Northern Line (a short story)

Man #1

Who am I to judge?  I’m right here with the two of them. Squished shoulder to shoulder on the platform. Breathing in brake dust. Letting the first tube pass, in the hope that the second one won’t force me to shape my body around a yellow pole for my journey to work.

But just look at him.

Shirt tucked in like a “good boy.”

Not because he thinks it looks good, but because they do.

Polished riding boots that will never see a stirrup in their lifetime. A vest that’s only job is to get him to his heated office…and to let everyone know he works for INSERT GENERIC FINANCE COMPANY on the way.

Her too. Those Tan boots match her bag, the colour of her clothes match her hair. Choices made so long ago they’ve been forgotten. Not that they were ever her own. No way. Each of them will have been thoroughly peer reviewed and field tested by the crowd first. A process so diluted that you could never point to one trend setter, the archetype for this particular look. Her entire persona an amalgamation of thumbs ups and discount sales.  

That’s the biggest joke about the term ‘influencer.’ As if there was a white board, brainstorming and even a sliver of consciousness involved at any point in the process. It’s closer to a game of “I spy,” or “Monkey See, Monkey do” than anything calculated.

—which I suppose makes it more human than I’m giving it credit for. Sure, the judge’s gavel typically gets handed to those who ‘happen’ to align with the business model of the hour. But they’ve at least got to possess some ability to read the wave they woke up on. There’s some morsel of the hunter gatherer left in that.

At least it’s the culture speaking, rather than a corporate entity constructing a carrot for everyone to follow. At least the carrots are grown in the soil. For now.

Correction: We’re not the same. I’d never hover on the edge of the yellow line like that.

There’s no barrier there. You’re on the edge of a concrete shelf, centimeters away from a flying metal corn husk, and you’re treating it like you’re as safe as beer cub mid incubatory slumber.

You’re not safe. Neither of you are.

The only thing keeping you from meeting a fly on the highway death. Tooth fragments and curious coloured mist, is the etiquette of others.

Haven’t you seen enough hidden camera shows to know etiquette isn’t even close to a natural impulse for us?

Scoff at me all you like, but you’re seriously playing the numbers here. You do this every day? How many people on this platform? Three hundred. What percentage of the population is outright crazy?

How many days have you been down here in the presence of a REAL psycho. Not just a kookie aunt who should probably-be-institutionalized-but-is-doing-ok-for-now-so-no-need-to-put-her-through-all-that-stress type. I’m talking, history of animal cruelty crazy, I’m talking violent pornography, snuff films, fantasizing about poisoning the town water supply, crazy.

Kicking poncy finance bros in front of a train crazy.

How many of them have you brushed shoulders with and don’t even know it? What if one of these days that you’re riding that yellow line, one of them see’s the opening and takes it?

Would it even be their fault?

They’re just a wild bear in that scenario.

You’re the dumbass who went out hunting for Yogi!

***
Man #2

Michael edges over the edge of the grip covered panel beneath his feet. He briefly looks onto the rails below. They say they’re electrified down there. Is that true? If you fell in, you wouldn’t even have to worry about the train.

Shit where is the train?

Michael never uses the underground.

Never.

He barely even comes into the city. The lights, the crowd, the rush.

No.

It’s all a recipe for madness. He feels a squeeze on his palm. Gwen.

She told him to ease back from the edge, but he’s on the brink. They already missed the first one. He made the mistake of thinking he could hold back by a step last time. He thought, “after the initial rush, they’ll eventually let us on.”

 No.

The overground, the tube, whatever they call these things; just like the rude, impatient people who climb onto them every day, those dirty chuka-chuka machines have no mercy for the mortals in their midst. And not a single one of those overdressed city twats offered him eye contact let alone a spot next to them as the doors hissed shut.

Michael’s not risking having to stand out here with these folks any longer than he has to.

Besides, if they don’t catch this one, they’re in trouble. Or rather, Carlisle is in trouble.

Carlisle in trouble?
Who ever thought he’d say those words? Well. Perhaps trouble wasn’t so hard to predict among Carlisle’s stars...but to think Michael would be the one left to pick up the pieces? No one would have put a fiver on that.

There are some friendships you have in life, that are all but circumstantial from the outset.

The two of you might have gone to the same swimming class in high school, same age, maybe your mums were baby yoga partners way back when, but if you really crunched the numbers, the chances of you two of you organically becoming best buds is as low as the score on an average football match.

This was truer in the case of Carlisle and Michael than anyone I’ve ever known.  

See Michael took their friendship for granted, and Carlisle “bettered” himself at the first opportunity.

By the time Michael found out he’d been cut from the circle, his life had already changed too much for him to care. Gwen, the farm, he had a life. A life that involved none of the social climbing, crab-snatching-at-it’s-peer’s-legs- struggle, that Carlisle existed in. None of the back stabbing atmosphere that his wealthiest friend drank in.

When Michael came into the city, he didn’t come to see Carlisle.

But as it appeared. This was true of all Carlisle’s acquaintances.

And you can reason all you like. You can tell yourself, When Michael got that 3:00 am phone-call on a Wednesday night—the first contact in four years—from a sobbing Carlisle. “Bro, I need you to come see me. I’m not asking for money, It’s nothing like that. I just can’t be alone right now,” he’d probably burned through two pages of the rolodex already.

You can reasonably assume, Carlisle had almost certainly been through more than one of these “low points” before he exhausted the patience of his contemporary peers and found his way back to Michael.”

But at a certain point. Don’t you have to say, “So what?” At what point do you let go of all the bullshit and do the simple thing.

Be a friend.

Who cares if he’s only calling you because he’s got no one else?

The poor guy has got no one else.

Who cares if the guy doesn’t mean a whole lot to you anymore?

He’s got NO ONE ELSE.

And don’t assume Michael and Gwen embarked on this first-train-of-the-day rescue mission lightly. Gwen was quick to remind Michael of the snubs over the years, the engagement party invitation that went unanswered, the unrenewed time-share.

But Michael threw up his hands. “If we’re going to leave the guy hanging, because he no longer fits in our social sphere, then how are we any better than him?”

This line worked. But it left a sour taste in both of their mouths. As if any of this was about being the “better” person.

The real reason. The unspoken risk, is the quality of Carlisle that few like to talk about. The shade of his character that was once kept well hidden, but slowly unravelled as time went on.

That haunting line, “I can’t be alone right now,” carried connotations that were unspeakable in a place so public. It pertained to so much more than a man in psychic pain, a risk to himself.

I won’t linger on this however, that aspect of Carlisle’s biography is not my story to tell. Let’s just say, as Michael lingered on the edge of that yellow line, rubbing his hands together, staring into that black tunnel. Carlisle’s wellbeing wasn’t necessarily at the front of his mind.

***

Man #1

His girl has the sense to step back when the tunnel begins to blow out air. Not him though. Leans forward if anything,.

Probably got some sports bet on the mind. Ready to give old Josh in accounting a good ribbing about his botched fantasy football pick. “Jolly good game though! All in good fun.”
As if a guy like that would get in trouble for being late to work. Pfff. No not with a jawline like that.

If he ran out of time to shave this morning, he’s the type of guy who could pull it off as fashion. If they caught him feeling up the receptionist at the Christmas party, he’d be considered to have thrown the plain girl a bone.

No. Train accidents don’t even get close to the frame for this type of prick.
I lose sight of him for a moment as people close in to where the doors will open when the train stops (though they remain behind the line)

Now what if?

What if one among them.

Among us.

Just snapped .

What if one of us, just snapped?

Shit even that escalation wouldn’t touch him. Not in the way it should. If he gets pushed then it’s done. No anticipation, no suffering. Would that even scratch the surface of what he deserves?

These sound like excuses though. The train is coming. Probability is calling.

Come on. If he’s playing the numbers.

One day.

It’s.

Got.

To.

Give.
I flare my fingers, ease my body up behind him. Not suspicious in this context. This is where the door will open when it stops. Where it would stop, provided there were no incident first…

My hands are numb.

***