Truth Disrobed By Time, Again

The subway train, more iron lung than iron horse, drags itself through Wednesday’s gray ambivalent morning, coughing up the thick, black residue of countless similar days spent shunting its human cargo to their places of employment and back again. A discarded can of Red Bull energy drink, all its vital energy now expended, rolls sullenly across the carriage floor with nowhere else to go. A station stop: mass transit transience. Passengers disembark leaving traces of their disenchantment on the plastic seats. Then a flock of birds swerve through the sky as if reminding the train that it must move again. And so it does, creaking along the tracks like Thomas the Tank Engine with a hangover. But these are only fleeting moments; fragments of time so immeasurably brief as to be incomprehensible as any sort of patterned experience. There is fortunately much more that happens in these fractions of the day, cloak and dagger events in the general play of ordinary life, deceptively inconsequential at the instant they occur, whose true nature or meaning is revealed only when examined under the microscope of stimulated reminiscence, where, captured and manipulated by a powerful retrospective lens, their component elements may be carefully scrutinized, rearranged, and reinterpreted, eventually revealing formerly secreted implications and significances that must, without exception, finally be confronted. Such a moment, hitherto confined by me to an unimportant file in a seldom searched archive of personal memory, then suddenly summoned to an active arena of consciousness by the black magicians of circumstantial incident, uncompromisingly manifested itself at the forefront of my mind while the train idled at Boston University Central. If this recalled moment was not so gloriously advantageous to my already charming character and flawless reputation, I might describe its machinations to you, dear reader. However, my sincere and profound sense of personal humility prevents, alas, the recitation of such a narrative. Suffice it to say that, metaphorically speaking, I assisted more old ladies across the road than Moses guided Israelites across the Red Sea and away from Pharoah.

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