The Commuter’s Tale

by Mark Dalligan

We descend in the hum and silver slither of the escalator. The digital destination board and orderly ticket queues, the aroma of burgers and coffee: all deceptive comforts. The relative safety of the anonymous streets has been left behind and we’ve rejoined an older world.
 
Our tribe mills outside the gates of platforms 14-18. There are the usual groupings of youth and elders. Sometimes the first are loud, sometimes the second. Respect moderates the outcome.
 
On occasion, when the board is red with delays and cancellations, instead of a gathering of minutes we gather for hours. Then a dark mood can descend and tension grows. The darkness lengthens as more and more arrive, and our hearts are hit with further despair as personal space is invaded.
 
Incidents begin to occur. One man decides to use another route and promotes arguments as he pushes his way to an exit. A woman missing the start of her own Hen night. starts crying.
 
Big men, with bellies full of beer, shout at the lack of trains and information. Railway staff quickly retire behind the barriers and yellow-jacketed Community Police advance to protect them.
 
A rumour circulates that a train for Southend has been redirected to platform 11. Another tribe has been allowed through and stand four deep in the space that should be ours. A wild cry rises from an elderly, pin-stripe suited man, and as one we charge the barriers.
 

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~ This piece was posted on Monday, April 28th, 2008 and was filed under Writing, Short Story. You can make comments on it below. ~