Train to Pikeville

Here I am again. The same too small, compact cattle truck. The same horde of half awake, half dead creatures in ties and rough jacket arm in my face as its wearer reads a ‘daily times’ that needed a small rainforest to construct. The same squeak of shoes on the paving slabs, the same slurps of coffee and crunch of breakfast burgers it killed your stomach for you to walk past because the part of your brain that drags you through it all knows the queues are too long. The man in the middle of the train with both arms up on the railings hasn’t showered again. Whether he forgets, or has sacrificed his social life for some elbowroom, is puzzling. The ‘times’ man turns another page that seems even wider than the previous. He’s one of those stuck-up, senior employees’ guys with his large watch, new laptop and self-motivated air. If I make any attempt to get his sleeve out of my mouth, he will turn out to be a billionaire’s spoilt brat and I’ll never work in London again. If I make no movement, he will be a contractor from Scotland who has no effect on me what so ever and I will never see him again.

Sorry, that’s paranoia. It’s the claustrophobia acting up. Seriously, its like being at a million tickets sold out rock concert in a portable loo. Bending down is impossible. I don’t dare get my mobile out incase I drop it and never see it again. The leather shoes on the floor seem to have been compressed into thick, black soup, with only shiny steel buckles indicating that your feet have not just floated away. The heat is intolerable. Each neck colour was a volcano of sweat, the neat from their bodies matching the eruption.

Suddenly the eternal rattling is outdone by the screeching as the graphite baked bean tin with wheels throws us all forward. The screen above our heads flickers then starts again with the aggravating, female commenty of the event quickly following. A final shudder and we’ve landed. The ‘times’ paper closes, BO man’s arms relax, I spit out pieces of jacket, and we all stagger to our feet, not least to man at the front of the train who was crushed under the human mass as the train braked. When the doors open it like blowing a hole in a dam and the water bursts forth. Its every man for himself and last one at work gets a rotten resume, to resist is to be trampled.

I watch stragglers as I pass them. A present co-worker who takes her time should she break water there and then. Stay at home. Beggars who lay on the ground just ‘begging’ to be kicked by laying on the floor in front of us. The secretaries who can afford to be late, who can’t type but are employed for the same reason as an executive stress ball.

Noise is everywhere. Everyone is everywhere. We just want to get out. A beast with hard, plastic wings eats and defecates my ticket and lets me through. The lights at the end of the tunnel. I’m free.

I surprise I should be grateful to my boss for making me late home for that executive meeting. This could mean promotion. The tie, forward slash, noose I put around my own neck won’t be loosened, just more expensive.

I’m back at the train station 2 hours later than usual and, oh my God, it’s amazing, there’s no one here. It’s quiet, but not too quiet. No chatting, no ringtones, no shoes, just quiet. I want to shout with surprise and exhilaration, but I don’t, should the spell be broken. I don’t need to Que. for a ticket from the now bored salesman. Its erry. The sounds of my shoes form a lonely echo around the tunnels and chambers leading to the railway. Even the tramps gone. So many firsts. Have the tunnels always been this wide? Are these benches? When did they get here? Have these walls always been white? God, I’m in shock.

Birds that would have been raised to the ground this morning happily peck at crumbs on the floor. It’s so peaceful. Which is good, I need a rest, how can you get tired at a desk job? Ha. It’s cold though, 100 degrees difference to this morning. A women is sitting on a bench on the otherside of the track, reading. I can actually hear her turn the page. The clunk, clunk, clunk arrives soon enough. Forgive me leaping so far ahead but there is literally nothing else to say. I jump up to get the best seats before the crowd, and then banged myself on the head in exasperation and amusement, and then exasperation again as I see the woman looking at me with a ‘what the hell’ look just before the train drives between us. It’s Friday night, so the expected clubers get off the train. How different they dress from before, not a tie among them. There seem to be a lot more women, or maybe they’re just a lot more notice able as women dressed like that are. They chatter and joke as they walk past me, again so different. The variety of colours lifts their spirits from the dull grey of work.

I climb aboard and choose, choose, a seat. The mixture of shiny and dirty metal decorated in designer graphite is my only view. The train won’t leave for a while yet, what should I do? Sleep. Get some sleep. This is nice, I like this. Here I am again, riding a train to my dreamland...

The Pikeville...

Contrary to what people thought, Pikeville is a polluted town because of the coal industry. People live in apartment or condominium buildings because of its little space available. I grew up in one of the many buildings in Pikeville admiring from my bedroom window the beauty of the mountains, always exploring with my eyes the forest or the meadows, looking for a clean and quiet place. And, I found one on a hill in the back of the town. It is about 100 feet square, it has seven old trees, wild flowers and a lot of bugs and ants during summer time.

I used to go there to sit down on a rock and watch the town and my trees. There was a very old tree, a maple tree, with a huge trunk. The others were smaller, three in the back, three on my left side and the old maple tree on my right. There were flowers, many kinds, white, yellow, purple and blue. It was nobody's place. Nobody owned that hill, but it was beautiful and peaceful and I dreamed many times about a white house over there.

I think that, these kinds of places are meaningful to people because they are natural and people can be there alone, away from their everyday life.

I used to go there to be alone or to dream with my eyes open admiring the blue sky or the clouds. I liked to go there to lay down on the grass, listen to the wind, kiss the flowers and watch the leaves moving. It was hard to go up the hill to get there, but I wanted to see everyday my seven trees, to see how the color of the leaves changed and to feel the softness of the grass.

Riding the train to my own kind of dreamland...

It's always like this...

I'll start off with a crowded place then in just minutes...

I'm on my way to a beautiful scenery no one has ever made...