Riding in Trains
‘Why is melancholic art called realism and romantic art called idealised? Kafka’s trial is called expressionist. I don’t see the distortion, if I was in Joseph’s position I’d be anxiety ridden too’, Thought Alex a young man waiting for a train. He was staring at the book which sparked the tangent, he hadn’t read a line. Running his fingers over the old yellowed pages with creased coroners, the black font lost none of its lustre. To Alex this was quite peculiar, the very foundation of this text was degenerated and withering away but the writing itself seemed defiant. He always opened this book to page 235, where K. talks to the priest. Alex had his own theory about the law’s portrayal of k’s delusion described thus; the priest is apart of the court, in the pay of the court k is therefore firstly deluded to trust the priest. Secondly k is deluded to accept on face value the story as a source of clarification. The fable preferences the writings of the law, it functions as its own self-image. Just as the behaviour of the court seems arbitrary and confusing to k, the story confuses him further as if an ideological mirror of the courts behaviour. But Alex couldn’t stop thinking ‘if the trial serves as both social criticism and a metaphor for life, what’s this sections significance to life?’ This question stumped him ‘could it simply imply that life’s a mystery, impossible to quantify? Like the arbitrariness of an earthquake.’ he was never fond of those philosophies that set everything at nil.
Unable to read, he put away the book in his raggedly old backpack which he’d had ever since his years in scouts. Having just missed the last train, watching it race away as he walked down the hill towards the station, he had an hour before the next train to amuse himself. He thought about the heat. It was high summer; the flowers lining the car park were bathed in sun light their paleness contrasted by evergreens. Alex was alone of platform two; looking up and down the platform it arched concave so as on the outer edge one end could not be seen from the other end. ‘At least I’m not waiting for a bus, there more a matter of luck then trains. Buses are always early, late or broken down and not coming - no consistency’. Remembering that day Jon and he went to the beach and on the way back the bus had broken down near National Park Street, the deriver was talking up the service. ‘They break down from time to time but when was the last it happened to any of you?’ indiscriminately to the four remaining passengers. ‘yer, I can’t remember the last time - agers ago’ said a young man siting in the front seat, where everyone was huddling around. ‘Two days ago trying to get home from school the bus broke down’ piped up Alex in a rather peevish voice, Jon slapped Alex’s arm from behind like he’d said something wrong. The driver flatly replied ‘sometimes you get a run of bad luck’. The first occurrence didn’t bother Alex though, seeing as everyone had just left school there were many distractions about. The second one neither but they served well together for this cynic.
Alex looked up to the old analogue clock on his right side, a silver base, white front and black hands; he hadn’t seen one like it since school - a long while. It was approaching three o’clock Alex thought he’d better get his ticket. At the counter he peered through the glass to see if anyone was there - ‘no one, great, I hate using those machines.’ Soon as think the conductor appeared in front of Alex, ‘what will it be mate?’
‘One to Penrith’
‘That will be twenty one dollars’
Alex cringed as he heard that, the fairs had gone up again and he was a conservationist when it came to money, he only did odd jobs. He needed to find his way to Sydney though, so it was necessity to fork out this cash. Handing it over the conductor pressed a few buttons and the computer spat out the ticket in a second. ‘Thanks mate’ in his manliness voice as is the custom among Australian males. ‘Is the next train a limited stations?’ asked Alex, ‘yes, it shouldn’t take long to get here either’ Alex thanked him again and resumed his earlier seat. It wasn’t long before the dirty-steel coloured train curved itself around the station and passengers with precision timing hurried on, Alex among them. Viewing the inside of the train he was quite surprised, it wasn’t a country line normally used between major cities. It had long blue seats and air conditioning, this train was newer and used for inner-city travel. He took the first seat he saw and within seconds the whistle of the conductor sounded and the doors shut. As the train was moving along he glanced at an old lady around fifty who was knitting, she smiled and he pretended not to notice. Pulling out his book and beginning to read, the same chapter he always read.
Occasionally watching the passing landscapes was therapeutic for Alex; he’d done the same thing catching the bus to school sliding into a trance like condition as the road and in this case rail passed in and out of view. The cathartic nature of this trip quickly faded, by the time the train reached Morisset Alex realised the phrase ‘limited station’ counted for little. Every train is limited stations they never stop at every station, he’d asked the wrong question. He imagined they’d stop at Fassifern as sure he was they’d stop at Cardiff and Newcastle itself but not every insignificant backwater of a station.
‘Well they built the stations so at least some trains have to stop there’ his justification for a journey which he new would now take five maybe six hours, at least a whole extra hour tacked on. Now there were some extra passengers who boarded, fortunately he enjoyed ears dropping and studying people when ever travelling or waiting. Alex wasn’t a misanthropist as he liked to pretend with some of his friends, he was just introverted. There were six people in the same compartment along with Alex siting parrel to the sides of the train. Two old men, dressed similarly in white short sleeve shirts and grey shorts were chatting about the ‘lack of backbone in the new generation’. Two old ladies, one knitting the other siting silent pompously nose held high - she seemed to be the passive but proud attachment of the man siting next to her. There was also an energetic child, pig tailed, bright eyed and she reminded him of another little girl he knew. Alex liked the way children lived in the world rather then through it before everything became old and normalised. Her mother looked familiar but he couldn’t place her and said nothing, she was totally consumed with trying to keep up with the child.
The train finally reached Gosford, which serves as half way maker - everyone had to disembark the train was terminating here. Scuttling across the platform passengers scattered themselves into different segments. Alex was used to this style of train with its water dispenser at one end and toilet (which you’d never dear use) at the other. Light orange seats which pushed forward or pulled back to create the desired travel arrangement.
Across the aisle sat three Indian ladies with a middle class appearance and good English with a slight foreign accent indicating they’d spent a few years in Australia minimum. Their conversation which Alex listened to for entertainment largely consisted of relationship troubles and the latest gossip on female celebrities and friends. ‘She doesn’t wear makeup, as if it will get her into heaven’ one said to another, the reply was muddled and he couldn’t make it out. ‘Their speaking another language mixed with English’ realised Alex. It was difficult for him to make out a single word, every foreign language expect French and Spanish, which he could pick out a few words from seemed like gibberish spoken too fast and run together. Once while watching a film about a Cambodian girl who immigrated to America and struggled to win a spelling bee, he thought his vocabulary was tiny. Half the words this girl was spelling he’d never heard of, then he realised it was just the southern accent which emphasised different sounds ever so slightly that was throwing him off.
It wasn’t long before he got bored of his Indian friends chit-chat and Alex’s brain felt like it was falling out, after spending hours on a train it becomes a matter of endurance and stoic resilience to keep a semblance of sanity.
His apathy was impeded when a red haired bohemian girl appeared at the steps of the first floor section. She was average hight, slender and dressed in a long purple skirt with black webbing and a black top that hugged her curves. Alex eye’s followed her as she walked down the passageway. When passing him she smiled the most contagious smile giving Alex a shot of adrenaline. He hesitated in reply; struck unexpectedly he managed only a small smile. That simple exchange left him feeling reinvigorated, though unlucky because the train pulled into a station where the girl stepped off. ‘It’s the middle of nowhere; I’d get off and talk to her if I was crazy.’ He concluded ‘that’s properly the line between reality and the romantic’.
It’s a working title, but I’d appreciate comments on the piece.