25.6.03
I went and returned with a group of friends, small enough I knew them all, large enough that I could wheel out on one side of the group, and he could wheel out on the other side, and for the whole day, we would never talk.
He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, and slouched along, laughing loudly at loud jokes, itching for a BB gun to shoot at pigeons, itching for his games console, and for the set of throwing knives his brother gave him for his sixteenth birthday; years ago now. He was not cool, but I think we all knew he could have been.
I wheeled outsideways again, and worried that he hated me. Worse, I worried he did not notice me enough to hate me, and that to him, I was as impermanent and changeable as his baseball cap.
He was not a bad man. We just didn't know each other.
On the return trip, we were separated from the others, and crammed onto a train car further down from theirs. We were trapped between the snack trolley, the toilet, and a crowd of football hooligans. (It was the end of a match day; the reason for the crowding.)
It was hot. I crouched down with my back to the train wall, and hung my rucksack over my knees. He did the same. People pushed past us to use the toilet, or to get to the next carriage. They got stuck behind the snack trolley. In their polite, 'oh, excuse me,' and 'if I just turn this way a little maybe you can squeeze through,' exchanges, they stood on our feet, fell sideways, and made the whole train hotter.
The hooligans were loud and drunk. One of them bragged loudly that his hearing was next week but he didn't think he'd get more than eight months. "Nah, mate," another agreed. "I never got more than eight months when I got sent."
My head hurt. The toilet smelled something like disinfectant, but far too sweet. I pushed my head back against the train wall, but the movement of the rails slammed it forward and back again every few seconds so I went back to holding it straight.
He let his head drop to his knees, then turned so that his cheek was pressing against his thigh, and he was looking at me. "You know," he said. "This would be the worst place ever to die."
I looked around. "Yeah," I said. "It would."
I looked around again. It really was.
We discussed it in depth. How it would probably be something horrific, like the toilet exploding, or nerve gas, or one of thos zombie-like rage viruses they had in the film, '28 Days.'
"So do you reckon we'll make it to the platform?" one of us asked.
"Not unless the train blows up behind us and the shrapnel gets us," the other answered.
One of the drunks was retching in the toilet.
"Great, now we're going to be covered in crap and sick."
"We could move down the train. Wait in another carriage."
"Nah, that wouldn't be far enough away. If it was a really good explosion, it'd probably travel a bloody long way, and it'd only drag it out. Better to be right next to the explosion. Quicker."
"Anyway, there's no point asking for it by trying to get away. How much worse would that be?"
We were referring to fate, or irony, or something. I was referring to the god my friend claimed explained the way the world worked - the one that was 100% malevolent but only 80% effective. The one with a really cruel sense of humour.
"Only two stops to go. Hang on."
It was a joke. And it was something more than a joke. And it was a way to deal with a pack of drunk, retching, terrifying football hooligans when neither of us was armed with anything stronger than an imaginary BB gun, and only one of us could aim for shit.
"One stop, how long before it happens, do you think?"
"It won't."
"It will."
"Yeah, you're right, it will."
Later, we tried to explain it to the others. We asked them, wouldn't that train have been the worst place ever to die? But they didn't really get it. Not why it was funny or why it was true.
I was pretty stumped, then, confronted by all the other examples of terrible or ironic places to bite it.
So I wheeled out onto the one side, and he wheeled out onto the other, and I forgot that for twenty minutes, I had really liked him.
He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, and slouched along, laughing loudly at loud jokes, itching for a BB gun to shoot at pigeons, itching for his games console, and for the set of throwing knives his brother gave him for his sixteenth birthday; years ago now. He was not cool, but I think we all knew he could have been.
I wheeled outsideways again, and worried that he hated me. Worse, I worried he did not notice me enough to hate me, and that to him, I was as impermanent and changeable as his baseball cap.
He was not a bad man. We just didn't know each other.
On the return trip, we were separated from the others, and crammed onto a train car further down from theirs. We were trapped between the snack trolley, the toilet, and a crowd of football hooligans. (It was the end of a match day; the reason for the crowding.)
It was hot. I crouched down with my back to the train wall, and hung my rucksack over my knees. He did the same. People pushed past us to use the toilet, or to get to the next carriage. They got stuck behind the snack trolley. In their polite, 'oh, excuse me,' and 'if I just turn this way a little maybe you can squeeze through,' exchanges, they stood on our feet, fell sideways, and made the whole train hotter.
The hooligans were loud and drunk. One of them bragged loudly that his hearing was next week but he didn't think he'd get more than eight months. "Nah, mate," another agreed. "I never got more than eight months when I got sent."
My head hurt. The toilet smelled something like disinfectant, but far too sweet. I pushed my head back against the train wall, but the movement of the rails slammed it forward and back again every few seconds so I went back to holding it straight.
He let his head drop to his knees, then turned so that his cheek was pressing against his thigh, and he was looking at me. "You know," he said. "This would be the worst place ever to die."
I looked around. "Yeah," I said. "It would."
I looked around again. It really was.
We discussed it in depth. How it would probably be something horrific, like the toilet exploding, or nerve gas, or one of thos zombie-like rage viruses they had in the film, '28 Days.'
"So do you reckon we'll make it to the platform?" one of us asked.
"Not unless the train blows up behind us and the shrapnel gets us," the other answered.
One of the drunks was retching in the toilet.
"Great, now we're going to be covered in crap and sick."
"We could move down the train. Wait in another carriage."
"Nah, that wouldn't be far enough away. If it was a really good explosion, it'd probably travel a bloody long way, and it'd only drag it out. Better to be right next to the explosion. Quicker."
"Anyway, there's no point asking for it by trying to get away. How much worse would that be?"
We were referring to fate, or irony, or something. I was referring to the god my friend claimed explained the way the world worked - the one that was 100% malevolent but only 80% effective. The one with a really cruel sense of humour.
"Only two stops to go. Hang on."
It was a joke. And it was something more than a joke. And it was a way to deal with a pack of drunk, retching, terrifying football hooligans when neither of us was armed with anything stronger than an imaginary BB gun, and only one of us could aim for shit.
"One stop, how long before it happens, do you think?"
"It won't."
"It will."
"Yeah, you're right, it will."
Later, we tried to explain it to the others. We asked them, wouldn't that train have been the worst place ever to die? But they didn't really get it. Not why it was funny or why it was true.
I was pretty stumped, then, confronted by all the other examples of terrible or ironic places to bite it.
So I wheeled out onto the one side, and he wheeled out onto the other, and I forgot that for twenty minutes, I had really liked him.