Transports of Delight

My experiences on public transport, delightful and otherwise.

The New York Police Department (Empire Service Part I)

Transports of Delight

Most of my stories so far have been about the drunken and/or mentally ill misfits who approach me on public transport. Well, this story is a bit different. In this one, I’m the crazy person, thrusting my unwelcome presence upon passers-by.

It’s 2005 and I’m in New York City. I’m nineteen years old and I’m all alone. It’s the fifth month of my first solo around-the-world backpacking extravaganza, and by this point I would describe my mental state as “shaky”. I am very, very tired. I miss Australia, where I knew the names of the streets and people thanked the bus drivers. On top of all this, plus the usual teenage angst, I miss my boyfriend horribly. I met him earlier in my travels, but we had to part ways for a couple of weeks while I went on my scheduled trip to Canada and he went to Niagara Falls to visit relatives. I know if I can just be reunited with the boyf, this trip will start to be fun again instead of very, very lonely. On this day, in New York City, I am about to board a train that will take me to Buffalo and subsequently to my boyfriend.

There is just one problem.

I have no freaking idea where the train is.

This is in the days before iPhones; Google Maps was only invented a few months ago. All I have is an old ‘analog’ street map that I’m too scared to take out of my backpack lest I get stabbed. (You might think this is an overreaction to New York’s reputation for ‘mean streets’. I might have agreed with you, if I didn’t know that just a few days earlier a baby was stabbed in broad daylight not three blocks from where I was staying. A baby. Think what they would do to a tourist.) The sidewalk is streaming with surly New Yorkers who push past me and buffet me around. It’s as if there’s some kind of angry salmon migration going on and I’m the lone tuna everyone wishes would just leave.

According to the address I have for the train station, I should be looking at the entrance right now. But all I can see is a solid stone wall. There isn’t anything resembling a door. I walk carefully around the corner, checking for any possible signs of an entrance. Nothing. Maybe this is like Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and I need to take a running start at the wall? (This is before iPhones but after Harry Potter.) I don’t know what to do. My watch says I’ve only got 15 minutes before my train leaves. It’ll take me ages to walk there while juggling my backpack and 25-kilo duffel bag. And I haven’t even found the train station yet! This is too much.

Desperate, I attempt to make contact with the angry salmon.

“Excuse me? Please? Um, help?” I try to ask passing New Yorkers for help, but they move too fast. I only get half a sentence out before they’re already disappearing into the crowd.

“Do you know where–” ZRROOOOM and they’re gone.

In Australia you might, at worst, be delicately ignored. (Excluding central Sydney, where they hate life and everyone who takes part in it.) If people don’t want to help you, they will just pretend that you don’t exist. But New Yorkers are vocal. They do not have the time to give you directions, but they will take the time to tell you to fuck right off. This level of rudeness is still new to me, and I can’t help tearing up a little. Great. Now I’m lost in New York, wearing a backpack with an Anne of Green Gables souvenir patch on it, and starting to cry. Then I spot a policeman standing at a nearby intersection. His dark blue NYPD uniform is a signal of hope. I stumble up to him.

“Excuse me, I — sniff — can’t find the train station — blubber.” I talk to his feet, trying to make out shapes through the tears. The policeman listens stoically, then begins to rattle off a list of directions. I look up in shock. Someone is speaking to me. He must notice that my mouth is hanging open, because he starts to repeat the directions. I stare at his mouth, watching his jaw go up and down. Something about turning left, and a corridor, or something. At some point I notice that he’s stopped talking. The cop is frowning, and looking over his shoulder. Then, something amazing happens.

The cop picks up my heavy duffel bag and says “Follow me”. It takes me a minute to register, and by that point he’s nearly out of sight. I sprint to catch up. He leads me to a previously invisible stairwell set in the side of an alley. It feels like I’m being led into the magical land of Narnia. Push aside some coats and there it is! The secret world of the train station. Mr Cop strides through the labyrinth of underground corridors with ease, and pretty soon we’re approaching a bank of turnstiles. I panic, searching for my subway ticket. The cop, however, simply nods to the woman running the security booth next to the turnstiles, and a giant metal gate swings open for us. The cop strides through, still carrying my bag, and I skitter after him. No tickets validated, no words exchanged. Just a nod, and doors open. I marvel at his power.

We’re booking it down a busy corridor when the policeman suddenly halts in his tracks. I nearly run into the back of him. He puts my bag at my feet and points to a doorway.

“Your train is through there. I can’t take you any further.” He slides a look over the crowd, and I notice a few policemen further down the corridor. Mr Cop looks back at me and gives me the corner of a smile. “I’m not supposed to be helping young women find their train platforms.”

I squeak something that sounds like “Thanks”. I’m unspeakably grateful, and feel like I should take a moment to acknowledge what a kind thing he has done for me. But Mr Cop is already turning on his heel and marching away. I stand there for a moment, dazed. Then my mind jumps into action. THE TRAIN! I pelt down the corridor and through the doorway. I race onto the train platform, where my train is just about to pull away. After flicking a ticket at someone, I fling my bag into the carriage and vault across the gap.

I’m aboard!

I made it!

Ah, the sweet sounds of wheels clicking on the tracks, carrying me closer to Buffalo and my boyfriend. I settle back in my seat and rest my cheek on the cold window, thinking the hardest part of the journey is done.

Little do I know …

April Fool

Transports of Delight

Dear readers,

I have a dearth of stories to tell this week (not the same as Darth stories to tell – those are much scarier). I just started a new job, and my first duty with the company was to pick up the company car.

Oh, the joys of driving! I felt important! A pedestrian nodded at me!

So I have been cruising around in a private bubble of air-conditioned awesomeness this week, having few opportunities for Transports of Delight. But I promise I will be back next weekend with another tale of being made to feel uncomfortable on public transport.

Driving! Booyah!

The Bus Driver Who Sideswiped A Fire Truck

Transports of Delight

I’m sitting on a city bus in Brisbane, wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake. Should I have moved to Brisbane? I’ve been catching Translink buses for weeks now, and my experiences have been nondescript. This worries me. Will there be no more Transports of Delight? Do my crazy bus stories end here? I miss Fremantle!

These thoughts are interrupted as my bus runs into a fire truck.

It is such a beautiful moment.

The other passengers are looking around in concern, muttering darkly. The bus driver sags in his seat; the mood is sombre. I am grinning like someone who just saw snow for the first time. Transports of Delight lives on! Oh ye of too much faith in the competence of bus drivers! Huzzah!

The driver’s door swings open, and he climbs out of the bus, careful not to make eye contact with any passengers. I’m craning my neck, willing light to bend so that I can see the damage on the back of the bus. Onlookers are crowding the busy street outside. We’ve sideswiped a big, red, parked fire truck.

It seems the fire truck was chock full of firefighters, all of whom are now standing around the pavement and looking stern. They seem annoyed that this has happened – annoyed, but not surprised. The bus driver, looking very small in his Translink uniform, is slowly approaching them. It looks like he’s going to try to suggest that it was their fault.

Our bus driver walks up to the main firefighter, a man who looks like he will always be called “Captain” regardless of his actual rank. Captain is standing with square shoulders and perfect posture, gazing down at him like a disappointed Phys. Ed. teacher. All that’s missing is a lanyard with a whistle around his neck. Bus Driver doesn’t stand a chance.

I can’t hear anything the two men are saying to each other, but it looks like Captain is winning. He calmly listens to Bus Driver’s hand-gesturing insistence, then razors across that with a few firm words and some clipboard-pointing. Bus Driver weakens. Other firefighters are stalking behind Captain, casually circling the two men. I’m strongly reminded of the scene from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire where Harry and Voldemort face off within a circle of Death Eaters. (Not that I’m comparing our Bus Driver to Harry Potter … No. Harry would have seen the fire truck.)

Meanwhile, although the bus driver is clearly absent and the bus is splayed across the road with a fire truck sticking out of its bum, people are still getting on the bus. And more than one person is looking privately pleased that they didn’t have to buy a ticket. Free bus ride! Just watch out for parked rescue service vehicles!

After the incident has been thoroughly documented with everyone’s iPhone cameras, Captain dismisses Bus Driver and Bus Driver slinks back to his seat. We unstick ourselves from the fire truck and rejoin the Brisbane traffic.

When we get to my stop, I’m strangely reluctant to get out. I don’t want to leave this bus – I’m invested now. I kind of want to see what else this bus driver will do. But hey, there are plenty more reckless bus drivers where he came from. And, luckily for me, heaps of them work in Brisbane.

Helpful Men

Transports of Delight

Maybe I’m paranoid. But I don’t like sharing all the details of my journey with strange men on the train. And yet they seem to expect it.

I especially don’t feel like talking when I’m fresh off the plane in Melbourne, and I’m struggling along the train platform with my big red Samsonite that weighs two thirds of me. I despise both the suitcase and myself. Why do I always feel like the ‘expandibility’ zipper is a challenge to shove in more crap? Why did I pack two hairdryers? I have a problem.

So I’m pulling along my obese luggage, yanking it up the platform, and then the train arrives. And here’s the thing I never think about when I’m at home, packing my entire personal library (just in case I get the urge to re-read The Obernewtyn Chronicles again over the next two weeks) – I never think about the gap. The goddamn bloody gap between the platform and the train. It stymies me every time! The last time I went travelling with this suitcase, I was in London, heading to Heathrow. I had to change trains at Clapham Junction. Have you ever been to Clapham Junction? DON’T DO IT. It’s a train station that hasn’t been upgraded since the Edwardian era, and there are no elevators. Or escalators, or travelators. Nothing that ends with ‘ator’. Just miles and miles of stairs, and me with my obese suitcase and puny stick-figure arms. I have replayed the same scene many times over, in train stations across the world: me heroically trying to lunge into the train carriage and hoping the momentum will get my case across; my case getting inevitably wedged in the gap; some person reaching a meaty arm forward and hauling both the suitcase and me aboard. It’s humiliating.

But that is what happens to me, again, in Melbourne. Stuck in the gap. Someone hauls me aboard, and we’re away. I trundle into the train carriage, where there are plenty of empty seats. However, access to those seats is being blocked by two middle-aged women who are facing each other and chatting. Their legs are criss-crossing the aisle like they’re lounging at a cafe table by the seaside. I stand there, haggard with my bags, until they notice. They move their legs in a fraction, so I have just enough space to awkwardly lug my suitcase along sideways. As I pass, huffing with effort, one of the ladies remarks, “THAT’S a suitcase.” And they laugh, rawk rawk rawk. I smile and reply, “Yep, it’s a suitcase and a half!” The ladies’ eyes instantly narrow; I wasn’t meant to share in the joke. They turn away, back into their conversation.

I relax for the rest of the train journey, one hand resting on Big Red so it doesn’t wheel away. Using Google on my phone, I try to figure out how I’ll get to the backpackers’ hostel from Southern Cross Station. (I can’t remember a time before I had Google Maps on my phone, even though that time was less than three months ago.)

At Southern Cross, Big Red and I trundle out to the street and find the tram stop. The hostel’s website says “catch the tram line that runs to St Kilda,” so I wait for the tram that says “St Kilda”. The tram pulls up, I repeat my famed performance of Stuck In The Gap, and finally haul my luggage aboard. Once on the tram, I realise that the ticket machine is wedged further down the tram, hidden behind crowds of passengers. I can’t possibly get my suitcase down there. So I think, fuck it, I’ve suffered enough today; I’m riding outside of the law.

The tram skims through the city, and I gaze out the window while trying not to let my suitcase fall and crush anyone. After about twenty minutes, I start to get suspicious. I check my location on Google Maps. Ye gods! I’m miles away from the hostel – I got on the tram going in the wrong direction. Sigh. I thump off the tram at the next stop.

So now I’m standing on a tram platform somewhere in the wrong part of Melbourne, feeling pretty pissed off. All my wrongs are rising up to engulf me. I pedantically crosscheck the tram timetable with Google Maps, making sure the next tram I get on will be the correct one. Aha, I am on the right tram line, just going the wrong way. At last, I feel that I’ve got a handle on the situation. At this very moment, I am approached by a man.

He is not a young man. He is not a clean man. He is not the kind of man by which I would like to be approached at any time. He is, in fact, the kind of man you would see standing at the traffic lights wearing sweatpants and talking to himself. The expression on his face can only be described as a leer, and I am suddenly very aware that I am a young woman travelling alone with unmanageable amounts of luggage. The man walks towards me with a sort of stagger.

“What tram are ya looking for? Where are ya going?”

I straighten up to my very tallest and gently show him the flat palm of my hand, in a gesture that says “everything’s okay” and simultaneously “don’t come any closer”. I tell him with all confidence, “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

There it is, again. A strange man has approached a girl on public transport, trying to establish a rapport, and she has refused his advances. (Similar to my run-in with the Bogan on the Bus.) If he were genuinely an altruistic soul seeking to help, he would understand and back off with aplomb. But Sweatpants Man shows his true colours.

“Fine,” he spits angrily. “Just trying to help.” He stomps off, up the platform, growling under his breath.

Whenever I travel, I frequently second-guess my attitude towards strange men. Am I being unkind? Are they justified in being pissed off when I don’t respond to their advances with rapturous gratitude? But then I ask myself, why does he get so angry? If his motive in approaching me was really concern for my welfare, then he would be relieved to hear that I’m fine. If his motive is something else entirely … then I’m better off staying away from him.

The unknown men who help me haul Big Red onto trains – the meaty-armed saviours – they never need to know anything about my life. They never ask me questions. These men are the genuine altruists, the men who see a person who needs an extra hand, and provide it. Sometimes they offer help when I don’t need it, or when I’m determined to struggle with my bags alone. When I wave these men away, they don’t turn nasty. They don’t get angry, because they had no vested interest in helping me. They were – literally – just trying to help.

So maybe I am paranoid. I don’t like telling strange men where I’m headed, or what my plans are. But hey, at least I’m safe. And I know that if help is genuinely offered, I can accept it without fear.

French Bra Guy

Transports of Delight

My friend and I shuffle onto the crowded train at the Fremantle station. There are hardly any seats left, so we have to sit apart from each other. I settle into my seat. The man sitting next to me is wearing a slightly sloppy suit, glasses, and a bright purple bra over his clothes … Wait, what? I double-take.

He catches me looking and grins widely. “You like my brassiere?” he asks, in a slightly slurred French accent.

I reach for a quip. “Yes, it brings out your eyes.”

“Today is the day you wear a bra to work, you know. Even the men.”

“Is it?” (No other men are wearing bras.)

“Yes! Perhaps you and your friend would like to wear a bra like this?”

He is now gesturing towards my brassiere region. I decide this conversation is over.

“No thanks,” I say, and turn back to my friend. She is staring straight ahead, seemingly unaffected by my situation. I’m a bit surprised at her lack of reaction.

The man is still talking.

“I ‘ave just been to a job interview.”

I am now trying to segue out of the conversation by grunting noncommittally and making minimal eye contact. “Uh huh.”

“I am going to work in the mining … I am a business man …” He goes on like this. Occasionally he lapses into French and I have even less idea what he’s talking about. He is crushed right up against me on the crowded seats, practically nuzzling my ear. I lock eyes with my friend; if she can catch everything my eyes are saying, she should be hearing screams inside her head right now.

I keep leaning away from the French man, which he seems to take as a sign to keep leaning closer. I’m on the point of standing up and moving to the other end of the train carriage when the glorious announcement comes over the speakers: this is our stop! We are free!

My friend and I exit the train (followed by loud farewells from French Bra Guy). I still feel a little hurt that my friend didn’t seem sympathetic to my plight. Suddenly, she explodes with rage.

“UGH, THAT GUY WAS THE WORST! FUCKING PARISIANS!!”

After a long, generalised rant about the evils of Frenchmen, she explains that she had spent the whole train ride concentrating very carefully on not unleashing her hatred upon him. She recently spent a year living in Switzerland with a French-speaking family, and thus could understand everything that French Bra Guy had been saying. Including the French. Apparently it had not been flattering.

We finally have a laugh, happy in the open sunshine of the outside. It is pleasant to be out of the train.

I don’t think about the French Bra Guy again for weeks. Then, one night, I’m catching the Fremantle train once again. It’s late, and the security guards are the only other people on the train. I strike up a chat with them.

“Which is the worst train line?”

The security guards consider this, tilting their heads. The one who looks like Shannon Noll answers.

“Well, Armadale gets a bit interesting. We pretty much see a fight every shift. But Fremantle … oh, Fremantle. We call this the Crazy Line.”

What a delight to learn that I’m not alone in my appraisal. Even the security guards think this train line is nuts.

Shannon Noll Security Guard continues. “Man, we see the same people so often, we even get to know them by name. This train is like free housing for the crazies.”

I nod. “I know! Like this guy I saw last week, he was wearing a purple bra over his suit …”

The security guard interrupts. “Was he French?”

How the heck does he know this? “Yes! He was!”

“Oh yeah, we know him. He’s okay when he’s on his meds, but when he stops taking them … Well, we have to watch him.”

I wonder if the occasion with the purple bra was on a Meds Day or a No-Meds Day.

As I wave goodbye to the friendly security guards, I reflect on the nature of their job. Just like a hairdresser is also part therapist, so it seems that a Transperth security guard is also part psychiatric nurse. Good luck to those noble souls who work the Fremantle line. Good luck, and good night!

'Do you like art?'

Transports of Delight

I thought I had the Fremantle train line all worked out.

Out of all Perth’s metropolitan train lines, the Fremantle line seems to be the one with the most … interesting people. Or, as a Transperth security guy once described it to me, “free housing for the crazies”. (His words, not mine.) The “crazies” are usually flamboyantly weird, but benign. Nevertheless, sometimes it is nice to get through your commute without any Transports of Delight. (Dare I say it? Sometimes a boring train ride is preferable.) So, I usually do my best to avoid attention.

I’ve gathered a few pertinent strategies, and I will elaborate on them in later posts. But one crucial strategy is location, location, location. Where you sit can determine how likely you are to have someone yell at you about their ex-wife for forty minutes.

My main strategy for riding the Fremantle line is to find a seat with an empty seat opposite, so I’m not staring directly into the face of another person. Then I employ a technique I call “going catatonic”, where I remain in the same attitude, without looking around or moving, for the rest of the journey. Public People usually seem to interpret movement, or any sign of life whatsoever, as an invitation to engage. Therefore: play dead.

As you walk through the doors of a Fremantle train carriage, you are faced with two options: you can either sit in the small cul-de-sac at the end of the carriage, which is slightly separate to the main carriage; or you can turn the other way and sit in the main, cattle-class seating area.

I walked onto a Fremantle train carriage and performed my usual quick scan for locations. The main seating area was quite crowded and had few empty seats. I turned to my left. The carriage cul-de-sac was completely empty, except for one regular-looking guy sitting in the corner. I went that way, thinking the nearly-empty cul-de-sac would make for a nice, quiet ride.

I hadn’t even sat down when Regular-Looking Guy started shouting non-sequiters at me. “THAT’S A NICE DRESS. DO YOU LIKE ART?” My heart sank. I had chosen the wrong location.

When I didn’t respond to his questioning, Regular-Looking-Guy-Who-Was-Actually-Crazy continued to shout. “I DON’T REALLY LIKE ART. LOOK, THIS IS ART.” He motioned to the large canvas he had propped on the seat next to him.

“THIS IS AN ORIGINAL PRINT OF A JACKSON POLLOCK.” Pause. “LOOK, HIS NAME’S ON IT, THERE. LOOK THERE!”

I did not look there. I was not even remotely in the mood for this. But I knew if I stayed in his cul-de-sac, with no one else to draw his attention, he would keep on at me like this. The volume at which he spoke told me that he was not someone who would respond to, or even notice social cues. So, I stood up and moved to a better location, down the train.

I find it really difficult to be this openly rude to someone, by the way. It doesn’t come naturally; I’ve had to school myself in the art of rebuffing people. I still feel bad about it, but when you’re a young female journeying alone, it becomes a matter of personal safety. American author Gavin de Becker wrote an excellent book called The Gift of Fear, in which he points out that people, women especially, often remain in dangerous situations to avoid ‘being rude’ to a stranger. If a strange man tries to strike up a conversation with you (the single female), you’ll probably feel obligated to respond, even if the guy gives you the creeps. According to de Becker, this is because

explicitness applied by women in this culture has a terrible reputation. A woman who is clear and precise is viewed as cold, or a bitch, or both. A woman is expected, first and foremost, to respond to every communication from a man. And the response is expected to be one of willingness and attentiveness. (de Becker, 1997)

Well, I didn’t respond with willingness or attentiveness to Regular-Looking-Guy-Who-Was-Actually-Crazy, and to my knowledge, society has not imploded. The guy didn’t even seem that fazed – this must happen to him a lot. While RLGWWAC was not necessarily a threat to my safety, he made me feel uncomfortable. He was a stranger, a man who made unsolicited approaches to a woman sitting alone. A regular guy (who was actually regular) would have just left me alone.

At the next stop, a tidal wave of teenagers flowed into the train, and they immediately filled up RLGWWAC’s cul-de-sac. Nothing, not even hundreds of lorikeets screeching in the pine trees over Cottesloe – not even they could be louder than a group of teens on a train. But amidst the din, I could hear RLGWWAC’s voice rising from the middle of the crowd. He was in his element. “DO YOU LIKE ART? HOW ‘BOUT YOU? HAVE YOU HEARD OF JACKSON POLLOCK?”

A few stops later, I noticed Regular-Looking-Guy-Who-Was-Actually-Crazy trying to push his way out of the throng, his Pollock print flapping at his side. The teenagers sullenly moved aside for him. (I’m not just stereotyping here, this lot looked genuinely sullen.) RLGWWAC turned around and hollered at them, “GOODBYE! HUGS AND KISSES FOR MUMS!” He departed, adding, “HUGS AND KISSES FOR DADS TOO!”

Since this experience, I have learned two things about the carriage cul-de-sac. Firstly, it is not a good location for single journeyers, mainly because it is usually commandeered by large groups of friends who want to chat loudly to each other about “what Mark said”.

Secondly, if it’s empty except for one man, even though the rest of the train is crowded, that guy is probably animal crackers crazy.

The Forensic Psychiatrist

Transports of Delight

Plugging away at my iPhone on the train, I look up for a moment and catch an intriguing tableau.

A young teenage boy is sitting sandwiched between other passengers: a pair of older gentlemen on one side, and a man in a wifebeater on the other side. The older gentlemen are quietly discussing something, with their heads close together. Wifebeater Man is slouching, knees wide apart (one of the hallmarks of the male Public Person), with long slicked-back hair and a plaid shirt tied around his waist. But this isn’t what catches my eye.

The man in the wifebeater is reaching his arm across the boy, middle finger stuck determinedly in the air. He holds his arm straight out for a good minute, pointing his fist expectantly at the pair of older gents. But the gents don’t notice, so the tableau holds like this for a long pause, while the teenage boy sits awkwardly in the middle.

Finally, Wifebeater Man bellows “OY, LOOK AT THAT,” and when the gents notice him flipping them off, they roll their eyes and ignore him. Wifebeater Man cackles long and hard.

The teenage boy, evidently a very well-mannered teenage boy, assumes (as I do) that the man is friends with the older gents. The boy says to the man, “Sorry, did you want to sit next to them,” offering to trade seats. This is how Wifebeater Man replies:

“NAAAH, NAAAH, YOU’RE ALRIGHT. YOU LISTEN TO ME, SON, YOU MARRY YOUR MISSUS, YOU BECOME A DOCTOR OR SOMETHING, AND THEN ONE DAY, YOU’LL FIND YOU’RE A GRANDDAD!” More cackling. “I’M A FORENSIC PSYCHIATRIST!”

The teenage boy looks like he doesn’t know how to respond to this, and smiles politely. (I’ve noticed during many Transports of Delight that Public People tend to latch onto teenagers when looking for targets to talk to, because younger people are generally flattered by the attention and aren’t yet cynical enough to ignore the crazy person.)

Wifebeater Man continues. “YOU GOTTA MISSUS? YOU GOTTA MISSUS IN YOUR LIFE?”

The boy, speaking so quietly that he can’t be heard by the whole train carriage, responds with a negative.

“SHE BROKE UP WITH YOU?”

The boy, a little louder now, says, “Other way round, actually.”

“AARRH, WELL, YOU GOTTA GET A MISSUS. AND YOU MARRY HER. I’M FIFTY YEARS OLD, YOU LISTEN TO ME. YOU’LL DO ALRIGHT. AAARRHAHAH.”

The boy asks, “Do you have a missus?”

Wifebeater Man grins and stretches himself out contentedly, and I know from years of experience that we’re about to be treated to a Tale of Woe.

“I HAD A MISSUS, YEP I HAD A MISSUS. BUT I LOST HER, SHE KICKED ME OUT. I LIVE, I LIVE ON THE STREETS, I’M A HOMELESS PERSON ON THE STREETS.”

I’m starting to feel bad now, not just because it turns out that this guy might be homeless. I mainly feel bad because I have serious doubts that he’s homeless. How much of a cynic have I become? My response to hearing that someone is having life troubles is suspicion? But then I remember that there are different types of homelessness that don’t involve sleeping rough. He’s probably moving from mate’s house to mate’s house, until he finds a place. This makes more sense, because he doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping under bridges.

But I never get to find out what kind of homeless he is, because at that moment we pull into Claremont Station. The teenage boy stands up and farewells Wifebeater Man, who waves him off good-naturedly. The man falls into silence for the rest of the journey. I go back to my iPhone.

Bogans on the Bus

Transports of Delight

I get on the bus, and it’s empty except for three other passengers. One man in very nice shoes is sat right up the front of the bus, looking like he’s trying to practise invisibility. The other two are a couple of clearly drunk middle-aged persons. I tag on and walk past Mr Nice Shoes. He stares straight ahead. I soon learn why.

As I’m about to pass the couple, the bleary-eyed man says “Heeeello” and reaches out a hand to grab at me. I dodge him, say “Hi”, and keep going. This from the Grabber: “F–k you c—t, I was only being polite.”

From my position far, far down the back of the bus, I now notice that the woman with the Grabber is holding a dirty Chux to her forehead. She starts a halting but firm diatribe at the man.

“Who are you … even though I’m with you … who ARE YOU to tell me … to tell me to shut up?”

Man: “Oh, here we go.”

Woman: “Who … are you …”

Man: “Heerre, suck on this.”

Woman: “I’m not sucking on anything! I’m bleeding!”

Man: “Just finish this [evidently meaning drink].”

Woman: “I won’t finish it! … We’ll share it.”

Man: “How will we share it with you … with you bllessshhudinuh?”

 

The woman suddenly shrieks at the bus driver. “SHUDDINAHHHERE? We gone past it?”

The bus driver, to his credit, calmly replies, “Yes, we stop at the train station.”

Woman: “This gaawdutha train station?”

Bus driver: “Yes [sigh], we stop at the train station.”

 

Me? I press the bell and get off at the next stop, no matter where the hell it is. Sorry to the bus driver and Mr Nice Shoes, you’re on your own.