Dreams of Loneliness

An essay written pre-pandemic, yet feels so relevant today.

"Fleetwood Mac - Rumours by pixbymaia" by pixbymaia is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Hi Wormheads - the broken finger is improving, but typing is still a slog, so I’m repurposing a piece I wrote around five years ago, back when I commuted 60 minutes each way to my office job in San Francisco in a crowded train, often standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers. Hope you like it.

---

I board the 8:09am BART train at Fruitvale Station.

The car is full but not packed and I’m able to grab onto a hanging strap a few feet away from the doors. If there are no delays on the line I should reach Civic Center Station at 8:37. And if I weave my way down to car three, the one closest to the station’s escalator, and if I speed-walk through the station and tap dance up the stairs to Market Street, I might make the 8:45am shuttle that will drop me in front of my workplace ten long blocks away. I rehearse this mental clock math the second the train lurches away from Fruitvale toward Lake Merritt Station.

I know exactly what my percentages are, which routes I will need to adjust depending on the length of any train delay. It’s all part of my planning ritual. An oddly comforting form of OCD.

I know that in 27 or 28 minutes I will be maneuvering through underground tunnels filled with commuters, homeless, buskers and defeated-looking BART employees. I will dart past the guy who plays hits of the ‘70s and ‘80s on the accordion, his grizzled canine companion beside him, snoring away in a red wagon lined with flannel blankets. Sometimes the two of them wear matching wool hats. On the rare instance that I’m not in a hurry I will stop and listen, then drop a couple of dollar bills into his accordion case — especially when he plays something by Talking Heads or Devo.

Then I’ll scurry up the 46 steps to Market Street, directly onto the crowded, bustling sidewalk between 8th and 9th, bobbing and weaving my way through an obstacle course of businesspeople, panhandlers, scooter-riding hipsters, and bewildered tourists. If all goes right, I make my shuttle with a few seconds to spare.

This is my usual morning commute.

"San Francisco: BART Train" by wallyg is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Only on this particular morning I seem to have misplaced my iPhone earbuds.

I check every pocket twice but no luck. I decide it’s a sign, a reminder to stay present. I’m not going to spend the next 26-plus minutes mindlessly tapping through Facebook and Instagram on my phone. No, I will stand straight and keep my gaze forward.

I’ll focus on my breath. Inhale—one. Exhale—two. Inhale—I wonder if Jan in Marketing is going to provide lunch for the all-staff meeting? Damn it! I’m too wound up to meditate. Maybe I’ll count how many other commuters also aren’t wearing earbuds or headphones. I notice only two and both are older Asian women reading newspapers. Not a single person is having a conversation with another human being.

The train fills to near capacity at Lake Merritt. It’s not yet a can of sardines—more like a box of cereal, contents shifting to adjust to the size of the container.

At the far end of the car I hear a man’s voice booming over the rumble of the train.

“Excuse me ladies and gentlemen! I have a son who needs medicine.”

Oh great, another guy trying to get money out of us hardworking commuters, I think and imagine others bemoaning something similar. I can feel their exasperated energy, their effortful attempts at ignoring this “intruder.”

As the man heads closer toward me, I see that he is a slight, middle-aged African American man, his flannel shirt and dark blue slacks hanging off him as if being pulled down by weights. He’s gripping an acoustic guitar in front of his reed-thin body as he navigates his way through the passengers. He stops right beside me, removes his black bowler hat and sets it on the ground in front of him. As he turns, I notice that his guitar strap is a shredding ring of twine.

“I am going to play a song for you,” he announces. His voice is loud, but not aggressive. A performers tone. “If you like what you hear, I sure would appreciate anything you could spare. My son appreciates it too. God bless.”

I don’t look directly at the man at first, partly because he is standing so close, but mostly because I’m pretty sure I only have twenties in my wallet, no small bills, so I cannot give him anything. Tipping him a twenty doesn’t occur to me.

I glance around the train car. Most everyone is staring down at their devices, pretending he isn’t there. That he doesn’t exist. I’d probably be doing the same if I hadn’t forgotten my headphones.

The guitar and voice begin together and it only takes about five seconds to realize that he is playing the Fleetwood Mac classic, “Dreams.” It’s one of my favorites from their 1977 Rumours album and this guy is able to give Stevie Nicks a run for her money. And he’s able to effortlessly pull off some truly intricate Lindsey Buckingham guitar lines at the same time. On a beat up old guitar.

His eyes are closed, his head jerking left and right, forward and back as he solos. He’s in the zone.

After a minute I reach into my pants’ pocket and pull out my wallet. I breathe a sigh of relief as I find a ten dollar bill.

The man tilts his head to the side as he attempts the high notes on the line, “Who wants to wrap around your dreams,” and he nails it. Holy crap. I feel chills.

When he opens his eyes, I drop the bill I’m holding in my palm into his hat. I know it’s selfish to want recognition for this gesture. To have determined that if I tipped him when his eyes were closed I might not receive his approval. That I wouldn’t be perceived as kinder than, more attentive than all the other ungenerous, avoidant riders.

Without breaking the pace or mood of the song, he sings “thank you,” while looking directly into my eyes. I feel tears begin to fill them. I blink them away.

He finishes: “When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know. You will know. Oh, whoa whoa you’ll know.”

The guitar strums its final chord.

I’m the only one who claps.

A young Middle Eastern woman with an infant in her arms seated near me reaches into her purse and gives him a dollar. He thanks her, then me again, and pushes past us to the other end of the car. No one else gives him anything.

We arrive at West Oakland station and he’s gone.

Now here you go again, you say

You want your freedom

Well who am I to keep you down

It’s only right that you should

Play the way you feel it

But listen carefully to the sound

Of your loneliness

Like a heartbeat drives you mad

In the stillness of remembering what you had

And what you lost, and what you had, and what you lost

It’s odd to read this again, so many years later.

I cleaned up some grammar issues and redundant language from the version I’d thought was “done.” It’s funny to see how my writing has evolved when I look back at my old stories.

I can’t be so precious with my writing here on Substack. Or I’d never be able to write 1-2 pieces a week.

Have you seen a busker performance that blew your mind? Something that made you reevaluate the way you look at the world or others?

And it seems so unoriginal to state the brilliance of both the song “Dreams” and the entire album Rumours. Like it would be much cooler to say that those songs are slick, or cheesy or nothing compared to the Peter Green years of Fleetwood Mac. But if I had to choose, I’d take the Buckingham/Nicks era before all the others.

What do you think?