5:46 to Glen Waverley

Today I watched a man yell into the passenger intercom on the 5:46 train to Glen Waverley .

‘Open the goddam doors,’ he yelled. ‘Some people have places to be.’

I looked around to see if anyone else on the carriage found amusement from the man, his act of so-called ‘defiance against the system’ was the most entertaining thing I had seen all day – besides of course counting the number of times co-worker Denise pinched her wedgy on the shopfront floor – but sadly, no one else was watching the yelling man, their beating eyes glued to handheld devices or pretending to read books.

Was something wrong with me? I thought. To find this public display of affliction so enjoyable, to draw humour from a middle-aged man in a suit who supposedly, like the rest of us had some ‘place to be’ – but the man started to bang his fists on the glass windows, and suddenly I was saved from the spiralling trance of moral consciousness I was about to enter.

The train had stopped at Richmond, the Holy of all Hollies in station terms. The labyrinth of interconnected tracks, where the number of rats outweighs the number of daily commuters. The penultimate station before everyone’s fan favourite, Flinders Street. And there we were, stuck in an unmoving carriage for a total of five minutes. I repeat, five whole minutes. And while you might be asking, why not open the doors? Well, my friend, that tiny glowing button was not glowing green, the doors were sealed shut.

‘A fault in the tracks ahead,’ the conductor (are they still called conductors?) announced over the intercom. You could tell he was in the right job, his voice raspy with exhaustion, a slight strain upon speaking that came from years of hard labour and a distaste for talking too loudly – hence these announcements were the brunt of the job, like taking out the garbage was for mine.

Stuck on this immobilised train with a bunch of strangers, thoughts among the carriage began to air, grunts and whispers, sighs of disbelief, the look of utter hatred for an invisible man with a raspy voice. How long would it take for the aircon to shut down and we’d be breathing in the odour of 9-5 workaholics who’d had too many pints at the local during lunchtime?

I turned back to see what Yelling Man was up to. He had found some troubled youths to claim as his minions. ‘Let’s fuck this train up,’ Yelling Man whispered to the two teenage boys with identical greasy mullets.

‘Yeah, okay mate. Take this,’ Mullet #1 said, handing him a box of stickers that from what I can gather, the boys personalised online with their own branding…

Yes, that’s right folks. Forget graffiti and spray cans, boys are much more environmentally conscious today than they've ever been, now resorting to personalising stickers with their own tags.

‘That’s it boys, brand the train,’ Yelling Man praised.

The boys started to, indeed, brand the carriage windows with their personalised stickers. I couldn’t make out the name on the stickers. I didn’t want to squint to read and seem overly eager in their crime in case the trio turned on me, instead of the common enemy, the conductor.

Line after line of stickers, the window of one door was covered. The boys smirked and sniffled. Success. Boy did we get ‘em. Yelling Man pressed the intercom button again and spoke:

‘We're gonna destroy the train mate if you don’t hurry up.’

Static, no words from the conductor. In moments like this, I wish I could morph into the conductor’s body and respond with a classy ‘Get fucked mate.’

After the fifth row of personalised stickers, the train jolted forward, releasing itself from the platform. Passengers sighed with relief, some of the more cringe-worthy ones clapping in recognition like those idiots who clap after a movie – who you clapping for? The movie can’t hear you, nor can the conductor!

Off we went, bumping slowly until a gradual speed picked up. I looked at my watch, it was now 6pm.

The trio dispersed. The mullet boys took a seat, gawking at the photos of the train art they had created. Yelling Man with his smug little smile turned around to face the carriage of passengers. An expression of triumphant glory I wish I could slap away. But sadly, no one else was watching, their beating eyes glued to handheld devices or pretending to read books.