station'ry

I sat under this sign
and maybe
just maybe
the funny looks weren't aimed
at me, this time.

oh, wait...

A shock on the 86 this morning - it's not right for a Monday, not when it's the wrong side of 7am - we've got one of those trams where they've ripped out most of the seats and put a line of bum-cushions down along the windows, instead. For a little while, I teeter on the edge of one of the few real seats left, but figure that I'll be giving it up for somebody more worthy some time real soon now, and so decide to pre-empt the situation before there's nowhere good to stand. The end of the tram suits me. I can stare out the back window, watching the rails shoot out and away, the rain make patterns on the windscreen, and drivers swarming around the rear of the tram like angry bees.

On my last ride to in work on the 112 tram, we reached the SuperStop^TM at the top end of Collins St. I watched a scraggly old man carefully drape an Australian flag across a rubbish bin, before picking up his plastic bags and walking off. A few passers-by looked nervously at it, before it blew off and fell in a crumpled heap on the ground.

We sped toward the city in the dark and I nestled my camera on my lap as the taxi driver waxed enthusiastically about winning two thousand on the horses today, further proof that today was his lucky day. My waving him down on the side of the nearby main road was also proof of his lucky day, since he'd just dropped someone off and was hoping to head back to the city. But horses. He was keen. He studied the form guides, watched the international races now and then (but didn't do so well on the Japanese horse that won last year's Melbourne Cup) but seemed to be forming the opinion based on today's experience that a slightly crazy bet now and then was almost a surer way to win (if you were going to win at all, that day).

He told me a story about taking some friends to the races, years ago, along with a visiting Polish family member who couldn't speak much English, but pointed at a horse called "Lulu" on the sheet, so they put a few bucks down for her. It came in at 25:1. Blind luck, he said, shaking his head. When I got out, I wished him luck. Well, further luck.

Overheard on the 70 tram heading along Flinders St today, just after midday: "Shakespeare had it hard, y'know...the puritans tried to ban theatre...they tried to ban Christmas!"

I took a slightly more circuitous route home, thinking that a walk would do me good, and that I'd be able to see how the old street was going. The tram, however, was full. I couldn't see much past the other passengers, so it was all just a blur of old Northcote memories as I strained to see through the window and work out what had changed in the past few months. By the time the crowd thinned out I was back in more familiar territory, so I left it behind and set out on foot.

station'ry is expanding to cover trams, buses and taxis - i haven't been taking the train much, lately, and we seem a bit starved for content.

From somewhere behind me, a voice rings out as we head north, alongside Hoddle St:

"Hi. Yeah, I'm on my way to Epping now, and I'm pissed.
Yeah, I've got my traveller.
Geez, I'm the only one on the train having fun.
Nar, nobody else looks particularly merry.
Anywa, I'll seeya soon. Ciao. Bye."

sit down on the train
hot
bothered
i just want to get home
no train for 15 minutes
so i hop on the hurstbridge one instead

one row of seats ahead
a girl looks at me
pouting
looking terribly unimpressed
i don't know what sin
i could've possibly committed
but i stare out the window
avoiding eye contact
from here on in

turn up the fall
as we speed through
richmond
and abbotsford
"ten times my age
and one tenth my height"
says mark e smith

later
we reach clifton hill
over the music
i can suddenly hear her mention
the word "epping"
to her friend
who reaches for her timetable
for the epping line

i get off at westgarth
to walk over to the tram
and wonder
should i have said something?

The train emerges from the underpass
to be assaulted by the early morning sunlight

I try to squint into it.
along with the others
who forgot what side of the train to sit on
Daylight savings' salvation still a week away
The sun screams into my face
slipping into the carriage
like a veteran fare evader
urban shadows flash across the scene
strobing through my clenched eyelids.

The people who knew what they wanted to be when they grew up
stare back at us,
they knew where to sit, saw it all coming.
the scratched windows mock us further with disfiguring shadows
hastily applied vandal wrinkles, defying age or status.

Blind hands lay frozen solid in our laps
the proximity to strangers
strangers we see every day
immobilises us

until the passageway fills
with more commuters
some savvy, some fools,
at Camberwell.

White City station lives on in old editions of the map, if nowhere else - I walked along Sunshine Road today, and there really is no trace of it, as Wikipedia warned. I've got a childhood nostalgia for the western suburbs that's hard to shake. It reminds me of the old blue trains, which makes me think of the smell of brake fluid and rubber as they'd hurtle through the (brand new) city loop with the doors open, creating a deafening roar. Being young and impressionable, I'd worry about somehow falling out one of these open doorways, left to scrape my way out of a greasy and dusty tunnel on my own.

(see also.)