As I step into the carriage I feel a sense of déjà vu, like I’ve done this hundreds of times before. I shrug it off because I have done this hundreds of times before. I take this train nearly every day, and I always pick the first carriage. The first thing I notice is the change of temperature. It was fairly brisk outside but not in here. All the bodies are squashed in, compacted, radiating heat and perfume. I take in a gulp of air and it’s heavy and spicy. As the doors close I notice there is nowhere to sit. The second thing I notice is the dress code. Everyone in the carriage is wearing a suit, even the women; dark grey and black being the popular choices. I’m wearing slacks and a white shirt, and I’m sweating already. I don’t know how they survive in their woollen suits, coats, scarves and gloves. I stand squashed between a fat man with red hair who is trying to read the financial section of a newspaper, and a thin man holding onto the hand rail above, nodding in time to the music only he can hear on his iPod. I feel the fat man’s breath on my face and know he had peanut butter on toast for breakfast, possibly followed by coffee and cigarettes. The train lurches forward. We all jerk backwards and squash each other. No one apologises for stepping on anyone’s toes. I want to look at the floor of the train but I cannot as every inch of floor is taken up by feet and briefcases. So I stare ahead, trying not to look into anyone’s eyes in case they look into mine. I scan the carriage, studying the faces around me, and it seems that every man with a tie might be choking on it as most of the men's faces look flushed and red, and all the women’s faces frozen by the hair they have pulled back tightly in severe buns. I want to say ‘well, I suppose its cheaper than a facelift,’ but I don’t. Of course I don’t. No one says anything on trains unless they’re talking on a phone or they have a train buddy, and even then it’s only furtive whispers. No, you only hear the odd cough or sniffle. Or the shuffle of newspaper pages being folded or turned. And no one smiles on morning trains. I think it’s a natural law, like gravity. Sweat beads form on my brow and in my arm pits. I feel a rivulet of sweat trickle down my side. I have one hand holding onto the hand rail above, the other flattened against my side, compressed and slowly numbed by someone’s back leaning heavily on it. I want to wipe away the stinging sweat that has trickled down my brow, past the bridge of my nose and collected in the corner of my eye. I slowly worm my arm free. The fat man at my side shifts from one foot to the other and I use this fleeting opportunity to raise my arm and wipe the sweat from my eye. I wipe my brow as well and now my fingers are dripping. I can’t flick the sweat away so I lower my arm again, the moisture transferring to the material on my pants as my hand wedges between it and Fat Man beside me. My breath comes in shallow gasps as I find it hard to breathe the close air. All the perfumes and colognes have mingled into one super fragrance and as I inhale it I taste a bitter, chemical tang at the back of my throat. The train is slowing down now. It slows further. It crawls. Stops. A gust of cold air hits my back as the doors make that ‘bleep bleep’ sound and open. I take a few gulps of fresh air. Someone steps from the platform into the carriage. I didn’t think it was possible but somehow everyone manages to inch closer again to the person next to them, creating enough space for our new traveller. I’m wedged in completely. The doors close. I close my eyes and think of an open field, a field with tall grasses and flowers swaying gently in a breeze. I think of a sky, deep blue and vast. I open my eyes. I’m pressed against Thin Man’s back and I can see over his dandruff speckled shoulder and the iPod he’s holding. I look at the display and it’s 'O Fortuna' playing, and I think I can almost hear it. My groin is pressed against Thin Man’s backside and I can feel the person behind me, who must also be a man as I can feel a lump of soft flesh pressing against the small of my back. I try not to think of penises. The engine whines, groans into life and we pitch forward again. The last of the fresh oxygen seems to be gone and I’m back to inhaling hot, second hand air and cologne. Thin Man leans back, Man Behind leans forward. The carriage rocks and I’m intermittently squeezed and released. Now I can only breathe sporadically. I can feel my heart thudding and I’m surprised Thin Man can’t feel it between his shoulder blades. I wriggle and writhe and somehow turn on the spot, facing Man Behind and the doors behind him. His face looks pinched, his muddy brown eyes too close together and wormy mouth too near his nose. He looks at me looking at him and averts his eyes. I’ve created a small pocket of space around me as Man Behind (now Pinched Face) doesn’t want his chest pressed against me and have his face an inch away from mine. He leans back and I can breathe again. I look to my right, and behind a pane of glass that sections off the entryway I see a woman sitting, a slim book resting in her lap. Her head is bent forward and I can’t tell if she is enjoying her book or not. Then I remember I wouldn’t be able to tell if she is enjoying it as her hair is tightened into a large bun at the back of her head, paralysing any facial gestures that would indicate enjoyment. She must have felt my presence because she lifts her head and looks in my direction. She raises the book and I glimpse the cover and title. It’s Dante’s Inferno. I look away casually, pretending the glance in her direction was only a cursory one which included the whole carriage. The train slows down again and I know I have to get off at the next stop. It’s not the station I was meant to get off at but that doesn’t matter anymore. I try to squeeze between Fat Man and Pinched Face so I can be in front of the doors when they open. Panic churns in my stomach, and threatens to rise when they don’t move and the train halts in front of the station. I turn to my side and pry my shoulder between them. They manage to find room for me and I’m finally facing the door. As the doors slide open a man steps forward to get on the train. He pushes against me, making me retreat, and I back into Thin Man. I try to wriggle past the new passenger but it’s useless. He shrugs apologetically as the train doors slide shut. They are three abreast and I can’t even see out the windows. The air is searing and sweat slowly spreads across my chest and back. My breaths come in wheezy gasps. The engine hisses like a snake and we start moving. I look to my left, beyond Fat Man, and I can see a man and a similarly dressed woman sitting comfortably and companionably, whispering to each other. They look up occasionally, stealing glances at other travellers, then heads down conspiratorially, whispering again. They both have closed books lying in their laps, the covers plain for all to see. I realise they must be part of the same book club as they have the same book, Milton’s 'Paradise Lost.' I stare straight ahead now, at Pinched Face, and I know I will faint soon. I feel like I’m under water and kicking for the surface. My chest is on fire and each breath stings. The brakes screech and we are flung collectively forward. I hear a hard thud; and screaming from the drivers compartment, sudden and startling. My legs are weak, my knees like water. The train slows. I hear ‘Oh fuck’ over and over from the driver’s compartment. I can barely stand. My heart and temples are throbbing in tandem and my mouth is sandpaper dry. We stop. The driver opens the compartment door into our carriage. His face is deathly white and twisted in pain. ‘He just stepped right into it’, he whispers. I recognise his face, like I’ve seen it before in that exact expression. Then I remember why I felt the déjà vu. I hear a collective gasp as the driver faints. I can’t breathe. My vision narrows blackly and I fall forward.
I’m cold. I open my eyes as I hear the distant train approach. I’m surprised as I’ve never fallen asleep waiting for the train before. I tap my hand against my pocket, making sure my wallet is still there. The train approaches and I stand. Everyone jostles forward, tops of shoes jutting in front of the yellow line, all wanting to be closest to the doors when they open so we can scramble for a seat. I look down at the banana yellow line and I think of the invisible barrier it represents. It reminds me of something, something truly horrible. I can nearly remember what it is but when I feel I have nearly grasped it, it fades. The doors open and I wait my turn. I’m the last one to get on. As I step into the carriage I feel a sense of déjà vu, like I’ve done this hundreds of times before.
As I step into the carriage I feel a sense of déjà vu, like I’ve done this hundreds of times before. I shrug it off because I have done this hundreds of times before. I take this train nearly every day, and I always pick the first carriage.
The first thing I notice is the change of temperature. It was fairly brisk outside but not in here. All the bodies are squashed in, compacted, radiating heat and perfume. I take in a gulp of air and it’s heavy and spicy. As the doors close I notice there is nowhere to sit.
The second thing I notice is the dress code. Everyone in the carriage is wearing a suit, even the women; dark grey and black being the popular choices. I’m wearing slacks and a white shirt, and I’m sweating already. I don’t know how they survive in their woollen suits, coats, scarves and gloves.
I stand squashed between a fat man with red hair who is trying to read the financial section of a newspaper, and a thin man holding onto the hand rail above, nodding in time to the music only he can hear on his iPod.
I feel the fat man’s breath on my face and know he had peanut butter on toast for breakfast, possibly followed by coffee and cigarettes.
The train lurches forward. We all jerk backwards and squash each other. No one apologises for stepping on anyone’s toes.
I want to look at the floor of the train but I cannot as every inch of floor is taken up by feet and briefcases. So I stare ahead, trying not to look into anyone’s eyes in case they look into mine. I scan the carriage, studying the faces around me, and it seems that every man with a tie might be choking on it as most of the men's faces look flushed and red, and all the women’s faces frozen by the hair they have pulled back tightly in severe buns. I want to say ‘well, I suppose its cheaper than a facelift,’ but I don’t. Of course I don’t. No one says anything on trains unless they’re talking on a phone or they have a train buddy, and even then it’s only furtive whispers. No, you only hear the odd cough or sniffle. Or the shuffle of newspaper pages being folded or turned. And no one smiles on morning trains. I think it’s a natural law, like gravity.
Sweat beads form on my brow and in my arm pits. I feel a rivulet of sweat trickle down my side. I have one hand holding onto the hand rail above, the other flattened against my side, compressed and slowly numbed by someone’s back leaning heavily on it. I want to wipe away the stinging sweat that has trickled down my brow, past the bridge of my nose and collected in the corner of my eye.
I slowly worm my arm free. The fat man at my side shifts from one foot to the other and I use this fleeting opportunity to raise my arm and wipe the sweat from my eye. I wipe my brow as well and now my fingers are dripping. I can’t flick the sweat away so I lower my arm again, the moisture transferring to the material on my pants as my hand wedges between it and Fat Man beside me.
My breath comes in shallow gasps as I find it hard to breathe the close air. All the perfumes and colognes have mingled into one super fragrance and as I inhale it I taste a bitter, chemical tang at the back of my throat.
The train is slowing down now. It slows further. It crawls. Stops.
A gust of cold air hits my back as the doors make that ‘bleep bleep’ sound and open. I take a few gulps of fresh air.
Someone steps from the platform into the carriage. I didn’t think it was possible but somehow everyone manages to inch closer again to the person next to them, creating enough space for our new traveller. I’m wedged in completely. The doors close.
I close my eyes and think of an open field, a field with tall grasses and flowers swaying gently in a breeze. I think of a sky, deep blue and vast.
I open my eyes. I’m pressed against Thin Man’s back and I can see over his dandruff speckled shoulder and the iPod he’s holding. I look at the display and it’s 'O Fortuna' playing, and I think I can almost hear it.
My groin is pressed against Thin Man’s backside and I can feel the person behind me, who must also be a man as I can feel a lump of soft flesh pressing against the small of my back.
I try not to think of penises.
The engine whines, groans into life and we pitch forward again. The last of the fresh oxygen seems to be gone and I’m back to inhaling hot, second hand air and cologne. Thin Man leans back, Man Behind leans forward. The carriage rocks and I’m intermittently squeezed and released.
Now I can only breathe sporadically. I can feel my heart thudding and I’m surprised Thin Man can’t feel it between his shoulder blades. I wriggle and writhe and somehow turn on the spot, facing Man Behind and the doors behind him. His face looks pinched, his muddy brown eyes too close together and wormy mouth too near his nose. He looks at me looking at him and averts his eyes. I’ve created a small pocket of space around me as Man Behind (now Pinched Face) doesn’t want his chest pressed against me and have his face an inch away from mine. He leans back and I can breathe again.
I look to my right, and behind a pane of glass that sections off the entryway I see a woman sitting, a slim book resting in her lap. Her head is bent forward and I can’t tell if she is enjoying her book or not. Then I remember I wouldn’t be able to tell if she is enjoying it as her hair is tightened into a large bun at the back of her head, paralysing any facial gestures that would indicate enjoyment. She must have felt my presence because she lifts her head and looks in my direction. She raises the book and I glimpse the cover and title. It’s Dante’s Inferno. I look away casually, pretending the glance in her direction was only a cursory one which included the whole carriage.
The train slows down again and I know I have to get off at the next stop. It’s not the station I was meant to get off at but that doesn’t matter anymore.
I try to squeeze between Fat Man and Pinched Face so I can be in front of the doors when they open. Panic churns in my stomach, and threatens to rise when they don’t move and the train halts in front of the station. I turn to my side and pry my shoulder between them. They manage to find room for me and I’m finally facing the door. As the doors slide open a man steps forward to get on the train. He pushes against me, making me retreat, and I back into Thin Man.
I try to wriggle past the new passenger but it’s useless. He shrugs apologetically as the train doors slide shut. They are three abreast and I can’t even see out the windows.
The air is searing and sweat slowly spreads across my chest and back. My breaths come in wheezy gasps.
The engine hisses like a snake and we start moving.
I look to my left, beyond Fat Man, and I can see a man and a similarly dressed woman sitting comfortably and companionably, whispering to each other. They look up occasionally, stealing glances at other travellers, then heads down conspiratorially, whispering again. They both have closed books lying in their laps, the covers plain for all to see. I realise they must be part of the same book club as they have the same book, Milton’s 'Paradise Lost.'
I stare straight ahead now, at Pinched Face, and I know I will faint soon. I feel like I’m under water and kicking for the surface. My chest is on fire and each breath stings.
The brakes screech and we are flung collectively forward. I hear a hard thud; and screaming from the drivers compartment, sudden and startling.
My legs are weak, my knees like water.
The train slows. I hear ‘Oh fuck’ over and over from the driver’s compartment.
I can barely stand. My heart and temples are throbbing in tandem and my mouth is sandpaper dry.
We stop. The driver opens the compartment door into our carriage. His face is deathly white and twisted in pain. ‘He just stepped right into it’, he whispers. I recognise his face, like I’ve seen it before in that exact expression. Then I remember why I felt the déjà vu. I hear a collective gasp as the driver faints.
I can’t breathe. My vision narrows blackly and I fall forward.
I’m cold. I open my eyes as I hear the distant train approach. I’m surprised as I’ve never fallen asleep waiting for the train before. I tap my hand against my pocket, making sure my wallet is still there.
The train approaches and I stand. Everyone jostles forward, tops of shoes jutting in front of the yellow line, all wanting to be closest to the doors when they open so we can scramble for a seat. I look down at the banana yellow line and I think of the invisible barrier it represents. It reminds me of something, something truly horrible. I can nearly remember what it is but when I feel I have nearly grasped it, it fades.
The doors open and I wait my turn. I’m the last one to get on. As I step into the carriage I feel a sense of déjà vu, like I’ve done this hundreds of times before.