Wacky train adventure
It’s a strange world.
When I reached the train station this morning, there was a crowd of people around the ticket machine; staring, prodding, complaining, and calling the M>Train company. The machine was broken and the change slot would not open. People were freaking out because they would not get their change when they bought a ticket. Some people were so concerned with getting their two dollars back, needed that money so urgently, they had to light a cigarette.
Anyway… I thought “Fuck it, I haven’t seen an inspector for six months, I’ll just jump on the train.”
When I sat down, I soon took noticed the two guys sitting opposite me. The first was a young Indian guy, a uni student who was definitely not making eye contact with the second guy next to him. I choose to call him Rishindra. The second guy was a Tech’ student, wearing overalls and more hair gel than general common sense tolerates. I choose to call him Wazza.
Wazza was very stoned. I used my keen skills of deduction to filter the following data:
1. Wazza was holding a McDonalds coke cup, had finished the drink, but was enjoying the ice. I mean
really enjoying the ice. He was nibbling it, licking it, crunching it, savouring it, and rubbing it on his bare arms.
2. When we entered the city tunnel, he tried to get a clear look at his huge tongue in the window reflection. The window on the other side of the train.
3. Wazza was mostly quiet, but deep thoughts were bubbling to the surface and popping out his mouth at random. Quote “Do you have a girlfriend. I’d like a girlfriend. I’d kiss them all…” “My dad’s a lawyer…” “Do you like ice?” Unquote.
The questions were directed at Rishindra, who was offering one-word answers when he had to. It was clear that Rishindra wanted Wazza to leave him alone, but Wazza was oblivious. When Wazza pointed out “Hey, Flagstaff stations coming up. This is your stop,” Rishindra said his station was different.
Flagstaff station arrived. When the doors were about to close, Rishindra suddenly jumped up, and tried to bolt out the door, desperate to lose Wazza, who was tranquilly whispering to his ice, but the doors closed in his face and he was stuck, edgy and embarrassed, in the carriage.
Obscuring his path to freedom were the ticket officers who had just boarded. One of them came straight to me, and I had to explain that at Newmarket station, the machine was broken. He believed me, and turned to Wazza. “Oh, I’m with him. Yeah, the machine was broken.” He was eyeballing me, eyebrows wiggling almost imperceptibly, and almost completely obviously.
Never the less, Ticket Man asked me “Do you know this guy?” and I stated with conviction “I didn’t see him at the station, but he may have been there…” shrugging un-confrontationally.
Wazza’s objections got more persistent, more confused, more incriminating, and he kept bringing up that I “got off”. By the time he got off the carriage, still refusing to give his details for a fine notice, he was surrounded by three ticket officers. Wonder what happened to him.
So why is it a strange world? It’s strange, to me, that his decisions touched my world, and my decisions his. And it’s strange that stuff like that does not seem to happen to me very often.
