The Axeman

The train comes to a stop in the middle of the tracks.  Stopped between stations, the train driver's disembodied voice appears over our heads.

There is an "incident" at Sunshine Station.  The train will proceed to West Footscray, where we will have to make our own arrangements from there.

I have a headache.  I have been unwell all week.  Today was my last day at work which nobody remembered and so, feeling unwell, I slunk through the day without my usual bonhomie, and without the (yes, expected) farewell speech and gift that the preceding people leaving over the past weeks have all been afforded.

I was dreading that, really.  And looking forward to it, too.  Who doesn't want a present, right?  But getting up and standing before people and having to give a speech about a workplace that sucks and that I am not sad to leave - full of people who I do not get to talk to because we are battery hens, typing stuff, under deadlines - I rehearsed what I would say a few times, just in case I found myself with nothing to say at all.  Some days I am outgoing and expansive but today is not one of them.  I slink through.

Even worse is not getting to stand up and say goodbye at all. I watched each person leave, waving goodbye, not telling them it was my last day.  I just couldn't rouse myself to go through the rigmarole.

The driver informs us of our West Footscray destination, which is one stop before my usual stop, Tottenham.  Everyone sighs and everyone picks up their phones and it can't be proven except in Swedish findings that nobody wants to read but I swear I can feel all those waves zooming through my body, frazzling my senses.

The man in the doorway of the train is with his workmate, a woman.  He is on the phone.  They are going to his house for dinner.  Their cars are parked at Albion Station.  They are going to get a bus from West Footscray Station to Sunshine.  Could she pick them up there?  Yes, he loves her too.  Etcetera.  I really don't give a fuck about this man's logistics but I have no choice.

There are about five different conversations going on within my earshot and none of them are with other people in the carriage.

The train driver's voice comes over our heads again.  It says the incident at Sunshine Station is someone with an axe.  The commuters gasp and out come the phones again.

"Cool," I said to the man in front of me but I don't think he appreciates my sense of humour.  Or else he doesn't understand what I am saying.  Or he doesn't care.  One way or the other.

We sit on the tracks for a few minutes. There is a palpable sense of rising fear levels in the air about someone who is several suburbs away with cops bearing down on him as we speak.  I hope we do not have any major catastrophe any time soon in this city.  We're not ready for it.

The people are all on their phones again rejigging plans.  Worrying.  Worrying.  The kids with malaria continue with malaria but we've got our own stresses here, thanks very much.  Sometimes it's all we can do to get home without having a nervous breakdown.  We do not like our plans to be thwarted.  The train will not arrive at the station in time and we may very well turn to pumpkins, or spontaneously combust if they don't.  We like our train timetables, we like to get home at the same time, we like it because it is something that we can hang onto.

"Let's hope they have a straightjacket at the station," the stupid man booms at his workmate two paces away.  "Go and put him in the loony bin."

That's the idea, Jack.  Slice it nicely down the middle, and you get to reinforce your flagging security by reminding yourself that today, you have not fallen off the edge of the plank and gone careening down to Sunshine Station with an axe.  Today you, law abiding citizen that you are, are trying to get home, a fine upstanding citizen.

The driver's voice comes over for his triumvirate of disembodied messages.  The "incident" has been cleared up.  We are free to proceed.

Everyone breathes a sigh of relief, impending mass disaster averted.  The phones come out again, rejigging rejigged plans.  It's been a long five minutes.