care

One Friday night past 9 pm, I was heading home on the Millenium Line SkyTrain after a long day. Unlike the downtown-bound trains filled with dressed-up revellers, mine carried mostly tired commuters heading home to rest. The ride was unremarkable until I started hearing vague clapping noises from the distance.

"Do you hear that?" I followed the curious gazes around me to the next tram car. A man sat rebelliously in one of the priority seats, clapping his hands and slapping his thighs. Interesting. I strained to listen, past the mechanical grinding of wheels on tracks and intermittent "Train to…" announcements echoing through the car. What advanced bea—oh wait, no, there wasn't any order to this!

Then, I noticed the man's unintelligible singing. Around him was a spectrum of reactions: embarrassed grimaces, bemused stares, and fearful glances (especially from those seated closest to him). Some wore cheeky smiles, enjoying the free entertainment from this alcohol-powered one-man band, while a few observers, like myself, watched impressed.

Despite the erratic…percussion…from the one clearly meant for centre stage, most got bored and turned back to their dissociation rocks. After all, this beat wasn't one anyone could dance to. But the man himself!

Perhaps sensing his dwindling audience, he paused his drunken a cappella and wobbled up to his feet. His torso swaying—whether to his internal arrhythmia or simply following the train's curve around Rupert Station, I couldn't tell. Then came the dramatic escalation: he yanked off his long-sleeved flannel and dove back into this performance, louder and wilder.

Most passengers returned to their phones, grateful for the digital escape. I, however, found myself astonished—not by his drunken a cappella or staggering movements, but by what happened next. As chaotic as his performance was, the way he folded his discarded shirt was a revelation. His fingers, moments ago uncoordinated and clumsy, suddenly moved with surprising precision, creating neat folds before placing the garment carefully on his backpack. The contradiction stunned me.

The train halted. As I stepped out, leaving others to enjoy or ignore the concert, I wondered: how many times had his hands rehearsed that fold, remembering grace long after his mind had surrendered to chaos?