Troped

The passengers (the cargo) on the subway jiggle in unison: left then right, then left, then left again. Everyone leans but tries not to push on the person next to them—some, anyway. They stare in unison though the rays of their eyelines are chaotic, like security vault lasers for heroes to acrobat through, like Da Vinci’s underlying canvas plans. She stares at shoes. He stares at the tops of breasts peeking out from a blouse between jacket lapels. She stares at the window but is thinking about her mother. She stares at her boy, asleep by her side, the undulations of the train pressing him into her. He stares at some nothing somewhere between him and the door, the interplay of blurry reflections in the dual-paned glass.

Max Connor, he stares at an advertisement. He stares, his precise, design-mind torn asunder by this ad’s garish lack of any professionalism; totally devoid of style, proportion, measure, sensibility, schooling for God’s sake. It seems almost random with words crammed into the small four-foot-by-one-foot space that babbles—so much copy for such a small space!—on about Dr. Z’s miracle teeth whitening process; testimonials, benefits, details of the procedure and on and on. Dr. Z, an Indian or Pakistani man perhaps, balding and dressed in a white lab coat, is there as well, smiling a brilliant white hypnotic smile with a look that says, “The wisdom of the ages rests with me.” No, it says, “Studies have shown that people with brighter smiles are more successful and live more fulfilling lives.” And as if to emphasize the sheer miraculous joy of clean white teeth, there is a rainbow over Dr. Z’s head—a rainbow! Why! Connor clenches his fists, his palms sweaty. Is it the ad or another anxiety attack? He looks briefly around but none of the other passengers seem assaulted by this—this abomination of the senses! There is nothing clever or catchy or smart or chic or hip about this man or his product; he notices now that there’s a price in the ad, for God’s sake. How gauche! Yet his Bauhaus addled communication machine (some call it his brain) is compelled to stare at it, tired from the sixty hour weeks and josseling of this urban, mechanical python swallowed him whole, and stares at the pearly whites of the wide-eyed Dr. Z. It’s a horrible ad–but damn it’s… it’s a damn fantastic ad that is nothing like ads. It seems honest, and he hates the appeal. The millions spent on how to get you to wear Nikes and buy iPods–the millions! And here is Dr. Z; calm, collected, he will make your teeth whiter and brighter.