|
Feeling Mean on the 8
The train speeds smoothly sleep-inducing, swaying with a childish ease, like being rocked to sleep in your mother's arms. Glance tiredly at those in the compartment with you.
Sitting opposite, by a dirty window, is an elderly gentleman in a long black Crombie overcoat, which is open and exposing a three-piece pinstriped suit. He is reading tomorrow's Financial Times. Above him, a bowler hat rests next to a worn brown leather briefcase on the luggage rack.
Sitting to his left is a shabby old man wearing an old stained two-piece suit. It is as brown as the mud that covers his scuffed tan shoes. His socks are a mystery; perhaps brown fading to yellow, or yellow running to brown, or even a shade between. His shirt is an exceptionally off-white or an extremely pale gray, frayed at the cuffs and collars like his hair. His face is a calamity of stubble, ideograms and desperation. It wears a vaguely apathetic expression. Sticking out of his left jacket pocket is a rolled-up photocopy of last year's horoscope.
Sitting to your far right, by the other window, is a young woman of about twenty-three. She has a trim figure. She is reading a love story in a magazine. You cannot clearly see her face, for her long black hair is brushed over the side closest to you. However, you do notice that she is wearing a very short mini-skirt. Her legs are most enticing. She is barefoot. Her toenails are painted yellow to match her plastic raincoat, which is open, and hanging off her shoulders, its sides pushed back behind her so that her thighs are not obscured.
Despite the availability of seating, a man stands before her. He has one leg completely encased in plaster. He appears to be asleep. He looks as boring a character asleep as you think he might be when awake.
You turn to your window and look without interest at green fields and rows of trees racing out of sight. You doze off into the state of rest characteristic of train rides. It is called somnolence: pathologically defined as the state intermediate between sleeping and waking. This suggests a connection with diseases. All you can confirm is that it is a state of limbo within which your conscious and subconscious play games with you. A minute later you are fully awake, unsure if you have dozed for a second or an hour, vaguely remembering what may have been a dream. You try to recapture it, but the more you think about it the more you suspect that it wasn't a dream at all, but something else with a dream-like quality.
The train slows through Gaza Junction, but doesn't stop. The name rings a bell but you cannot remember having passed it before. The platform is packed with commuters. Those nearest the edge sway like paper dolls. From them step back civil servants, accountants and aspiring bank managers.
The train leaves Gaza Junction behind and increases speed.
The city gent opposite you puts down his Financial Times and combs his sparse white hair. When finished, he reaches up for his briefcase, pulls it down with a practiced movement, opens it and takes out a black and white photograph, a hammer and a long masonry nail. He shuts the briefcase, replaces it on the luggage rack, stands, then moves diagonally across to the girl. For a moment he hovers hesitantly, his shoulder touching the man with the plaster cast.
Then he nails the photograph to her head.
She flinches a little but seems unconcerned. You crane your neck to study the photograph. It requires little study for it is of the girl. Naked.
A bead of blood rolls down her forehead, down her nose, and drops without sound to her love story. It lands on the last line. The heroine has died. The girl's eyes focus in on it and she stares and stares and stares without expression, just as the city gent stares and stares and stares down at her.
Finally he moves away and hurls the hammer through your window, most of the glass disappearing down the track, but a few fragments dancing into your hair and across your lap. You gawk at him as he sits down, then turn to gawk at the hole in the window. The view of the passing countryside has improved, but it is drafty. You look back at the gent; he is reading his newspaper as if nothing has happened. You look at the scruffy man next to him, the man standing before the girl, the girl herself. All act as if nothing has happened. You involuntarily take a deep breath.
A sound to your right. You turn your head. The girl has laid her magazine on the seat beside her. You watch as she unscrews her head (she really is quite pretty) and throws it at the hole in your window. You duck but glimpse the head elongating in flight before it vanishes through the hole like an arrow. You sit up, alarmed, and watch her remove the yellow raincoat and hand it to the scruffy man. He takes it with a drooling mouth. She removes the mini-skirt and offers it to you. You have no idea why but nevertheless you snatch it greedily. Lastly she pulls off her top and tosses it to the floor. She sits down, tanned, headless and naked. She picks up her magazine and resumes reading it with her navel. You crane your neck to see what her navel is like, but the magazine hides it.
The shabby man in the brown suit stands up wearily and commences to undress. His clothes reveal new areas of defilement. Unpleasant odours seek your nose. You hold your breath as you watch. His body is unsightly. He catches your expression and understands it.
With his clothes heaped around his ankles, he lifts his hands to his face, digs dirty fingernails deep into his hairline, and peels the skin from his face and neck; his shoulders, chest and arms; the rest of his trunk; his legs and feet. It drops in folds upon his clothes. His hands move palm-up in the air, signifying that this is he, his true inner self.
Nothing. At least nothing you can see.
He notes your confusion and puts on the yellow raincoat, buttons it up. The thin hair covering that bobs above its collar falls into it but doesn't reappear beneath it. The hands with their dirty nails hide in the pockets. He slumps back in his seat, his toes fidgeting under the pile of skin and clothes. The city gent glares angrily at him.
You stare at the yellow raincoat as it breathes in and out. Your gaze creeps to the city gent. He is calculating tomorrow's profits, but all you can see is what there is to see. Your gaze travels to the man with the plaster cast.
You start with a cold shiver. He no longer wears the plaster cast and is now sleeping peacefully on the floor. This confirms your earlier thoughts, and you wonder what his dreams are like.
The girl continues to read her magazine with her navel.
You look through the hole in your window. Houses. Gardens. Moving slowly, slowly and more slowly still. The train jerks to a halt. Saigon East. This is your stop. You jump up, relieved, thrilled, confused. Your legs are numb as if they sleep independently from the rest of your body. You clench and unclench your toes, tighten and relax your leg muscles. Blood starts to flow in them. You open the door with a final glance around the compartment Everything is as it is. You step out, trip stupidly and land on your head, your body heaping and twisting. You roll with a long groan over the edge of the platform.
A dull throb in your head forces open your eyes. Only a few seconds have passed. You pull your surroundings into focus. Above you is a wide slit of daylight. To your left a brick wall. To your right heavy metal wheels. Beneath you a mixture of stones, wood and track. Your right shoulder is wedged between two wheels; your right leg is bent awkwardly at the knee, the lower leg under the train.
You struggle to free yourself but your energy has deserted you. You curse having pushed pens all your life instead of lifting weights. You also curse Kafka and D.F.Lewis.
The door you didn't close slams above you with an awful finality. You shout but it comes out a squeak. You curse British Rail's Overseas Development Aid programme, the Vietnamese for accepting their assistance, the Palestinian architect that designed Gaza Junction and the Japanese for not getting into Vietnam first. This wouldn't have happened in Wakayama, you think.
You struggle again. A whistle blows. A coolie shouts. You shout back. He drops glutinous rice wrapped in a leaf on your belly and demands payment. You stare angrily up at his dark face and wide mouth sporting gaps and rotten teeth. Is he grinning or snarling? You shout for him to help you. He demands payment. You explain why you can't pay him just at the moment. He reaches down with a long arm. You sigh relief as the whistle blows again. Instead of helping you, he snatches up his rice and disappears.
The whistle blows for the last time. Doors slam above you. The wheels shudder. With a sudden burst of energy you struggle to be free and involuntarily kick a city gent sitting opposite you. He flicks down his Financial Times and glares angrily at you. You blush and mouth an apology, avert your eyes, watch Gaza Junction pass by, commuters swaying and stepping back from the platform edge.
Out of the corner of your eye you watch the city gent put down his newspaper and comb his hair, then reach for his briefcase and open it. His head lifts a little and his eyes meet your eyes. His eyes are predatory. He looks down to his case and takes out a hammer.
The first blow is all you feel.
Paul Pinn
Email: Paul Pinn
Return to Table of Contents
|