Day 2 - Train story - 514 words

To my right are what I came here for.

I don’t bother to look at the timetable, none of it makes any difference to me, and instead start walking straight for the trains. The gates are always left invitingly open, prompting the scan of a barcode but never requiring it; this is so no person needs to be paid to fix issues if they occur. I stroll straight through.

At this time of night the train schedule is nearing its end, but there are still multiple sitting in the station, waiting until they are made to leave. I scan the line-up, thinking about which to choose, and upon deciding it doesn’t matter, pick the nearest one and head for it.

In another life it had been a vibrantly red, high speed marvel of modern engineering, now the red could hardly be seen under the brown and black soot-like material covering almost every spot, and it was outdated; replaced with slicker, faster, more streamlined environmentally friendly models. It was a sad spectacle to behold, like an arthritic dog whose owners had put off letting it go for far, far too long.

You’re always made to walk past the first class, more expensive carriages, showing you what could be yours if you shelled out just a bit more money on top of your already extortionate ticket, before you get to yours, all the way down at the low end of the alphabet.

I enter through the grubby doors of F. I always liked the letter F, my self-appointed name even begun with F. As another set of door whush open I find myself in the surprisingly full seating area. People from all strokes of life can be found on a train at this time in the night. There’s the elderly gentleman who you’re not quite sure what business they have out at this hour by you can’t help your mind straying to almost certainly wildly inaccurate stories about what he does in his life. There’s the university student, travelling back on a whim and only being able to afford a ticket at a ridiculous hour. There’s the drunken mess, head down, swaying about on his seat, everyone in his proximity playing a cruel game of chance on whether or not he’ll make it the whole journey without evacuating his stomach.

I take the nearest seat to me, which happens to be a window seat at a table.

The man across for me is holding an open bottle of what is labelled sherry in one hand, and thick First World War novel in the other. A heavy scent of alcoholic soy sauce wafts for the bottle and I watch in amazement as he takes a gulp from it with an entirely straight face. His hair at the front of his head is thinning and dishevelled and at the back of its head it has grown past shoulder length and formed dreadlocks. I can’t help thinking that this was not a conscious decision but instead one that happed slowly over time, with his still not having noticed it.