nonfiction | Literature and Libation

Of Mice and Metro

February 9, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

I see an old black comb missing most of its teeth. A recently discarded bottle of Ensure. Something that looks like piece of a Kraft cheese single. A dash of movement, unless the dim light is playing tricks on my eyes. A crumpled copy of today’s Express, a tube of chap stick missing its cap, and a sad torn balloon. Another blur of motion, this time, much closer.

With my eyes closed, all I can hear is the buzzing of a poorly maintained electrical system. As I open them, I see an Orange line navigational pillar; its entire surface marred by incoherent graffiti. The DC Metro is an odd place. Everything is filthy, yet remarkably uncluttered.

I pace up and down the platform, dangerously near the edge. I remember fearing the fall as I child. Now it seems like nothing more than a very large step. I pass dozens of people who are completely absorbed in not paying attention to anything. My eyes are fixed on the dark area below. The tracks are home to all sorts of weird things, including some that are alive.

I’ve seen mice running around down there before. I’m even convinced I once saw a small dog, but it very possibly could have been a large rat. I imagine a world of adventure down near the electrified third rail; a place where the mice have a society, Secret of NIMH style, living off of the offerings of the bipedal gods who come and go in the world above.

It’s probably a lot grosser than that down there. It is hard to tell if it is black just because of the low light, or because it is covered in an unbroken layer of grime. As I approach the end of the platform, I stop to look down the empty tunnel. I can see a light about 200 yards away, but have no idea what it is illuminating or why. I have to fight the urge to push the “No Trespassing” gate open, just to explore the tunnel further.

The electrical buzz continues, but now I can hear the footsteps and conversations of hundreds of people switching trains. They pass each other. No eye contact is made, if it can be helped. As soon as a train pulls up, the station clears. I’m left standing with a handful of people who either missed the last train, or are waiting for something else.

The overhead sign lets me know my train will arrive in 16 minutes. At this hour, the trains are few and far between, the riders less kempt and more exhausted. No one says a word. The mice suddenly feel like great hosts.

The DC Metro is about to go to sleep. As soon as my train pulls out of the station, there won’t be a single person to see what goes on.

Do they turn off the lights?

Do the mice come out to play?

Profiling

February 3, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

For both of my core classes (Nonfiction Techniques and Contemporary Nonfiction), I have to write profiles. I’ve written a few in the past (my favorite being of Dr. Christopher Vilmar at Salisbury University), so I am no stranger to the format and nuances of personal description.

This is great news! I love writing profiles! Meeting and working with new people ranks as one of my favorite activities. If I could make a career out of talking to new people every day, I’d be one happy writer.

My problem isn’t writing a profile, it’s choosing who to profile. I find way too many people way too interesting. My teachers are adamant that I interview someone I don’t really know (using “know” like know), partly as an exercise in good journalism, partly to remain as objective as possible. The profiles are supposed to capture not only the personality and mannerisms of the person, but also speak to a broader theme.

I’ve cast my social net, trolling for an interesting, dynamic personality. So far, I’ve come up with the following (with my proposed theme/tone of the piece):

Current head of Police for the University of Maryland (A piece on the different faces of crime on a prominent college campus, in one of the highest crime counties in Maryland)
Highly qualified IT project manager that cannot find a job and has been unemployed for over a year (A commentary piece on unemployment, especially in a field that everyone assumes is stable)
Random dude who bags groceries at Safeway (A “watchman” piece about a normal guy who sees a daily cross-section of our culture, buying habits, and attitudes)
My neighbor, who is the executive director of an assisted living home (An emotional piece about living and taking care of people near the end of their lives)
My mandolin teacher, who is as much a philosopher as he is a musician (A piece on teaching and how music applies to all aspects of life, through theory and philosophy)

I feel like I could write any of these well, but I can’t commit to any one thing. The Safeway dude might come across really well (especially how I’m imagining the narrative arc), but it also has the possibility to be boring, should the interview be flat. Timing is very important, so the current social and political climate should definitely be taken into consideration.

I’m also open to anything completely random that has potential. I’ll strike up a conversation with anyone, if I think it’ll be interesting.

Throwing it out into the void. What do you readers think? Do any of these stand out more than the others? Would you prefer to read any of these specifically?

Comments, suggestions, ideas very welcome!

Rush Hour

January 27, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

On Monday night, running through the streets of DC, headed for a building I’d never seen before, I had a moment of serenity.

I was late for my first day of class. I had been planning for this day for months; I left work early, had all my books and notes together, and was thoroughly prepared to be a kickass student once again. The cruel fates who control the DC Metro had made other plans. The train I was on lurched and heaved awkwardly, often unable (or perhaps unwilling) to open and close its door. I was constantly checking my phone, watching my elaborate plan fall to pieces as large chunks of time were wasted at each stop. Just short of my destination, the train sighed and moved no more. They off-loaded all of the passengers and announced that “due to a mechanical failure, you’re all going to be late. Our bad.”

I, a paragon of punctuality, panicked. I considered my options. A cab would be costly, but I’d only be a few minutes late. I could wait for another train, but my hopes were dim. I did, in the end, what I often do: I ran. I booked it for the broken escalator (which seemed all too appropriate at the time), dodging packs of pissed off commuters. I came out of the Metro right onto the DC Mall; the ghostly image of the Capitol stood out in the foggy night air. I ran across the grass and mud, hoping to hail the first taxi I came across. I had no cash, but figured I’d sort it out later.

I couldn’t find a single cab. It was rush hour, but not a glimpse of yellow could be seen! I decided to just keep walking in the general direction of class, eventually reaching the next Metro station. I abandoned my cab idea, decided to get back on the train and continue on as originally planned. I made it to the building around 6:20 for a 6:00 class. I entered the classroom, apologetic and sweaty. Fortunately, the teacher of this class is awesome, and he was forgiving. My only punishment was to tell the class a story.

As I unpacked my things and regained my composure in the little classroom, I suddenly felt at peace. I realized that I was out of breath, leg aching, bounding up the giant escalators of the Dupont Circle station, because I legitimately cared about being late. I’m often blasé about getting to work on time, mainly because it’s not amazingly rewarding. But here I was, stressed and pushing myself to my limits to not be a few minutes late for a class. I didn’t appreciate the feeling of dedicated learning time during my undergraduate years. I was too concerned with 10,000 other things. Now, in a world where those 10,000 other things are 1,000,000 things, often not chosen by me, it is incredibly calming to have 5 hours a week where I can do nothing but learn.

Both of my classes seem excellent. The teachers are exuberant and friendly, my classmates eager to share their experiences. I didn’t think I could be more excited than I was when I was accepted to this program months ago. But here I sit, on the proverbial edge of my seat, practically drooling to see what’s next.

Hidden moral of this story? Never, ever, trust the DC Metro to get you anywhere on time. Doubly so if you have somewhere important to be.

One hundred and eighty-eight feet, ten inches.