Chapter 5 - Something less serious now

It was a funny story, how me and Marco met.

The November (horse) Racing Carnival was in full swing and it was also the last of the end of year exams for Year 12 students in the state.

I had finished work at 10:45 p.m., which was just enough time for me to say my protracted goodbyes and make it to South Yarra station in time for the 11:13 train home. The train usually arrived at Beaconsfield station at 12:22 a.m., and then it would take about 20 minutes to walk home. The train was full, which was off odd for this time of the night, but the regulars were all there. It was both sad and comforting that we all recognised each other.

The train was 8 minutes late that night.

I had made myself a cup of tea in a takeaway cup to keep myself warm, not that it was that cold a night. I felt like a yuppie-Starbucks-drinking-Ipod listening stooge rushing about, so important and on the go. The station that night was busier than normal, as the final dregs left from the races filed onto the trains to drunkenly and cheaply get home. Heels in hands, ties in pockets. Fake tans were dissipating and the moulded hair dos no longer held their shape. There was the girl wrapped in her boyfriend’s coat, hair tied back, smiling after the good day. Her effortless beauty was a refreshing change from the rest of the crowd.

Having no choice, I sat amongst a hoop-la of teenagers, and leafed to the page I was up to. I was back to On the Road, having just finished Death of a Salesmen. I am not name dropping by the way, attempting to appear cool cos I know stuff and can mention it ever so naturally (shut up Alastair). I was just reading On the Road again. So, head down, music on and deep into a Moriaty rant, I suddenly noticed I was alone.

I took off my new, fuck off headphones and as some guy sang about some girl he couldn’t have or had but lost or had and ruined or didn’t bother with and now regretted, a message came over the loud speaker in the training telling me to get the hell off, to disembark. I followed the orders but did so tentatively. It’s not that I didn’t believe it; I have no reason to doubt an “announcement”, but it was late, and I wanted to get home.

I saw I was at Oakleigh station, which meant I was at least 35 minutes away from home. I saw a railway worker nearby, and inquired politely,

‘What’s going on?’

‘There was an accident down the line, so you gotta get a bus to Springvale.’ He didn’t look at me while he spoke.

‘Okay,’ I said, politely, ‘and after this? I am going to Beaconsfield?’

‘Yeah, don’t worry mate. Trains running from Springvale, all the way to the end of the line.’

I thanked him and followed the stragglers to the crowd of people waiting near the bus stop. I was about to return to my tunes, when another employer of the metropolitan services made another announcement.

‘The bus that was meant to pick you up here has gone to the other side of the station,’ he paused to allow the crowds’ sighs to become groans, ‘but I can tell you know that it has been re-directed to come to this side.’

I felt like I was in a cartoon, it was such a ridiculous and pointless comment. We would have to keep waiting, and that was that right? Why bother to tell us our wait would be a further 3 or 4 minutes? The first bus arrive just as some drunken idiot was tearing down a road sign. I removed myself from squeeze, figuring there would be another bus soon.

It came 15 minutes later. I had decided, in the meantime, to not let myself get bored. I saw a kid who had caught the morning train with me, so I decided to say hi.

‘Hey, you get off at Beaconsfield right?’

‘Yeah?’

‘This is some fun huh? ‘ The conversation started a little awkwardly, but soon my sarcasm and supreme level of cynicism won him over and we were busy chatting away. The young ma, Marco, had just finished his last exam, and was heading home to rest before slipping into the drunken debauchery that would be his life for the next few months.

‘Well Marco, what a better way to spend your first night of freedom? Hanging out at Oakleigh station with drunken idiots.’

‘Yeah. I could have just stayed in the city and hung out with my friends, got drunk with my friends.’

‘True, but then we never consider those things do we? Who figures someone is going to commit suicide and ruin your night?’

We both laugh at this morbid, selfish and rather simplistic joke, and the bus arrived. Like a sickness slowly spreading, the suicide jokes started coming out think and fast, while the other passengers joined in. The driver, sensitive to situation, decided to make the trip as painless as possible. Each stopped was preceded by a very firm slamming of the breaks, and each time we were allowed to go, he accelerated like a fucking moron, causing people to fly backwards into each other. We arrived at our destination in record time, and the drunk who had original tackled the road sign, decided to focus his drunken boredom onto the vending machine, kicking and punching randomly, waiting for a response. Tempers flared, railway workers and passengers argued, but Marco and I stayed out of it, keeping our elitist, train-spotting conversation flowing. Time dragged slowly, and as it became abundantly clear our train was not coming, a new railway boob announced, to the brewing tempest,

‘I have another announcement. I have just been informed from Metropol (I can’t believe their head office was called that) that there are no trains running tonight.’

Back on the bus.

‘I like the way he said, “I just received a call from Metropol”…’

Marco agreed, ‘Yeah, pass the blame so you don’t get in trouble.’

We both laughed before being thrown into the people behind us when the new bus driver howled off into the darkness.

We reached Hallam station (5 stops still to go) at 12:45 a.m. The remaining few, and we had dwindled in size, walked to the train platform, the driver telling us a train was on its way. As we walked, someone said they had heard the train was actually 40 minutes away. We all huddled together. Complaints about public transport had funnelled to a muttering murmour here and there, as everyone just wanted to get home. Marco and I discussed the vale of Seinfeld and how future generations would judge our comedies today. Throwing in random Simpsons quotes, and odd references to Monty Python, we watched the bus driver walk towards us. As if being compelled by some inexplicably duty to the passenger, he had patiently waited for about 20 minutes to confirm a train was coming, and then decided to drive us to our respective stations.

Finally, Beaconfield station. A 20 minute walk home and then I would be in bed. Head down, head phones back on, and I was interrupted by a gentlemen in a car, who offered me a lift home.

‘You know what?’ I said, ‘Sure, I could have been home 2 hours ago, but I had a really great night.’

He looked at me, not convinced.

‘You’re being a bit positive ain’t ya?’

It was 2:11 a.m.