Darren Holcomb greets me with the same unapologetic smile he wore the day he became that guy on the subway. To him, the now-infamous seven minutes and fifty-two seconds of public speakerphone phone call were not a breach of etiquette but a “shared urban moment,” a gift, really, to an otherwise “dead” commute.
A Life-Enhancing Experience
“I don’t see why people get so uptight,” Holcomb says, settling into the café booth with the confidence of someone about to explain fire to cavemen. “I wasn’t yelling. I was projecting. There’s a difference. If you can’t hear the other person on speakerphone, what’s the point? Whispering is for funerals and libraries, and this was neither.”
The call in question, as Holcomb happily recounts, had everything: a detailed discussion about his mate Gary’s mole (“angry-looking and possibly malignant, but also a great conversation starter”), a disturbingly passionate argument over whether squirrels could be trained to run a small post office (“they’re quick, they’re organized, but you’d have to keep the nuts out of the incoming mail”), and, at the six-minute mark, a full switch to video mode so everyone could see Gary’s mole in 1080p clarity.
Response to Criticism
Criticism, both from passengers and the internet after the incident went semi-viral, doesn’t rattle him. “Some woman was pulling faces,” he says, smirking. “Sandra? Sharon? Dunno, something with an S. Sharandra, maybe? Anyway, if she’d just listened, she might’ve learned something. I’m a good storyteller and I know a thing or two about rodents. People pay for this kind of content online. She got it for free. Why would you even complain about that?”
Regarding the passenger who likened the experience to “being trapped in a meeting about your boss’s colonoscopy,” Holcomb lets out a short laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment. At least they were engaged. The only bad audience is a quiet one.”
Dr. Hilary Kilmore, a sociologist specializing in the sadly endangered “public space etiquette”, is less charitable. “This is textbook urban narcissism,” she explains. “It’s the belief that you are the main character in everyone’s life and that the world is your personal stage. It comes with the inability to grasp that bystanders may want to remain bystanders instead of being an extra in your next TikTok or Instagram reel.”
Holcomb’s response is immediate. “Urban narcissism? Sounds like a fancy way to say ‘fun guy at the party.’ And if people are getting psychic wounds from hearing me talk about Gary’s mole, they need to toughen up. People have moles, deal with it.”
Community Spirit
Holcomb insists he was improving the commute, not ruining it. “The train was dead quiet! Everyone staring at their phones like zombies. They might as well stare at mine, I livened it up a bit. People are too used to being in their own bubbles, I just popped a few. It’s called community spirit. They should thank me, really.”
His interpretation of “community spirit” is, however, notably one-sided. “Look, I wasn’t stopping anyone from doing their thing,” he says. “They could’ve put in headphones. Or joined in. No one said a word, so I figured they were fine with it. If it really bothered them, they would have spoken up. That’s how adults work, yeah?”
When I bring up the fact that several passengers reportedly considered pulling the emergency brake just to end the ordeal, he shrugs. “People are so dramatic these days. It’s not like I was juggling knives on fire. I was on a call. People need to chill.”
Mastering Authenticity
For Holcomb, the idea that strangers might not want his voice in their heads is incomprehensible. “We live in a time where everyone’s broadcasting themselves. I just happen to do it live, in person. It’s authentic. People respect that, deep down. Even if they pretend not to.”
As our conversation winds down, Holcomb checks his phone, thumb already hovering over the speaker button. He wraps up with the same casual exit he used on the subway: abrupt but relieving. “Aight, cheers mate,” he tells me as I watch him walk away, phone in hand, and can’t shake the feeling that somewhere, very soon, another group of weary commuters will be force-fed the next thrilling chapter of his life.
Because for Darren Holcomb, the city is not a place full of strangers, no. It’s one giant, unwilling group chat, and he’s determined to keep everyone in it.
