When it is a very hot summer day in London the tube is stifling. Packed with people on peak hour all you can smell is the odour of a million bodies sweating underground. Oddly, this doesn’t bother me. It is the way it is. We live, we sweat, we ride the tube.
On one of these particularly hot days I stood on an overcrowded tube carriage. A man stood on the opposite side to me with a shirt undone so a slither of skin could be seen. Pretty proud of himself – he was squashed in between two tall beautiful women clearly uninterested in their spiky haired meat in the middle. We arrived at Bond Street Station. Another leggy, gorgeous woman stepped on to the carriage. The man was overjoyed to welcome this new guest on to our already glamorous travelling crew, his mouth grinned as the doors opened to let her in. She passed the man to find a vacant tube space further inside the carriage. Whilst doing so she brushed his body and pulled his unbuttoned shirt right open so that it revealed his chest. And as the shirt lifted further we all saw a pair of ray ban sunglasses hanging from his single, small nipple ring. The women on either side of him couldn’t control themselves and burst out in to laughter. The man went pink and pulled his shirt closed. I giggled and turned away…
A less busy autumn carriage. No one was standing, but each seat was taken. The seats lined both walls of the carriage so that every person had someone else sitting opposite, looking straight back at them. Or, realistically, trying very hard to avoid eye contact by reading newspapers, flicking pages on kindles, playing games on iPhones, listening to iPods, drawing up work on iPads – public transport the real advertisement for Apple. ‘Want to avoid eye contact? Get an I-something.’ I too sat with my iPhone writing emails and playing games. Our peace was unexpectedly disrupted as we stopped at the station and the entire opposite side stood up and got off the carriage. No-one on my side stood up and absolutely no-one else came on to the carriage. This meant that we were left with a row of people, staring at an entire row of empty seats. Unprecedented and unrepeated in my experiences. So, with the shift in weight, a self-consciousness grew amongst the travellers, made palpable by the closeness that everyone felt between themselves and their shouldering companions. Men and women in a crisis of close proximity after a lifetime of being programmed to stand on the opposite corner of the lift. This went against all training. (Don’t mind the pun). So, ‘To swap to the other side or to stay put’ was the question of our collective thoughts. If I swap over then I may offend the strangers on either side of me and if I stay put I may suggest I am comfortable being physically close to another. (Which, as previously stipulated, goes against our basic urban training). Heat radiated off our side of the carriage. Eye balls twitched and palms got clammy. I was loving it. And then, as if time had passed too quickly, the train stopped, again, at the next station without anyone having time (or desire, or gumption) to move to the other side. This was my stop. Along with many others. And as we stepped off, other travelers came on. The pressure was pierced and released. A minute of disorder rectified.
In another packed like pickles carriage. Bodies were face to face, arms were in the air holding on to the roof. A man sneezed directly in the face of a stranger. The recipient’s wet face showed a combined look of shock and horror.
Women are always putting on make-up. Mascara, mascara, more mascara.
The Times. The Evening Standard.
60 year old men playing angry birds.
Suits. Lots of suits.
Recently, Fifty Shades of Grey. For the past three years, Harry Potter.
Prams worth a couple of months rent. Sleepy children.
And tears.
I was wearing one of my favourite, flowy dresses that flatters no-one but is too beautiful in its own right not to wear. I stood on the train. A boy in his early twenties looked at my belly, stood up from his seat, pointed at my seemingly huge stomach, and said, ‘Oh, please, take my seat’. My gut reaction was to not embarrass this poor boy who thought I was with child. So what did I do? I said, ‘Thank you so much’, sat down, stuck out my tummy and rubbed it as I sat. That was me. Impregnated as fast as a boy could say ‘please take my seat’ on a train. I felt my feet swelling. I thought my charade wouldn’t have to last too long but the boy stood, right there, for several stops, and I had many more stops to go. So I read the paper rubbing my tummy and smiling at the boy as if maternal hormones were running through my blood. Many stops later, my station was next. The boy was still beside me. So, I committed, and I held on to that hand rail, bended my knees, put my hand on my tummy and pulled myself up on to my feet with a big ‘Oy!’ to take the audience all the way home. One more flash of the mummy smile to the boy and I was off the train. Without baby, without vanity and certainly without dignity. I laughed later. And I haven’t worn that dress since.
The man asked for her name and number in front of all the other passengers. Just like that! And she gave it to him! Balls like mountains he had.
1am. Last train home. Vomit was running across the floor as if trying to hide from its owner. Girls caked in make-up screeched under the unforgiving tube light…
Somewhere else entirely it was the last train for us too. On the other side of London we were the only ones in our carriage. And with such freedom we took the liberty to welcome in the train Olympics with sprints, gymnastics and hurdles. Tipsy and tired I tried my hardest. I think Aaron was the best at hurdles and Max did swell at gymnastics. My sport was the sprint.
There are ghost stations underground that have been closed for different reasons over the years. We pass them all the time whilst riding the train but can’t see them because they just look like continued darkness.
Underground, under the financial district, we were on another busy carriage. The train stopped at the station and people got off. A woman was pushed out of the carriage unexpectedly so that she started to fall between the train and the platform. (Mind the gap). Before any of us realised exactly what was happening, a man held out his hand, grabbed her and pulled her back in. The doors closed and we went off again. As if nothing had occurred. The woman was shaky and thanked the man. He smiled and continued to read his paper. If we lived in Metropolis I would have been certain he was Clark.
The really funky Korean guy always wears perfectly fitted jeans and awesome shoes. Brightly coloured speakers on his ears and a uniquely branded satchel on his side. He gets off the tube in Soho.
There are no bins in underground tube stations to prevent terrorist action. That’s what I have been told. And considering this I think the stations are kept ridiculously clean. Really.
My favourite characters: the older couple in slacks, blouses, shirts, cardigans and glasses. Oxford accents or Eastern European accents. Or of African dissent. Their skin is worn and their fingers are curled in by their sides. They always look at the map inside the carriage as they get on. And, when there is only one seat available. He always asks her to please sit down. And she does. And when the seat next to her becomes available, he sits down beside her. And they hold hands. No words are spoken but they smile and look around with great big owl eyes. When the train arrives at their station she says, ok let’s go. And they use both hands to stand themselves up. And he gestures for her to lead. And she does. And as the train pulls off again, through the window, I see them on the platform, holding hands, slowly making their way, in their own time, to the exit.
And what I really want to know is the maths. What are the chances that I will be on the same carriage as a stranger two times, three times, four times a year? How many new faces do I see every day? How many people have accidentally kissed on the tube? How many people ride the tube for the first time every day? How many people are underground at 3.23? How many tummies of Vegemite and toast have been underground at one time?
If the ground was transparent and we could see the maze of trains below us. That would blow your mind, wouldn’t it?
