each other and started twirling under the florescent lights as if they were stars.

There are many buskers that visit my station, but the violinist is my favourite. He wears a long-sleeved t-shirt with the local university’s name on it but he looks too young to have graduated which may be why I usually only see him in the evenings. The way his soundwaves reverberate off my wall makes me want to shiver and sway. I don’t, of course, because that would be terrifying for everyone else.

Even though I believe he is one of the most talented musicians to grace my platform, he is not the most popular. He keeps his head down while he plays, eyes on the floor, while he rocks side to side, shutting everyone out. He seems to prefer music that is meant to slowly mesmerize, which is fine by me since I’m not going anywhere, but commuters don’t have the time to appreciate it. He is too easy to ignore and too socially awkward to perform in order to engage his audience. Every once and a while I see him try to lift his head, make eye contact and smile. It works for a song or two but it clearly exhausts him and his chin eventually dips down again. It seems like a cruel juxtaposition for him, wanting to share the beautiful music he can create without being noticed.

The violinist finishes his song as Andy dips Madiha. He holds her there, testing her trust, until she giggles and then he pulls her up. They spin to face the violinist grinning, clapping, and calling “Bravo!” The violinist seems surprised by their acknowledgment, turns pink and gives a small nod of thanks. I have seen him play whole evenings without interacting with a single person except a barely perceptible nod when change clinks into his violin case. When Madiha blows him a kiss, he officially turns red and a smile flickers across his mouth. Andy drops a mixture of change and bills, gives a small wave and then their train arrives.

As dinners are consumed and people head home, he plays until he eventually puts the violin in its’ case and walks up the stairs, leaving the station. Then Joe comes out to sweep up the trash.

I don’t need the sun to tell time, I have the people.

I’m not sure when the violinist’s behaviour went from introverted to abnormal. I think I noticed it in his face first. Even though his notes were as pure as ever, he kept wincing while he played as if something was hurting his ears. A week later he started pausing between songs to look around as if confused. A month after that he interrupted his own playing and held very still with his head tilted as if listening. He tried to pick the song up where he left off but he couldn’t stop twitching making his bow skip across the strings. The nervous energy spread, and he reached a point where he couldn’t play at all but paces instead.

If this wall could talk, I would have asked him if he was okay, but he’s whispering while he paces and I know that he’s not.

“You don’t need to be so mean,” he pleads, the pain in his voice cutting. An old woman on the bench frowns at him, confused.

“Don’t!” he bursts out, anger flaring. A nearby businessman looks up in alarm, stares, then slowly returns to his phone.

“Shhhhh,” he tries to soothe the voices. A young woman watches him warily with pity in her eyes.

I grow angry as I realize he is finally receiving attention but it’s not the attention he deserves. He taps the heel of his hand against the side of his head as if the voices can be dislodged like water. He tries to play again as if holding the bow might let him hold onto his sanity.

More weeks go by and his visits become fewer. Each time I wait and wonder if that was the last time I’ll see him. When he does come, the circles under his eyes are darker, his hair stands in all directions, and his clothes are unwashed.

Madiha elbows Andy in the ribs as they step off the train and points at the violinist excitedly skipping towards him. She stops abruptly when he jerks his head up, their eyes meeting and she realizes his are wide and wild. The joy in her face falls and they stand in tableau for a few seconds until suddenly the violinist lets out a barking laugh that holds no amusement. Madiha takes a half step back but holds her ground, clearly hoping it’s a misunderstanding and she’ll soon see the joke.

Andy catches up, puts his arm around her waist and steers her safely away.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asks, nostrils flaring while she tries to hold back tears.

“I don’t know,” Andy says grimly and they both look back, “But hopefully he can get some help.”

I don’t think he can get help for himself anymore. If he’s in school and missing class, would they notice or care? If he has family, do they see or talk to him enough to realize how much he’s changed? Or are the commuters and I the only ones who know something’s wrong but powerless to do anything?

He still brings his violin. I’m glad he still has it but he sits on the ground, opens the case, plucks the strings a few times and closes it again without taking it out. The music is beyond him now. He’s no longer busking, he’s begging.

Some nights he sits at the bottom of my wall and hugs himself while he stares into space. Other nights he can’t stop moving and his sporadic whispers become incessant mumblings and then angry shouts. People hurry to leave the station and we are left alone again.

Suddenly he stops and faces me. He raises his hands and places them on my ugly yellow tiles. His arms are braced and he hangs his head. He’s so tired. He lifts his head to stare at me when suddenly he lunges foreword.

His forehead connects with my tiles. I’m shocked and confused. Then he whips his head against me again. I wildly hope he knows I would never hurt him. He throws his head forward again, and again, and again until there’s blood dripping down his face. He’s staggering when a knee gives out and he falls, landing on his back, arms and legs wide like a star. He doesn’t move.

If this wall could talk, I would be screaming for help.

Joe finds him eventually. He drops his cleaning supplies, runs over and stares down at the violinist. He puts on some gloves before checking for a pulse and then calls an ambulance. When the paramedics and police arrive, they comment on the strangeness of someone attacking him but leaving his wallet and violin.

That’s when Joe says, “I think he was sick.”

They look at Joe, confused.

“He used to be an amazing violinist, but I think he started hearing voices.”

The paramedics looked at each other and then at the blood smeared across my surface.

“He will be fully assessed at the hospital,” the paramedic promises and then takes the violinist away.

I hope that it’s true. Once the police are done asking questions, they thank Joe (finally confirming his name) and Joe gets back to work. The first thing he does is spray the blood off of me.

Weeks go by and my spirit becomes as dull as my tiles. My hope of ever seeing the violinist again, starts to fade. I try to stay positive and imagine he’s at a facility getting the treatment he needs. But negativity creeps in and I wonder if he did too much damage and he is stuck a coma. I wonder how many others are out there. People who are sick and confused with no family or friends. Is the only way they can get help hurting themselves enough to be hospitalized?

I don’t need sun to tell time, I have the people. The seasons are changing so their clothes do too. Joe has to sweep up leaves that float down the stairs. Andy and Madiha have to take off their mittens before they can hold hands. And I still haven’t seen the violinist.

But then I hear him. He snuck in with the crowd while I stared into space and he got his violin out. The music was hesitant and shy but then started to flow and grow.

If this wall could talk, I would have been speechless and I would have cried with relief instead.