The Commuter
Seven connected pieces of flash fiction about one man’s struggle with his daily commute.
Part 1: Departure
Another packed morning train; indistinguishable from the one I caught yesterday, the day before, last week, or every other time before that. As usual, it’s standing room only and I’m crammed in the area near the doors with ten or so other passengers. The ‘engaged’ light above the toilet door informs us that it’s in use, but it’s not needed. A heavy, acrid smell drifts through the carriage, clinging to the roof of every mouth it forces its way into.
To my right, a man with a perfectly sculpted beard is openly watching pornography on his mobile; he at least has the decency to keep the sound muted. The woman standing next to him is yapping into her own phone, punctuating her conversation with hand gestures that are far too broad and animated for the confined space. A huddle of school children giggle as they compare phone screens with one another, and two builders wait to disembark, having squeezed down the packed aisle a few moments earlier. To my left, a short, middle-aged woman has been sneezing into my shoulder continuously since she boarded. The tip of her nose glistens and the skin around her nostrils is inflamed and peeling from excessive wiping. Taking a break from her germ spreading, she squirms one of her arms free and retrieves a piece of balled-up toilet tissue from her coat pocket. It crumbles in her hands as she ruffles through it. With a dry patch eventually found, she spits the contents of her throat into it.
I lean back against the doors and close my eyes, hoping that the music playing through my headphones can take me somewhere else. Anywhere. For the briefest moment it does; I’m in an open-topped car, racing along country roads as the early evening sun beats down upon me. But I’m dragged back to reality when air turbulence from a train running in the opposite direction rattles the doors in their housing.
Metal bites into metal as the train brakes. The carriage judders and squeals in pain, protesting against the need to stop. We all jerk forward. Despite our closeness, we avoid eye contact as we collide into one another, staring off into the middle distance.
A swarm of passengers, waiting impatiently to board in our place, greets us on the platform. In their eagerness to secure a seat, they surge forward and crowd the doors, making it impossible for us to alight.
‘How the hell are you gonna get on if we can’t get off?’ the bearded man shouts over the crowd.
His words do nothing to ease the crush. It’s as if they resent our break for freedom and want to keep us penned in for one more journey.
At this rate, I’ll be stuck on this train forever.
Part 2: Missed Connection
Clearing condensation from the train window with the sleeve of my jacket, I take in the train’s progress as it passes through a valley of industrial estates.
Outside, the early morning sun is forcing its way between endless rows of factories and abandoned buildings, creating a strobing effect against the rust-coloured brickwork. The warm light coats them in a halo of amber and maroon. The scene is almost picturesque. Almost. A priceless work of art on display, encased by the train window. A masterpiece outside while I peer from within, enclosed in a steel frame.
The abandoned buildings that line the route have succumbed to the onslaught of time but their dull walls have been re-invigorated with bright stencil artwork, transforming them into giant canvases. Approaching the city, the graffiti gets more prolific and more vibrant too, as it threatens to enrich the surroundings.
As the train enters the gloom of the station tunnel, I notice the phrase ‘THIS IS NOT AN EXIT’ sprayed on the wall in bold lettering. Trundling past, I catch a glimpse of someone. Maybe it’s the artist putting the finishing touches to his work? I crane my neck to get a better look outside, but I’m too late. The train is absorbed by the darkof the tunnel, and all I see is my own distorted reflection looking back at me.
Part 3: Tunnel Vision
The man sitting in the row of seats opposite me is agitated, maybe even crying, and I hadn’t even noticed for the first half of my journey. As I steal glances of him over my paperback, I get a flash of déjà vu; as if I’ve seen him before. I shake off the feeling. We’re a train carriage of familiar strangers, thrown together while doing our best to keep as much distance from one another as we can; of course I’ve seen him before.
I watch the man jabs at his phone screen. While he waits for a reply, or whatever information he’s searching for to appear, a frown etches into his features. When the information comes back, his hand goes limp, and he drops his phone into his lap. He drags his other hand across his head and pulls his fingers down around his neck, reddening the skin.
All the other passengers in the carriage are staring at everything but him.
I’m overcome with the urge to say something. To reassure him. I imagine moving forward to tap his knee. He’ll wince, unsure of my intentions, and glare back at me but I’ll offer an expression that I hope says, it’ll be okay. His face will soften then and he’ll half smile and mouth: thanks, before returning to his phone.
But that’s not what I do.
I join the rest of the carriage and concentrate on anything but him. I hope that he gets off soon, because feigning ignorance can be hard to maintain on the longer journeys.
Part 4: Platform, Ringside
There are two passengers rolling around on the wet platform, fighting. Their muffled grunts and fragmented insults pepper the stunned silence of the carriage. I’m genuinely surprised that this hasn’t happened before.
The two previous trains had been cancelled and so, when this train did eventually arrive, there was a baying mob waiting to board it. Inside the carriage, there are enough passengers to fill several trains. We’re like cows en route to market. Cattle class.
‘Could everyone please move down the aisles to allow your fellow passengers to board,’ the conductor announced from the comfort of his cabin. The shift in responsibility didn’t go unnoticed.
We were shuffling to create space that didn’t exist for the boarding passengers when the fight started. In the door space, a middle-aged man (I assume he’s a history teacher given the various shades of beige that he’s dressed in) barges into a younger man. The younger man (an estate agent, with chiselled hair and a fitted suit) shoves back. He sends the teacher crashing into the passengers around them. Luckily, the passengers are so tightly packed together that the teacher is cushioned from falling to the floor. An elderly woman caught up in the tussle screams and several people yell for the men to stop, but it’s too late. The teacher launches himself at the younger man, sending them both tumbling out of the train. The passengers waiting on the platform disperse and allow the two men to flail about on the ground. Some take out their phones and begin filming and taking pictures rather than intervening. Though they’re hardly capturing the fight of the century, just a flurry of mistimed swings and face grabbing. It’s the pugilistic equivalent of dad-dancing.
The men are separated now, restrained by a handful of passengers, and soaked in muddy rainwater. The estate agent’s face is covered in scratches and red marks. He continues to struggle, desperate to be allowed free to continue the fight. While the teacher appears better off physically, his shirt is ripped open and his tie is pulled into a knot that looks like it will take a week to loosen.
I’m not entirely sure if they were fighting to get on or to get off the train.
Part 5: Family Ticket
I see my family in the passengers around me in the train carriage. I’ve gathered their history and relationship details from snippets of overheard conversations, or fabricated it from their appearance and behaviour. The human resources officer is my brother. He hires and fires via his laptop and ends every call with, bye, bye, bye, whatever news he’s delivered. My sister is the klutzy woman who stumbles whenever the train stops, apologising to anyone that she’s bumped into, as if she is somehow responsible. The man-spreaders, the builders with their muddy boots resting on seats and the people who want everyone else to hear their telephone conversations, are my extended family — the relatives I only ever see at weddings or funerals. My father is the man who eats his breakfast on-board every morning: two slices of lightly toasted bread, cut into perfect triangles and neatly wrapped in foil. My mother is the woman herding small children off to nursery before she can continue her journey to work. Her three children fit snugly in their seats, legs dangling over the lip.
And then there’s my wife…
She’s the woman with the bobbed brown hair, sitting across the table from me. She rests her head against one hand as she reads from a dog-eared Stephen King paperback. It’s a book I’ve read several times myself, and it gives me a warm hug to see someone else losing themself in the same world.
My wife pauses between chapters and gazes out of the window, her eyes flicking back and forth as she watches the world streaking by outside. The angle of her reflection allows me to look over her face, taking in every curve and line, without staring directly at her, and without drawing attention to myself. It’s as though she’s staring out at me. There’s a dimple on her left cheek that appears when she smiles, and whenever she’s thinking, she runs her index finger across her bottom lip. I mirror her actions, keen to experience the same sensation. We travel together like this for several stops, my wife lost to the world outside while I’m lost to her.
But all too soon the train begins to slow, and she gathers up her things to get off at the next stop.
Watching my wife leave, I vow to find the same seat on the same train tomorrow afternoon. Then, when I sit down opposite her, I’ll start up a conversation, just like I’d planned to do today.
Part 6: No Access Beyond this Point
The station tannoy wails, cutting through the bustle on the platform, and then a monotone announcement rings out: All trains are currently suspended. Staff are dealing with a trespasser on the tracks. Please remain in the station and await further instructions.
As the details of the message are digested there’s silence, quickly followed by an explosion of movement as everybody rushes for the exit.
The handful of people who’ve chosen to remain on the platform alongside me glare up at the crackling tannoy as if their attention will somehow spring it back to life. I look over at the steps that lead from the platform to the exit; they’re overflowing with people. Even if I wanted to get out now, I couldn’t. But there is another exit; The tunnel that leads in and out of the station. Because the trains are all suspended, it would be easy to follow the tracks outside.
If I had to guess, I’d say that the tunnel couldn’t be more than a few hundred metres long. I could make that in a minute or two. As I’m accessing my escape plan, a light flickers in the tunnel ahead of me. It’s as if someone or something has broken the beam of light working its way in from the other end. I squint into the darkness and step forward to get a better look, moving past the sign that warns me against trespassing on the tracks.
Light flickers again, this time accompanied by the sound of crunching ballast.
‘Hey! You shouldn’t be in there,’ I call out.
In my attempt to get a better look, I edge off the platform. I glance down at my feet and then over my shoulder to check if anyone has noticed what I’ve done. Adrenaline dries my throat. The passengers on the platform continue to gape up at the tannoy, and before I fully realise what I’m doing, I’ve started running forward.
‘Who’s there?’ I shout. The question echoes back at me.
When I reach the tunnel, I find nobody. Which means that whoever is there must be ahead of me. I pick up my pace, expanding the light ahead of me with each stride, desperate to catch whoever it is and knowing that I can’t go back now.
‘Hey!’ I call out again. But my voice is drowned out by the roar of a train making its way into the tunnel towards me.
I move left, stepping away from the tracks and pinning myself against the tunnel wall. Light from the oncoming train floods the space, pushing back the darkness and unveiling the graffiti that covers the walls. Sprayed above me, in bold lettering, is the phrase, ‘THIS IS NOT AN EXIT’.
I spin to watch the train clatter past, and as I do, stones slip beneath my feet and I stumble forward. Instinctively, I throw my hands out to protect my face and my palms hit the ground. My elbows crumple, unable to absorb the weight of the impact, and my face slams against the ground.
The light from the tunnel expands and attempts to set me free, but inch by inch it’s beaten back, until I’m finally consumed by the darkness.
Part 7: Single Return
I’m not sure how long it took me to figure things out: days, weeks, months or even years, but I’ve finally discovered what a train actually is. It’s a cell. It’s a metal box that drags me from one place to the next, and while I’m on board I’m neither where I was, where I’m going or where I want to be. I’m somewhere in between. Penned in and waiting.
I’m aboard another packed train. No different to the one I caught yesterday, the day before, last week, or every other time before that. Somehow I’ve managed to secure myself a seat. I check my phone for the train timetable but I can’t get a signal. I try again and again, impatiently prodding the screen. It’s futile. There’s no signal. No timetable. No trains. Nothing.
I drag my fingers across my head and down the back of my neck in frustration.
And that’s when he reaches forward and taps me on the knee. I frown at him and then glance around the carriage but all the other passengers are staring elsewhere, busying themselves with anything they can. I wince, not from the physical contact, but because of the desperate look of hope on his face. His pitiful expression attempts to convey that everything is going to be okay. But who exactly is he trying to convince?
The kindest thing would be to reveal the truth. To tell him that none of us are going anywhere, not really.
But I don’t.
I half smile, mouth thanks, and turn my attention back to my phone.
He’ll get here eventually. We always do.
