Secret Message On a Subway Wall

Photo from Unsplash by Free to Use Sounds

We all look for hidden treasures. Just check the ratings for the Antiques Roadshow for the last 30 years. We’re enamored with the idea of striking it rich. Quitting our jobs and living off the interest of …

A great find, masquerading as a doorstop or antique umbrella stand. We want to be the discoverer. The Ponce de Leon of 2020, who wades into the fountain of youth or stumbles over a chest filled with gemstones, plundered from a Mayan king.

But why is it always gold or jewels or a hidden Rembrandt, painted over with a bad likeness of Grandma McDonald that we’re in search of? Why do we seek possessions that can be turned into wealth or financial independence?

What if the treasure we sought was knowledge? Or a time machine that sent us back to December 6, 1941, so that we could change the course of history? Would we exchange a king’s fortune for a second chance at life? For a moment to do it over; use the wisdom we gained through years of suffering and mistakes and start again.

Today, as we take a virtual stroll through new car websites, comparing every new model on the lot with the one sitting in our driveway, do we ever wonder if we’ll ever be able to do the same with our own lives? Be given a chance to peruse the latest lives and careers and for a reasonable fee – get to do it all over again?

And if we could …what would you do?

Photo from Pixabay

On June 9, 1964 the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) subway system began with a test track being built between the cities of Concord and Walnut in Contra Costa County, California.

This story is not about the construction of this tunnel or the exquisite engineering that went into building tunnels through multiple fault lines in the Bay Area. Nor is it about the success of the system, the millions who ride it each year or the fact that Los Angeles should have taken note of it, 56 years ago and didn’t.

It’s about second chances.

The story begins with a dare. Or boredom, depending on the version of the story you’re being told. The one that came to me via my friend Bob M. began like this.

Several years into the project, a young man of about 17 years, (Bob M’s close friend) had been walking past a BART construction site every day for months on his way to school. It looked like many other construction sites in a city that was in a growth mode around that time, except for the fact that fully nine-tenths of it was underground and out of sight. All that anyone could see were a few trucks, and a surrounding fence, plastered with posters of rock concerts heading Filmore West, upcoming movies and the usual political slogans of the day, wishing Nixon and his friends a rapid exit from the White House.

Why this particular day was any different, never made it into the narrative. So, I will arbitrarily select the latter reason – he was bored, school was out and there was no one at the entrance to the underground site to stop him. So down he went.

Caves are fascinating natural structures filled with darkness and danger and weird sightless creatures who fly, swim or crawl with unerring accuracy as they move through an underground existence, hunting for food, mates and a higher standard of living – so to speak.

Tunnels are slightly altered versions of these naturally occurring phenomena, in that they are brightly lit, frenetic (think ant colony) and under constant pressure to grow into something useful. There’s purpose all around; in striking contrast to Nature’s more leisurely pace, everything human is fast, organized and on time … or else.

Into this somewhat strange environment, our young man descended. Along the way he “found” a hardhat, and like a true creature of a cave, he adapted to his environment; put a little swagger into his step, walked quickly with a purpose and occasionally muttered a hello or simply nodded in recognition of no one in particular. Within 20 minutes, he was a good quarter mile into the tunnel and losing track of time, place and any sense of fear.

The noise was resounding. The constant din of creation filled the air and his mind and put him into a strange, yet comforting space. A place where now seemed fluid and the future seemed almost inconsequential. It was as close to an acid trip as he had ever experienced, despite several failed attempts to do so in the recent past. (Which we’ll talk about in a later article.)

Time was fading more intensely, the deeper he went into the tunnel, until he finally “surfaced” and took a look at his watch. Getting home after a slow walk from school, was a full two hours passed and he was a little anxious about his mom. He was older enough to have personal latitude with his coming and going, but why risk the worry.

He took a last look at what was before him, turned and almost trotted back to where he had started. Only, he didn’t quite make it.

It didn’t take long before he realized that he was lost. The constant banging of machinery was behind him and he found himself walking into an area that was eerily quiet. Like a cave, somewhere, just beyond where the light no longer carried well, while not being plunged in total darkness.

That’s where he found the stairs. New and white and well built and with enough ambient light to make his way safely to the top. Only, the top was simply several hundred square feet of newly tiled white walls and the complete absence of any place to go. There was no door – just another wall. Albeit, in wood and not tiles, but no less penetrable.

Apparently, he stood at the top of the stairs and did nothing. He didn’t scream or moan or pray to God or anything one might expect. He simply stood there. No doubt thinking, no doubt wondering what his next step would be, but again, in almost total control of his emotions. In fact, he wasn’t worried at all.

It was at that point he remembered the cigarette lighter in his pocket. Not a smoker of cigarettes – just the occasional recreational joint (also another story). He flicked it on and inspected the workmanship around him. All neat, all white, all taking him absolutely nowhere. Disappointed, but not dejected he turned and headed back down the stairs.

Photo from Pixabay

This is when he made his discovery. A little bewildered at first, he held his lighter a little closer to the wall and reread the message written on several of the white tiles in bold black marker. He took a step back, flicked off the lighter and waited.

After a minute or so, he headed back down the stairs and eventually found his way back to the entrance of the site. He deposited the hardhat where he had found it and exited the tunnel.

Squinting from the late evening sun, he walked a block or so and then stopped at a city bench. He opened his backpack, took out a notebook and wrote down what he had read.

I wish I was, what I was, when I wanted to be, what I am now.

At 17, existentialism was not a current concern, but the words found their way into his future frame of reference and eventually became a story that he retold to his friends. Eventually reaching Bob M. and then me.

As I alluded to in the beginning of this story, what would be the price you’d be willing to pay to get a second chance? Not a momentous one perhaps, saving the world, preventing 9/11 but a more pedestrian version. Accepting the out of town scholarship; saying no to the first marriage proposal and the resulting divorce. Or simply following a dream.

Some people, perhaps many of them, chain themselves to the ever-moving conveyor belt called life and go along for the ride. Happy or sad, wealthy or okay, they stay on that ride, looking at each day as the inevitable next one and stay connected.

Is this the right way to do it, or is there something inherently wrong? I don’t know.

I do know that we challenge our decisions all the time. We bring them up for evaluation from time to time and pass judgement upon them. They are deemed good or bad, happy or sad and then we … Well, we make the best of it.

Perhaps we should take a more measured approach. An informal tribunal where our lives and our choices are not judged …. Just simply reviewed. So, that if we ever come to a point in it where something is awry the phrase …

I wish I was, what I was, when I wanted to be, what I am now.

… wouldn’t come into play. Just food for thought.