Edgewater Station, 7.45am:
The first time I climbed the ramp to cross the empty freeway; I thanked my daughter's advice for nervous, first-time train-travel. "Don't make eye-contact and take something to read.
Embarrassingly unfit; I was truly unworthy of riding to city steeples and naked greed. However, I was able to slow my breathing before reaching the platform, populated by corporate black.
Like others in smart casual, I waited unprepared, feeling totally inadequate. Searching and praying that I had correct change. No way would I approach anyone to help, if my Target Stores budget special revealed only notes. An extra minute to read the zones, and I felt their impatience stab my shoulder blades.
First rule: be prepared. Why doesn't someone press the "Next Train to Perth button? How long have I got? Finally, the clunking use of coins and metal spit of ticket loudly confirmed my lack of railway sophistication.
As I claimed my waiting spot, the gentle morning sun warmed my arms. I made a conscious effort to calm my nerves. My head moved left to spy an approaching train. Then swung right, to relax the tension. The violent clash of eyes focussed on the anticipated train brought heat and colour flooding to my face. Have I broken another rule?
I turned away. Moved left and slid around to a corner bench, hidden under graffiti steps. A cleaner diligently wiped the dead remains of habit from a shiny steel surface. As our eyes met, she smiled in understanding. My isolation lifted with the corners of my mouth. "Good morning.
A distant sparkle from Joondalup Tunnel caught my attention. Although I had lost my place for the central carriages, I joined the stragglers just as the last door swept toward my flat comfortable-s. The unsmiling silent wave surged toward the precipice. Eager to rest their feet or continue sleep, we were swallowed with a whoosh.
All around, people take off their sunnis and don clear glass, casually opening their oft-thumbed pages. Time magazine, corporate handouts, New Idea, 'Bondage ' a love story, the latest Patricia Cornwell¦
I am starting my own new adventure - a new life. No husband ' he's decided to share his bacon with a younger model. No children to care for ' they've all moved out. No one who needs me ' just me! So I'm dealing with the empty nest. Taking my new life into a different direction - a city job direction. The first day of my new life - new job - new me. Is it obvious?
No one speaks, except the odd un-sophisticate, who broadcasts gossip as if it elevates them. I loose myself in Harry Potter and block out the other occupants, cocooned against intimidation.
+ + + + + +
However, there is a game I play on my way to work. Wearing my HBF corporate uniform, another day of routine smiles and customer queries beckons. When the no-name monotony gets too much, I shrug off that persona and step into my imagination¦
On the most normal and usual of journeys to and from work, strange things happen because I wear the seahorse broach my son gave me for my birthday. It seems that when I touch it, caress it, the cold metal seems to warm.
I can actually feel his love, the time he took to find exactly the right broach, the money he saved and his joy when I opened the wrapping, laughing and smiling with obvious delight.
A different me seemed to take over. Moveable me, a nebulous entity able to drift like an invisible tide on air thick with wanting. I could change my life - become someone else by feeling envy or wishing for what others seemed to have. Though the first time it happened, I was terrified.
Work held no attraction that day. In fact, I had finished up the previous day out of balance, fully expecting my pretentious I-play-the-game supervisor to take me to task. Not a workday to look forward to. So with the announcement "Next station Perth! I was focussing my energies on someone who seems to have it all.
As we squealed into the Leederville Tunnel, the lights flickered then dimmed. I don't know why, but in the fraction of black a thrill of anticipation ran through me.
The last person I concentrated on wore a lot of good jewellery, expensive clothes, bag and shoes. She was attractive, with immaculate nails. When the lights burned fully again, I was wearing the expensive clothes, lots of jewellery and immaculate nails. I had shed my self - metamorphisized into this perfect being.
What next?
Unlimited credit cards, meeting a friend for lunch on The Terrace, more shopping - check out the bank account and then, pop into the Italian Jewellers for a new bracelet. I would of course decline dinner at the Hyatt, I have to get back to feed my cat. Do I still have a cat? Who'll feed Soxies?
This dream couldn't last and I had to try to return to my own skin. But first I had to find myself. A creature of habit, I make sure I get the same train every night, waiting in the usual place on Platform 2 with sore feet and tired stance.
Just managing to board before the doors swished shut, I gratefully sat down. As the carriage pulled away from the station, I placed her handbag between my feet. We swayed to the left and the lights flickered then dimmed. There's the fraction of black again and I concentrated, staring at myself two seats away, firmly clutching Angela's purchases.
It couldn't really happen. My family would wonder how I managed to acquire such gorgeous clothes and new jewellery, on my wage. They'd think I had a secret admirer and why weren't they told? They don't know about the games I play to relieve the boredom. It's all in my head of course¦
+ + + + + +
My favourite, platform number six will receive me today. It's not the nearest to the common front. My platform is in the centre, one section back - a respectable distance to arrive at Perth Station giving steps time to adjust to city pose. Also, I like to drift past the newsstand and view the coloured covers of gossip.
Our human conveyor sweeps past the bakery, dispersing flotsam as it pounds toward the bridge. With hungry anticipation, I visually taste the bagels, donuts and flaky pastry. "One cheese and bacon role and a hot cross bun, thanks. Always the same, lunch priced exactly right.
Grey-tiled, steel archways float us over Wellington Street in orderly lines. Every day there is someone new asking for money. I quickly hide the change before they see and my conscience makes me give. All those hands outstretched, standing with the regulars, shaking tins or passing leaflets: Red Shield, Green newspapers and free K-bars for city workers, who left home without breakfast.
Slotting into the stream, we turn the corner and I search the front pouch of my bag for a cigarette. There's time for one, if I walk around Myers, down the escalator and along Murray Street.
I pass the sleeping lonely. Coffee addicts haunt hot purveyors, to read their paper, readying their brains for paid concentration.
By the time I get to Barrack Street, the first silver cylinder receives my dead donation for the day.
+ + + + + +
Another routine journey¦ before 'vibrate' became the norm.
Muffled music begins and everyone near searches in pockets and pouches for their mobiles. "Melissa speaks loudly and I observe.
So busy performing, she appears to ski over life! What people wear and what they say seem more important than any action. Melissa looks sixteen, but is probably twenty-odd. Her eyes hold age, but not on first impression ' you have to look deeply.
She is the sort who falls madly and passionately in love with the best looking guys who orbit her world. But it never lasts. The falling, the flirting, the first act of sex ' the games, are enough. She doesn't really like sex, but knows how to use it, anything after that pales, and Melissa exits without even a backward glance.
Sometimes, she'll tell them, sometimes not. Often left wondering what they've done wrong ' they'll question ' "Was it my performance? The world is slowly becoming populated by good-looking, emasculated guys asking each other "Why?
Melissa flits happily between her trendy unit in Scarborough that Daddy pays for, the city where Mum lets her use her own Gold Visa card and University; a playground of fresh meat every new semester. Swapping courses frequently, she dabbles in a little bit of every discipline, not concerned with marks, just passing to keep the coffers open.
Melissa has no intention of finishing anything but wants to stay in her young world. She doesn't intend changing her life and enjoys being looked after.
She is Daddy's little Princess. There's has no ambition other than to decorate her reality and be seen and heard in all the right places. For most people, it's easier to let her have her own way - her tantrums are awesome. Because she demands it ' she always gets exactly what she wants!
+ + + + + +
A friend needs a lesson on how to ride the train: how to cross from suburbia to threatening city streets without the cocooned safety and separateness of a car. Jury Duty calls and she's unused to joining the human wave washing toward the high-rise cluster. Being a seasoned campaigner, I'll show her how it's done.
Swooping toward the ticket machines, I insert my used multi-rider with practiced rhythm. "Did you remember change? The coins are ready but she wants to play the helpless female and read the zones, rejoicing in her newness. I'm rushing and she's unaware of impatient frowns. Our squealing serpent slithers before us then breathes in.
We rush to claim connected spaces. Neat movements ensure we do not wake a young man, sleeping with legs outstretched and casually crossed. A stranger's whispering hand declares; "He reeks of booze.
But all I see is a handsome face in innocent repose. Clean and neatly dressed in labelled youth ' everything new and lush blond eyelashes. He sighs heavily. Before the stale wine smell reaches my space, I defend him. Now I want to cry. What makes someone so full of promise invite derision?
The unknown attacker slinks away, eager to escape the presumed anger of youth. I stay ready to gently declare "Perth Station, if needed. But he wakes softly. Gathers his Walkman, zips up his bag and waits politely for all to pass before standing.
I walk behind his "Oz jacket and realize the letters are "Dz. Did I expect to see a soft message or do the letters stand for "Destruction Zone? Now I was buying into the stereotyping! He displayed no evidence of aggression or hurt. Only a polite, well-dressed son most would be proud of.
I prefer to think that last night had been his graduation celebration.
As I walk my friend up Hay Street to the Law Courts she asks why I was so quiet on the train. I gave her a quick run-down of train etiquette:
1. Be prepared.
2. No eye contact.
3. Talk quietly or not at all.
4. Don't invade anyone's space.
Finally, we reach our destination. Not the first lifts; walk all the way to the end ' the St George's Terrace side of the building.
Others equally out of place wait with patience, to nervously pass judgement.
I'm relaxed. I've done this before. I introduce her to an usher and tell her to remember the rules on the way home. Rail rush hour is serious business!
+ + + + + +
Head back, eyes closed. I savour the cool, quiet efficiency of train travel. I'm alone on this journey. It is obviously not a popular time to commute. Silence. Then a scuffle, a soft knock below me and to the left, makes me open my eyes.
There it is again. Are there mice on this train? It sounds like old crackle-y paper. Rounded, moving haphazardly in all directions. I hope the security video can't see me climb onto the seat. Where is it? More importantly - what is it?
Feeling foolish, I gingerly step down. Then cautiously kneel, eyes level to the carpet, bum up. Oh, it's O.K. Panic over. Breathe again. It's only an onion, enjoying the freedom of riding on the train. Do you think it's got a ticket?
+ + + + + +
This was to be the last day of my city job but they let me go early. I cried, you see. I am a very vocal crier. I have been made redundant by a perfectly presented, corporate-speak emotionless, newly moulded plastic humanoid.
'Last on, first off and all that! Nothing to do with your age or size - nothing to do with you not fitting in visually¦ The corporate look doesn't quite work with you though, does it? With your years of experience and skills, I am sure you won't have any trouble finding something else. Something more suitable¦'
A young man pushes on first. He looks worse for wear and rushes to the corner seat, claiming the next two with his long legs and sneaker-ed feet. Is he looking for trouble so early in the morning?
"Come on ' for F**k's sake!
Is he late for work? He looks hung over or tired. What makes him so anxious? He slams his back into the wall and defensively crosses his arms as the train moves.
Stabbing eyes expect reaction, but are ignored. Two other young people sit with me in the end carriage ' the benches that run the length, facing each other - not rows of seats.
One looks like an art student with an expensive, black portfolio bag, the other probably on her way to work. Both have ear attachments emitting a continuous, tinny beat. How can they stand it? The tempo never varies, the tone the same, even when I watch one of them change the C.D. the sound is still the same.
Leederville. The angry young man stumbles off pushing through the waiting two ' must be first to stab the platform.
His complete opposite waits his turn and stands back unconcerned, before boarding. 1998 WA Bodyboard State Titles Mantra ' Geraldton WA. He's listening to the talk back radio and smiling.
I wonder if he knows my nephew, a body-boarding judge? But he gets off at Glendalough, too soon for me to pose the question.
The connecting carriage door whooshes open and a uniformed guard stands poised. Is she waiting for back-up? (I know; I watch too much TV!) But sure enough, another whoosh and a similarly uniformed male appears.
They exchange a look and advance on the few who, like me, sit entertained. All at once, we seemed to realize that these railway guards were after us! We are their victims.
In unison, passengers began to dig, search, and look puzzled, worried, or bored. The guard pauses at an obviously old lady. "Pension Card?
We hold a hopeful collected breath, then gratefully exhale as the elusive proof of age, is produced with a worried frown. A fifty-dollar on-the-spot fine would hurt anyone - it would certainly cripple me at the moment.
Stirling. A haughty denial captures our attention. "I didn't have change?
The woman with a sculptured face and expensive corporate suit, looks so organized, is absolutely affronted that her word be questioned. On another day, maybe I would have imagined myself into her.
She looked like she has the perfect life. But the Security guard won't budge: he writes in his little book, quietly handing her a slip. Her manicured talons snatch with malice. "Excuse me, this is my stop.
The war is over. I'm now alone in my carriage at half past nine. Not a wrapper or plastic bottle; must have just been cleaned. I look outside and relax. The sun sparkles on chrome and glass. Even the freeway looks calmer.
A green car is abandoned; did they get to work? The platform is populated but on the other side, Perth-bound. No one gets off or on. We pick up speed and sway heavily. Who's driving so fast? Brakes bite hard for the slight downhill. Bougainvillea waves its arms to receive travellers. Company.
Up the inclined greenery to Whitfords, one stop before home. The train has to climb up the sand dunes near the coast. I live in a beautiful part of the world. I'm so glad it's a lovely day. Nearly home¦
No work tomorrow. Familiar territory now rushes past. Houses screened by thick plantings of old Jarrahs and Tuarts. Ocean Reef Exit 3km. The sea's not far, I can smell it or is that the Padbury Pong?
I stand right next to the door because they're no one else here. Very strange that, I don't think I've ever travelled on the train in the daytime, alone - except with an onion.
Whoosh. I step out one stop early, at Whitfords. Up the escalator ' silent, empty.
Hang on ' there's someone cleaning down there. Wonder if it's the same lady cleaner¦ No, can't catch her eye, she's got her head down. The moment passes and the escalator rises lifting me up, up.
I step off the kerb to start walking towards the bridge. An empty bus pulls away. The driver waves an angry fist because I didn't see him and he had to brake hard. Have to stop a moment - catch my breath. He gave me quite a fright. I wasn't ready¦
The freeway's busy again. Lines of cars look like ants rushing to Perth's glass towers sun-sparkling in the distance. Human flotsam to concrete greed. Well, not me anymore!
They're certainly speeding ' over one-twenty Ks at least! Nice and fast. Should be quick. It's windy ' I'm glad I wore trousers today.
I stand poised and thank those unnamed bridge builders for supplying a nice broad ledge. I'm not too good with heights, you see, but I am stubborn and determined to fly, one way or another.
The END
