Short Story - Commuting

“Another day, another dollar” he said. I can still picture him standing over my desk sipping his coffee, the “World’s Best Dad” print starting to fade and flake on his mug. First off Doug, I didn’t ask for your end-of-shift affirmation buddy. Secondly, we haven’t spoken a single word to each other all day so why now, Doug? Doug. What kind of a name is that anyway for God’s sake? Thankfully he didn’t stand in the way of me getting my coat as I left today. He had that sense at least. Just as well, because I need to be leaving the office at exactly half past if I’m ever getting across to the station on time. I did make it, admittedly with a bit of a sweat on. It’s January, so I imagine wearing the big coat can’t help… Or maybe it’s all the mince pies, chocolates and Bailey’s I’ve been hammering since Christmas. Either way I’m here now, I’ve got my seat and it is Friday baby. The radiators in the carriage have been turned up to max and I can feel my face tingle as I come in from the cold. I’m aware of my breathing as I try to take it slow and deliberate, and eventually I relax down into a slouch in the seat. I should probably get some exercise. I’m glad the train isn’t busy enough for someone to sit next to me. I’ve sat at one of four seats with a table in the middle, I’ve propped my bag on the chair beside and the two facing me are empty. The train is never busy on a Friday evening and the conductor doesn’t much with coming through. It’s his weekend too eh? I take out my coffee flask which I’ve already generously filled with gin & tonic – a handy little trick I’ve honed over the past few years. I’ve a few pre-mixed cocktails in there too, just in case. It really takes the edge off the afternoons, especially if I can take lunch in the park. Not to mention it gets the evenings off to a blazing start. I don’t think Doug ever notices because I’m careful to eat something spicy at my desk and leave the carton open enough to waft up the stronger smells. The things you have to do for an easy life. I turn up my earphones, only partly paying attention to the Chilled Vibes playlist I’ve downloaded and stare out the window at the platform… “It’s a real rat race isn’t it”, I think, scoffing at the cliché. “Counting out the days in coffee breaks” isn’t that a lyric from a song? Work hard play hard. My approach is more “work to an acceptable level then procrastinate through the weekend” but that isn’t as pithy. Whatever. The bills need paid and I’ve an easy enough job. Boring, yes. Stressful, sometimes but only if you let it be. Is it what I want to be doing? No. But tell me who is living out their dream life, exactly. Things go differently to how you plan or even if you don’t plan at all. You just are where you are, and that’s ok… another wee sip. 

The train is perfect for zoning out after work. On the train you can people watch in anonymity. And I love people watching. There are some who you come to recognise without knowing. So far though not many others have got on. It’s never busy on a Friday night. A couple of teenaged girls gawk and giggle into their phones. Sat diagonally opposite them is a scruffy man who’s clearly drunk. I watch as he all too loudly talks at them, and they alternate between awkward smiles and eye-rolling dismissals of the old crank. I’m quietly relieved he’s here as he’ll keep the conductor busy. I manage to keep my evening drink a lot more subtle and prefer not to be judged thank you very much. The steady lolling motion of the train combined with watching the rain streak diagonally down the windows makes slipping into a daydream inevitable. I’ve this idea for a piece of art that I’m going to do some day. I’m going to get a Rubik’s cube and a screwdriver and just jam the screwdriver right into it, at an angle through one of the joints down to the core. Not so hard it breaks apart but enough so it’s won’t work anymore. I’ll say it symbolises how mankind tries to solve problems with violence. Maybe put it on a pedestal. I’ll call it “Constantinople” or “Solstice” or some nonsense word with no context that’ll make hipsters all hum approvingly into their chai tea lattes at the art galleries. I’ll make fucking millions. I’ll be able to say cheery-bye to work and the whole lot of them. I’ll wear all black for the handful of interviews I’ll do then I’ m off to desert island obscurity with my stash of the posers’ money.   I’ve thought about this one a couple of times and even told a few dates when I’m getting deeper into the drinks. Usually half-jokingly but also serious enough that I’d be genuinely annoyed if someone else actually did do it and got some fame or money…

The train slows to stop at the first halt. I know there’s no steam from a train like this but I can’t help imagine it as I stare out at the platform. The two teens bound up out of their seats and make for the doors which haven’t even fully slid open yet. Their would-be chaperone mumbles into his jacket. WE haven’t yet left the city so it’s usual that a half dozen more get on at this stop.  One woman won’t shut up. I recognise her. Constantly on the phone, holding it horizontally with the arse of it pointed at her mouth, yammering on so loudly that everyone else gets to hear how “Gerard didn’t complete the audit by Tuesday like she told him” or “if H.R. leave a mess like this again, she’ll simply have to go up there herself and write it out in crayon for them”… She has lipstick on her teeth and a long ladder vigorously working its way up the tights on her left leg. We’re talking days in the making for a ladder like that. Firemen would be interested in it. And she’s getting on like she’s some tycoon. Unbelievable.

I’m thinking about it again as the train squeals to a halt at the next stop. This is maybe the fourth or fifth since it left the station where I got on. No it’s the fourth - “Greenhill Town” but it’s more like a row of houses than a town. I see her again. The girl I’ve noticed on this train for months now. I’ve never met her but I’ve seen her getting on here on her own. I wonder where she lives. Who with? Greenhill isn’t a busy stop, as I said. Not many ever get off especially in the evenings.  She looks mid-twenties, just a few years younger than me. Too young to be in a sleepy hole in the hedge like here. Red haired, pouty, those big earmuff-type headphones on. I’ve never been able to hear what she’s listening to. Sometimes she’d sit near me and I’d mute my music but keep my earbuds in, pretending to be listening to something suitably metal to impress her but I can never hear her music clearly. I imagine what her name might be, maybe something like Sasha or Lexi, something fun sounding. Someday I’d like to say hi. Someday I’d like to get over the not knowing. Tonight though, I take a sip from my flask.