“No hope endures the burden of the status quo. So say the patrons of the first world.” I wrote that lyric for a music project quite a few years ago. It speaks to the inherent futility at the core of living as a productive cog in the wheel of a capitalistic society and how maintaining that comes at the expense of reaching the true potential of our humanity. I kept thinking about that line as I read The Burn Line. It reminded me that every now and then, the veil gets lifted just enough to remind us that we’re shackled to a system not designed for our benefit, but to keep us locked in emotional isolation and complacency to our own exploitation.
Covid was such a time where we were forced to pause, and in doing so, were able to reevaluate how disconnected we’ve become and just how frightening the realization of this isolation could be. The Burn Line, by author Jonathan Sims, takes place during the Covid 19 pandemic. It uses the challenges presented as a backdrop to explore not only the paranoia and isolation felt by most of us during that time, but also the ways it exposed the inner workings, hidden architecture and machinations behind how capitalism controls the way we engage with society and even our expectations of modern life.
In the dark of the London Underground train system, five strangers share a traumatic and horrifying experience that leaves their memories of the event fragmented. As the group comes together to find answers, they discover the threat lurking below the dank, sweltering, summer streets of London may have ties to the very system that controls their day to day lives.
Sims’ use of the London underground rail system is the perfect analogy for how the promise of capitalism–conveneince, progress, and modernity–have become nearly forgotten and wholly unfulfilled and now covered in a thick, cloying layer of gritty, greasy sludge; the very byproduct of the system itself. All five characters are vastly different people from different backgrounds but they all play their part in the cycle that maintains the system. Through seeking each other out, their connections deepen and it is through the strength found in that solidarity that they are able to face the unspeakable horror that awaits.
The book is broken up into chapters that focus on one specific character’s perspective at a time. A standout character is Aaron, an unhoused man, using the train system as a venue to ask for spare change to support himself. It isn’t until we arrive at Aaron’s first chapter that we get to see the person behind whatever our preconceived notions of the homeless allowed us to see. Aaron is the heart of the book and is the one who initiates the events that bring our group together. Aaron becomes closest with Senyo (the rock of the group), a train conductor who happened to be in the train car as a passenger due to heading home from a work related injury. When Senyo, who is initially apprehensive, brings Aaron into his home, we get to see him as a person, not defined by his circumstance.
The evil that our group faces comes in the form of ghoulish creatures that prey upon the passengers of the train system. The creatures emit a type of chemical or pheromone that paralyzes its victims and wipes the memories of any witnesses as they consume their victims, leaving behind little more than a greasy, grimy film in their place, not unlike the industrial grime that covers the vast array of subterranean tunnels. When it’s revealed how the monsters are connected to the bigger picture of the story, they serve as a perfect analogy for the vile greed at the heart of what drives the elite.
While the analogy works to great effect, the creatures aren’t particularly terrifying. But they are threatening enough to make the difficulty that Aaron, Senyo and the rest of the group encounter when dealing with them believable in the context of the story. The subtext tends to overshadow the plot but I think the subtext, in this case, is the point. This book is very much of our time and resonates with the general unease, uncertainty, and fear many of are being confronted with from many directions. The “burden of the status quo” is that deviating beyond the confines of the system means being stripped of the safety and comforts we depend upon for ourselves and our families’ well being. The irony is that these are the same things that help maintain the illusion that we don’t actually live in a dystopia.
The Burn Line is a reminder that we are connected by much more than our susceptibility to our conditions. Sims also presents us with the idea that consensus is the true weapon of the masses and that pushing back against this control–that is solely in place for the benefit of the “ruling” class–is the catalyst for a return to deeper, more meaningful connections; a pathway toward true community. It isn’t simply whether or not this pushback successfully affects considerable change, but it’s the act of resistance that bonds us in a common recognition of the cost we pay by playing the game, and feeding the machine.
