I sneer when I see those people on the train who rather than keep their heads down in a book or newspaper watch the comings and goings of every single passenger in the carriage, like they think the fact that these people being in public makes their every action public domain. I sneer – inwardly and only to myself – at these starers and wish they would get the message. Funny thing is, I only know this – the reason I know to sneer – because I am one of those starers on the train.
Where I work – North Sydney – is such that I have to change trains at Redfern during the commute each way. It’s here, while I wait for my connecting train, that I get another chance to sneer – never outwardly – as trains stop and, just as the guard’s whistle blows, commuters hurry down the stairs then try to force their way through the closing or closed doors. Following their failure to enter the train – most of the time, they fail – I like to stare at them to indicate their stupidity and risk-taking has been seen – but never do I sneer at them or, although I want to add it to my stare, shake my head.
One morning, while I waited at Redfern, the train came to halt on the platform I was waiting on. The doors opened as usual, however, once they were fully open, some people already having stepped of, the train started reversing at a moderate – not swift – pace. I was waiting to board in a crowd of people not far from the operator who holds their flag up once everybody has boarded to indicate the train can safely depart. She said, “Whoa, whoa. Holy crap,” in the way someone who is expected to be surprised or worried – but isn’t – says, “Whoa, whoa. Holy crap.” The doors closed, the trained pulled back in and soon it was as though it never happened.
On the train, two stops later, a boy, about 8-years old, maybe older – he was dressed in trousers and a woollen jumper, not the clothes a child would typically wear – passed where I sat and put his small hand on the handle curling out of the corner of the seat in front of me. His blonde hair was in the style of a bowl-cut, his fringe draped over one side of his forehead. Following him was a man, tall, the boy’s father, obvious because they both had similar hair, the same colour and similar style but the man’s starting to recede, and were similarly dressed.
The boy stopped at the six-seater at the end of the carriage and instead of taking a seat. He stopped where he was in the aisle, his holding onto the seat’s handle. The boy turned and looked up at his father, his mouth open but unmoving, his brow furrowed by two small lines.
I couldn’t see the man’s face from where I sat – just the boy’s. His head didn’t either shake to indicate they should keep looking or nod in agreement to the boy’s silent query and I didn’t hear him say anything. It was something silent and innate that told the boy it was OK to sit here because, in that moment, they displayed a level of communication and understanding that lovers, friends, associates spend lifetimes trying to achieve, often failing.
The boy moved in and slid across the seat, making room for his father beside him. They were still there – the father looked more youthful than I had guessed – when the train pulled up at my stop.
Lead Igloo
Related posts:
- On the train – part II
- On the train
- Qualify.
Father/son
I sneer when I see those people on the train who rather than keep their heads down in a book or newspaper watch the comings and goings of every single passenger in the carriage, like they think the fact that these people being in public makes their every action public domain. I sneer – inwardly and only to myself – at these starers and wish they would get the message. Funny thing is, I only know this – the reason I know to sneer – because I am one of those starers on the train.
Where I work – North Sydney – is such that I have to change trains at Redfern during the commute each way. It’s here, while I wait for my connecting train, that I get another chance to sneer – never outwardly – as trains stop and, just as the guard’s whistle blows, commuters hurry down the stairs then try to force their way through the closing or closed doors. Following their failure to enter the train – most of the time, they fail – I like to stare at them to indicate their stupidity and risk-taking has been seen – but never do I sneer at them or, although I want to add it to my stare, shake my head.
One morning, while I waited at Redfern, the train came to halt on the platform I was waiting on. The doors opened as usual, however, once they were fully open, some people already having stepped of, the train started reversing at a moderate – not swift – pace. I was waiting to board in a crowd of people not far from the operator who holds their flag up once everybody has boarded to indicate the train can safely depart. She said, “Whoa, whoa. Holy crap,” in the way someone who is expected to be surprised or worried – but isn’t – says, “Whoa, whoa. Holy crap.” The doors closed, the trained pulled back in and soon it was as though it never happened.
On the train, two stops later, a boy, about 8-years old, maybe older – he was dressed in trousers and a woollen jumper, not the clothes a child would typically wear – passed where I sat and put his small hand on the handle curling out of the corner of the seat in front of me. His blonde hair was in the style of a bowl-cut, his fringe draped over one side of his forehead. Following him was a man, tall, the boy’s father, obvious because they both had similar hair, the same colour and similar style but the man’s starting to recede, and were similarly dressed.
The boy stopped at the six-seater at the end of the carriage and instead of taking a seat. He stopped where he was in the aisle, his holding onto the seat’s handle. The boy turned and looked up at his father, his mouth open but unmoving, his brow furrowed by two small lines.
I couldn’t see the man’s face from where I sat – just the boy’s. His head didn’t either shake to indicate they should keep looking or nod in agreement to the boy’s silent query and I didn’t hear him say anything. It was something silent and innate that told the boy it was OK to sit here because, in that moment, they displayed a level of communication and understanding that lovers, friends, associates spend lifetimes trying to achieve, often failing.
The boy moved in and slid across the seat, making room for his father beside him. They were still there – the father looked more youthful than I had guessed – when the train pulled up at my stop.
Lead Igloo
Related posts: