A Destructive Lifestyle: Chapter One

I dread this journey, not least because of the undead creatures I must share it with. Inhuman beasts that they are. Sloth-like, they shuffle on to the platform, still half slumbering, staring vacantly into the void. Not one of them talks to the others, just stand there, like living statues, except they do not seek to entertain anyone but themselves. They just whip out their props of self-indulgence – stroke their phones, drool over celebrity hype, interface with glossy symbols of vacuous desire, ejaculate barbed witticisms by text, spit out twitters, mindlessly face-fuck Facebook... and they do all this on tiny little plots of stone they reserve for themselves, only uprooting themselves to be crammed, crushed and crowded on to the clapped out train, hoping vainly that they'll get to their destination. They hope they'll be on time for work, whatever that might be, but that's not anticipation painted on their faces – that's regret.

Do they think the same of me? Or am I just one of them, to them?

I'm too slow, and today there's no seat for me. Apparently there are seats for suitcases and shopping bags. Apparently there are seats for half of a fat man's ass cheek, or a raincoat. But no seat for me. I grip the nearest rail, only to quickly withdraw it again. The rail is heated, for some odd reason, and it scalds my hand a little. With all the non-heated bars, poles and rails already taken by the undead creatures, I lean against the wall by the carriage door and steady myself with my feet. It requires all my concentration to flex and relax the soles of my feet at the appropriate moments, otherwise I might find my face nestled in the red pimpled cleavage of a fifty year old woman with a low cut t-shirt that says, in cheap shiny plastic block letters, 'You Wish'.

Three stops down and four stops to go, the carriage is starting to stink, taking on all the most rank elements of an oven and a men's locker room and mixing, swirling them around, new odours infiltrating my nostrils with each breath I can no longer hold. I'm starting to get claustrophobic. For a moment, I'm grateful when the doors open again and I can suck in a lungful of air before they shut. But this moment doesn't last, before things get worse.

It would have been wonderful if those doors had opened just for my benefit, but unfortunately they also served as an invitation to those outside the carriage. 'Come in!' they say, 'Anybody can get on, as long as you can pay! There's no discrimination here – all are welcome!' Yes, welcome everyone, but welcome too to the idiots. The loud, careless, brash, cosmetically challenged, gum-chewing, slack-jawed, cleavage bulging, hormone overflowing teenage idiots.

I tried not to catch their eye, but in the animal kingdom a beast can sense the fear in its prey, and pounce on it. The fattest of the gang of four looked me up and down and tutted.

'Are you looking at my tits?' she demanded, her eyes as vacant as the cubicle of the train's own blocked toilet.

I didn't answer, only fumbled in my pocket for my headphones. I wished that I had worn them earlier, as some kind of rudimentary defence against exactly this kind of situation. Her friends laughed, no doubt noticing that, despite my best efforts, my cheeks were turning a rich crimson colour. My humiliation, coupled with the heat, were making a thick sweat-soup of my boxer shorts.

'How come you're not looking at my tits?' she said. Her friends loyally cackled like hyenas at their chum's awesome humour. I started to appreciate and covet the company of the undead creatures.

'Are you a queer or summink?' she continued.

I didn't answer. Not because her questions were impertinent. Not because I chose not to engage her in conversation. Not because I wouldn't waste a single syllable of my extensive vocabulary on this ingrate. Not because I hated her and all that she stood for. No, not for any of those reasons, although all of those reasons were valid to me.

I didn't answer because I really wasn't certain what the answer was. And I honestly wasn't keen to find out.