image by Vic Xia
Universally the aim of every passenger is to sit – even an office worker who’s been seated behind a desk all day will wrestle the anaemic waitress for the opportunity to slip right back into a resting position on the train. It’s true. People push, shove and bite their way to a seat because it’s a bonus. We may as well be travelling in a stretch limousine for the price of a coffee. And yet the man here is still standing. It’s odd. There are plenty of empty seats. I convince myself that he’s probably getting off at the next stop and trying not to get too comfy. He doesn’t. The doors open and close, the train rattles along, and he remains upright – standing with the posture of someone born out of a dropped jelly mould. His head bobs about loosely on his neck. His arms dangle, limp, beside his overinflated thighs. His knees lock and unlock with the motion of the carriage which causes his balance to erratically shift from left to right. I try not to flinch.
There’s a young mum sitting opposite me, next to her child’s pram, who’s seemingly oblivious to her impending death. The weight of this man falling would turn her into a two-dimensional scribble on the train floor. Yet she continues to subtly rock from side to side as if teleported from a rocking chair next to a fire. Her book’s at an awkward angle so I can’t decipher the title, but I’m intrigued. It must be quite a tale. Her shoulder-length mousy hair, floral blouse, and long skirt suggest it’s something of a classic: Hemingway? Orwell? No, they’re too obvious. It’s probably a filthy sexual fantasy. A smart erotic novel. Yes, behind her plain, expressionless face is a kinky brain fantasising about her naked body being thrust into a French Renaissance painting where her dimpled fifteenth-century bottom is spanked and avant-garde poetry squirted from an aerosol of whipped cream across her bosom.
She seems normal enough. Her name’s probably something like Karen or Julia. I’d say she lives next to a bakery that wakes her up with the smell of buttered raisin toast. She’s probably on her way to the library to casually borrow another pornographic novel and Spot before returning home to make chutney. Her problems would involve nothing more than the occasional loss at Scrabble, or a pebble in her sandal or shoe. All in all, she enjoys a nice existence. She’s the person you hate when you stub your toe, get a parking fine, or accidentally eat foil. ‘Julia wouldn’t have done that,’ you think, ‘I wish I was Julia right now.’
The train turns a slight corner and the man shuffles about before stumbling in my direction. I tense up. He’s teetering above my knees, rocking back and forth from his heels to his toes. I look desperately across to Julia for comfort but her eyes remain fixated on the page. Immersed in her fantasy, she hasn’t looked up once to confirm our reality. I don’t blame her. She’s absorbed, he’s mute, and so I comply with the precedent set. We remain silent and continue to remain silent as he leans away from me and sways towards the baby… I near the edge of my seat as he bounces about inside his dark sweater. Meanwhile, Julia hasn’t looked up, tensed up, or even turned a page. She hasn’t said a word – no ‘careful’ or ‘sit down’ or ‘move away’. Nothing. It appears that even the most basic human interaction is more fearful or uncomfortable than the potential death of her offspring.
The tracks keep bending and so he keeps leaning, but the tracks have nudged him in Julia’s direction now. She continues to read, though I’m certain she’ll have to re-read these pages later. She reads. He leans. The train’s still turning and before long he’s at a forty-five degree angle with his head hanging directly over her book. I’m not sure if he has teeth but his droopy lower lip now hovers down somewhere below his chin. The saliva that’s been gathering is cascading like a cracked egg from his mouth. Her eyes don’t leave the page. I don’t think they even leave the word she’s on. She continues to focus her energy on ignoring him in the hope he’ll disappear or perhaps come and dribble on me. It’s no use. His bloodshot eyes roll into the back of his head as his thick breath rustles the stray hairs atop her scalp. He hovers. She reads. I watch.
The train is slowing down as we approach the next station. I imagine the smudged letters and wonder how many pages could potentially be affected by the density of this reservoir if it hits – at least a chapter. The paper will become translucent, the plot points will be ruined, and even if she finds another copy at the library, this story, no matter how brilliant it is, will forever be synonymous with this man’s bodily fluid. The train continues to slow. There’s no way such a delicate situation will survive the breaking jolt of the carriage. My thighs brace each other. The saliva tumbles towards the page – the congealed liquid thinning to breaking point. His nostrils flare, her hair moves, it reaches the length of his torso, dangling, lingering above the book’s spine. She reads. It hangs. She reads. The platform appears and… If only he’d sat down…
Excerpt by Sarah Hodgetts from her debut book “And Then We Ate Steve”. Full work coming soon!
