When I was three, I wanted to be a train driver. But Thomas the Tank Engine deceived me; life on the tracks was not all overly smiley trains and chummy Fat Controllers. Now at 23, I’m going off the rails.
A train is no longer a vessel for a commute; it’s a container of human condition at its utter worst. Civilisation crumbles the instant the doors thud shut, trapping passengers in the mobile prison. Any dignity maintained at the myki gates at Flinders Street Station has evaporated by the time we’re across the yellow line.
The daily commute.Credit:Luis Ascui
There’s Oversharing Owen and Too Much Information Tamira having telehealth appointments about that peculiar rash. There are gangs of adolescents riding high on the joys of alcohol nicked from their parents’ stash. There are concrete cowboys closing deals in R.M. Williams boots (notably the most rural the shoes have been since the Paris end of Collins Street).
And who can forget the break-ups. And the breakdowns. And the PDAs. Forget vow renewals; love is only affirmed when entwined in an amorous embrace on a 5pm express. The rest of us end up in near-romantic entanglements in the middle of the carriage because Marty the Manspreader or Sophie the Selfish have decided to take up all the available seats.
Yes, I agree, your lunch container does need a seat to itself during peak hour. Please don’t let anyone squeeze into that empty spot next to you; I would rather be nestled underneath a strangers’ armpit.
By the end of the ride, the stranger is no foreigner at all. We know what songs they listen to and the shows they’re bingeing because they’ve kindly blared them for their fellow commuters.
They’ve told us about the 15-minute Jamie Oliver meal they’re planning in a 40-minute MasterChef-esque blow-by-blow menu rundown. We know the promised 15 minutes will evaporate into two hours and a fight that will threaten the foundations of their relationship.
We’ll hear about that on tomorrow morning’s trip as the train waits … and waits … outside Flinders Street for a free platform. Who needs podcasts?
We’re also well aware of the person who’s got a cough that sounds like the start of the next pandemic. Don’t worry mate, your mask is just as effective when it only covers your chin. We love a mask left hanging by, quite literally, a single thread.
My faith in humanity died the day I saw a used RAT test holding court in a now-empty carriage. Ride-share options nearly seem more palatable, although I’m struggling to live an Uber lifestyle on a myki budget.
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