Tube and the Laughing Man

The fluorescent lights flicked off then on in the Tube as we rode the Underground subway back to South Hampstead. Every head bobbed back and forth like Chinese lanterns on a windy day. Most eyes peered down at their respective phones. Some sat with solemn looks; end-of-the-busy-workday-in-London kind of looks. Fellow tourists perused tour maps. Construction workers with yellow vests and dust-covered work boots fingered cigarettes, awaiting their stops.

A canned voice from a speaker squawked from above, “The next stop is …Green Park… station. Change here for the Victoria and Piccadilly Lines.” We came to a slowing stop and a human voice said dully, “mind the doors please. Mind the doors.”

A man stepped onto the train. He was engrossed with his phone. Long grey hair fell to his shoulders and a wide smile sat under a wiry grey moustache.

He sat down right next to me.

Throughout the remaining eight minutes of our ride, the man next to me would simply burst into a goofy giggle, unashamed of the fact that he was producing the only sound on the train. After a while, I just couldn’t take it any longer. I had to know

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

Unfazed, he turned to me and showed me his phone.

“A book,” he squeaked.

“It must be a funny book,” said I, smiling back.

In a dense accent, he said, “It really is quite funny!”

And then he turned back to his book. The automated voice announced our stop. I turned to my new friend and told him to enjoy his book.

“Ah will, mate, thanks.”

And then we stepped off the train. It’s just nice to see a happy person enjoying a funny book.

 

anthony forrest