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this morning i sat on the train at the station for ages. we wern't moving. then the intercom crackled into life. "PASSENGERS PLEASE NOTE - THERE IS A PASSINGER WHO IS NOT WELL IN THE FIRST CARRAGE, WE HAVE CALLED AND AMBULANCE AND THEY SHOULD BE HERE SHORTLY."
i pictured the sick passinger.
flannie
torn clothing
hurking his guts out from ODing or too much beer.
i pitied, breifly, the other passingers in the first carrage,
i could see the smell of vomit wafting over them, getting into their clothes, seeping into their perfectly done hair, clinging to the hair spray and their pressed suits, sticking to the staticky fabric of their stockings. and i grinned.
i sat on the train, reading
and suddenly realised that i was in the first carrage.
i always am. less people in there, not many of the suits can be bothered to walk so far up the platform. scuffs their nice shoes.
there were two women sitting next to me, horrifically accurate portrayals of humanity, they'd known each other from highschool, gosspiing about how wonderful their friends looked, excitedly sharing their by-the-time-i-hit-30-so-i-have-a-year-left-and-thank-god-i-was-born-at-the-end-of-the-year-it-gives-me-more-time-[laughs] diet plans. they hear the announcment, peer around, then go back to talking. one is 29, still living with her parents, talking about how expensive the real estate is around here now. the other is looking out in one of those nice walled communities towards the edge of the city. they chatter on, and i burn with a hate so hard it's magnesium bright.
a met empolyee comes in and talks to a woman behind me.
- how is he?
she answers calmly - i'm not sure he's breathing.
the met offical goes away again.
the girls are chatting all the while.
i sit and think about the person behind me
who is no longer breathing
i think about dying on a morning rush hour communiter train
breathing out your last, letting go and floating away, while two women behind you natter on about how vanessia has just cut her hair and it looks like a punk rock chic. very different for her, but it suits her so much, you know?
it would be different if they didn't know that he,
that i
am dying
but they do, however, they're not going to let it spoil their day.
i think of the last breath of the sick man behind me, going out to that bubbling chatter.
how ignoble.
one of the girls beside me calls her boss.
she tells him that there is a slight medical emergency on the train and she is going to be a bit late.
she sounds a bit regretful as she says wistfully - well, what can you do - as if she knows, deep down what you can do.
if only everyone in the world wasn't out to inconvinceance her. if only they would all get together and agree to make her life easier.
that would be good.
if only there wasn't the sick
the hungry
the poor
all out to get in her way
to ruin her day.
then she would be happy.
the medics come in.
theres a young man with black hair, he squates down in front of a woman who is curled up a little protectivly on the seat, her curved back to me. he smiles, a big open smile that starts at his mouth and goes all the way to his eyes.
he likes his job,
i can tell.
how are you feeling he asks.
i hear no reply, but he says in that way you can tell he is repeating - you're fine?
his partner is behind him, his attitude is a little stand offish. he is an older man without much hair, but still tall and strong looking. they both wear blue shirts and bright blue skin tight gloves. it makes them look offical
it makes them a matched pair.
come on mate, the younger one says, we should get you off the train. can you stand?
again, that silence that tells me the sick is muttering.
somehow that silence comes through the chatter of the women beside me.
mark is getting married again, apparently. his new finance is lovely.
the younger guy stnads up and reaches out as the older guy takes a step forward, arms outstretched. it is a medical ballet, they have danced to this tune before. they help the man up. he is a younger guy in a nice suit. tossled hair, he looks like he came from the same mould as the boy I worked with at my first call centre. young, dumb, private school boy grown up.
as they get him to his feet, his knees buckle and he stumbles.
they pretty much lift him out of the carracge.
the woiman he was leaning on straghtens her clothing but doesn't get out. so she's a stranger to him, it was just someone he collapsed on. she watches with interest as they take him outside, but no condemnation. she doesn't hate the fact that someone needed her help, she is ok with that.
the medics sit him down outside. she turns to the woman next to her, and says - now isn't that terrible, they're sitting him down on the ground- like that's his only problem.
and i sit and wonder if it had of been the ODing white trash in a flanny, would she feel the same way?
would she have happily held him up as she did the nice boy in the suit?
and would she have just as tisk-tiskingly noted that they sat him on the pavement to check him out?
the doors beep and close like curtains on a stage
and we are wisked away from the scene.
i go back to my reading.
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