My commute is an hour each way. Morning rush hour—packed. I grab the overhead handle and sway with the train. Podcasts in my ears—history, tech news, sometimes just two people chatting.
I used to check my phone on the subway. Reply to messages. Then I realized it wasn't working—the more I replied, the more messages came in, and the more anxious I got. So I stopped. I just listen to podcasts now. Sometimes I can't even focus on those, so I stare at the dark tunnel through the window. There are lights on the tunnel wall, spaced apart, flashing past. When the train goes fast enough, they blur into a single line.
When the train stops, the doors open. A wave of people flows out, another wave flows in. I wonder sometimes—who are these people? The woman sitting next to me looks even more tired than I am. Which stop is she getting off at? The guy across from me in the tie—does he take this same train at this same time every day? I'll never know.
There's a pancake stall downstairs from the office. I buy one almost every day. The lady who runs it knows me now. Every time she sees me, she says: "The usual?" I say yes. Then she works the batter, adds the egg and the crisp and the sauce. When she hands it over, her hands are covered in flour, warm. This is the one thing that never changes—8:23 AM, downstairs from the office, the pancake lady saying "the usual?"
I thought about it once—what does a job really mean to you? I came to a pretty simple conclusion: it's nice when someone says "the usual?" to you in the morning.