hello, goodbye – commute memories, circa 2004

you would probably not recognise these people in other settings. you know the ones, those fixed objects in the day-to-day landscape.

there is the man with the black melon hat and his dark grey suit. he’s of excessive scrawny stature, with skin so white all stubble appears and shadows his numerous creases. he always reads le devoir, and he frowns brazenly at other passengers. he crosses his legs and blinding light spurts from his ankles; a white socks outrage only the obsessive will follow. i see him on saturday and sunday mornings.

there is the short round indian man, whose deep-set eyes presuppose constant squinting. he wobbles along, and sits up front but never minds offering his seat to eldery women. i see him on weeknights.

there is the coach-man, with shaved head, blue eyes and strong built; he towers above all but bears no self-proclaimed grandeur. with him a red gym bag, in it one can only guess (soup for grandma?). in the metro he settles his arm on the handrest and fixes a straight spot in front of him. i see him on weeknights.

there is the young dark man with short hair and glasses. he listens to music one cannot hear, and closes his eyes when the bus drives on. his back is always straight as if held by an imaginary string, his hands fastened on his school bag. sometimes he opens one eye and looks at you. i also see him on weeknights.

there is the ever-aging, players-light-smoking old man whose short breath and lackluster skin point to imminent emphyzema. he’s on for only two stops, and we get off at the same corner. we both get coffee, but since my pace is quicker than his, he has to wait for me to be done before he can access the machine. i think a sigh of relief escapes his mouth when i skip my morning coffee routine. i see him on weekends.

then there is the skinny, corduroy-laden student/post-student with shamelessly curly hair of the same colour, whose pouty lips betray crooked teeth. alone or with others, a book is either held by his hand, or smelled by his nose. he talks of words and things and all the pages he may or may not have turned with an steady confidence. i see him randomly, anywhere – in the metro or at the bus station, at noon or at night. this unpredictable timeframe bothers. whereas the aforementioned individuals fortify all of the world’s little routines, his coming and going merely disturbs.

finally there is the tall, long-haired girl who sits on an individual seat. she may or may not be accompanied by a librarian or two. she crosses her legs, listens to current 93 and looks out the dirt opaque window. she has a tendency to press her fingers on her temples, or in between her eyes at the top of her nose. she has headaches, you see. her undereyes tell all. from the window she sees the fixed objects of her day-to-day landscape, and she knows she’s going to be home soon.

photography (& words) by meryem yildiz