On The Shoulders Of The Wise

Ladies and gentlemen, my weary disposition welcomes you to the main event of this dreary morning commute to the city titled, The Waterloo Station Java Sweepstakes!

As we approach our final destination, everyone is up on their feet, crowding the train’s sliding doors in anticipation of a packed surge of bodies eagerly jockeying for position before collectively spilling out onto Platform Nine.

And… We’re off! The train doors have made way for the jumpers, leapers, and pushers descending onto the concrete walkway, keen to gain an advantage over their morning travelling opponents. Faltering at the step-off, I hurriedly pick up my pace to gain some ground during our platform dash to the exit. Being moderately fit helps, because already there are huffers, puffers, and buffers slowing the race down with their nicotine-starved wheezing. Their progress-delaying freeze-frame positioning acts as random obstacles in the congested break for freedom, creating a type of pinball reaction in those directly behind them. Bodies bounce off the static dilly-dalliers, like jolted energy particles of antimatter reacting in a controlled laboratory experiment. For the stationary wheezers, their morning race is done, because they’ll be heading straight for the outdoors to light up and fill their lungs with slow carcinogenic death.

I remember the days when smoking carriages on trains still existed. The problem was that they outnumbered their counterparts, and if you were late to catch your train, you undoubtedly would end up either standing at the end of the carriage by the malodourous public toilets or inhaling second-hand smoke from the heavy blowfishes in the tobacco friendly carriages. If ever there was a league table of oxymoron descriptions, “tobacco friendly” would be a contender for the title.

The most unpleasant part of getting stuck in any smoking section is the resulting stink accompanying you for hours. Infiltrating clothes and hair, the disgusting smell of burnt baccy breath, can linger for so long that fellow non-smokers would demonstratively sniff in your company, thinking you were a ten-a-day cancer stick consumer.

No amount of cologne could mask that stench. Even lunchtime walks in the local park still left stale remnants of repellent odours lingering like fag-ash pub carpet smells back in the days before common sense saved the lives of second-hand inhalers.

However, all complaining memories aside, this stage of the race is more than survival of the fittest or the capacity of lungs to breathe deeply without coughing up nicotine-infused phlegm. It is a cerebral competition of pacesetters racing to work with a pit stop for a quick caffeine fix. In their minds, first to refuel will be first back on the trekking track, and ahead of the crowd.

The first provider of morning alertness is spotted by the early pace setters, who - with one eye on the prize - hesitatingly file past the ticket inspectors seriously scrutinising the jaded and sullen faces, in search of the few lawbreakers surreptitiously seeking out a free morning commute to work. It appears that the electronic gates have malfunctioned, causing the reserve human alternative to appear in droves.

To the left of the leading group, a random fare dodger has been singled out, causing a bottleneck of impatient competitors squashing into the backs of those before them. Like the wind being shoved out of a silent accordion, a combined exhalation of frustrated breath fills the airwaves. This hasn’t gone down well with those almost through the only open gate, but a helping surge of bodies from the rear, breaks the frontrunners free of the asinine human restraint, causing station staff to quickly surrender their expected morning lassoing of ticketless minions.

This morning, we have one of the frontrunners for the Ticketmaster-of-the-year painstakingly checking receipts and rail passes. Seeing the growing frustration, he quietly smiles, points a finger to one of his gatekeepers, who immediately opens the remaining locked wrought-iron gates - thus preventing the impending stampede of irritated Nine-To-Fivers.

Commuter safety is always foremost in the practice of the public facing responsibilities of the British Transport Services. Any form of societal backlash can be costly. But not always in terms of safety. Many a station staff member has collected their fair share of complaints against them. However, unknown to the people they service, an in-house competition has been running for years, consisting of gatekeepers who can collect the least number of customer complaints against them in a single calendar year. This has led to an improvement in customer relations and inadvertently developed a sense of pride in matters public. The resulting year-end totals are then tallied for the awards section of the staff Christmas party. The winner receiving a bottle of champagne and a small plaque to mount on the staffroom wall. In a world of competitiveness, even the smallest of trophies allows one the opportunity of bragging rights amongst one’s peers.

But avoiding complaints and catching fare avoiders streaming from my train, is not the only pursuit of the day. So, although the opening of the gates is fuelled by safety concerns, station staff are assuredly filled with confidence that they will eventually achieve their daily targets, possibly surpassing the record for the number of on-the-spot-fines to free-grazing riders in a single shift. You see, besides the lowest complaints contest, a parallel revenue-generating game also comes with a prize. So, staff on this chilly morning have a reinforced visible presence at all of Waterloo Stations’ twenty-four platforms.

Relieved and unshackled from the restraints of the previous closed gates, a melee of grunting, swearing, complaining mouths – some with one foot blatantly still in Sleepland - once more surge forward in the naïve hope for a short day in a stuffy office, a quick drink in the pub to avoid the evening rush home, and a bit more sleep than the previous night. This is the big city, and it is easy to forget that only the strongest, the most alert, the shrewdest, will succeed in that fantasy. It is of no wonder then, that Friday becomes the release time of the week’s pent-up emotions and frustrations - where some seek the solace of work friends and alcohol to complain to each other about those not in their little work cliques, while others enjoy the comfort of drowning out the hum of their stressful week by getting all-out, shit-faced drunk.

Saturday will come and go. Then, Sunday will arrive with the expectation of bliss and relaxation, only for that fleeting sentiment to fade in the early evening - replaced with the characteristic dread of the approaching Monday morning. Visions of another weeklong cattle drive to and from work, often make for sleepless Sunday nights.

Snapping back into focus, I visually canvass the available boutique coffee stalls and vans on concourse display, as I zig and I zag, my eyes following several potential small lines of coffee seekers racing to crowd the inundated bleary-eyed baristas trying very hard to put on a brave smile, while listening to collective rude shouts of separate coffee orders. These are not the places I seek, so spotting a smaller van no more than forty meters from my position, I dart quickly on nimble toes, avoiding the criss-crossing of blinkered commuters bumping into each other, while running for the exits – some, late for work, others, rushing for their commuter connections in the underground railway. But, as I approach the vehicle, a separate crowd of arrivals from platform five flood the concourse like a school of sardines emptying from a fishing net. They quickly beat me to my objective, causing a growing queue at the small Tuk-Tuk style coffee van, and a change of tactics for me - although of what they are, I am not yet sure.

Halting, I teeter on the edge of defeat wondering if my race is run for the day, but in the corner of my eye, I spot a wireframed barrow with a sign that displays the name, “The Old Sicilian.” It’s situated in a little nook between one of the stations’ public toilets and an international newsstand – almost lost to the rushing hordes late for work. What is more intriguing and appealing to me, is that no-one is waiting in line to purchase anything. There is still time to beat some of my work colleagues to the office, so I sidestep a few slow movers and walk with a brisk pace toward the charming-looking coffee stand.

Getting to work and settling in before certain people at the office arrive, is another race I play on my daily commute. It has an underlying motive, because these specific individuals are clock watchers, and their own clock is not the only one they take note of. They revel in mentioning to everyone – should you leave early from work – your obvious absence from your desk. It brings unwanted attention to those that just need to get away from biased scrutiny. So, creating the appearance of being in the office for quite some time before they get there, allows one to free oneself early from the “Jobsworth” attendance monitors. It also puts those lucky escapees – namely, yours truly - in pole position for an early race home.

My thoughts wander as I peruse the coffee menu on the small stand; however, my attention is quickly captured by the quaint Roman design of the beverage menu attached to the face of the cart. Every item seems out of the ordinary from the general servings that other java merchants provide. There are varieties like Roman Road – with a drawing of a full mug labelled, The Appian Way along with a description of the drink resembling a marshmallow coffee served by many of the surrounding rivals for your morning money. There is also a Roman Spring – similar to a cross between a cappuccino and a latte. A Saturnalia – where the coffee is on top, resembling a reversed Affogate that uses a scoop of ice cream in the mug, but placed at the bottom of it.

The one that catches my attention is something called a Mount Etna Java Flow. Querying the beverage, the aging barista explains to me that it is a drink like a double espresso but thick in texture. He goes on to describe it as liquid magma spurting from the rim of a mug. “If you-ah still sleepy,” he jokes in a thick Italian accent. “This will-ah spring your eyelids to attention.”

I nod my approval and select the lava-filled mug, then patiently wait for its dispensing - turning to watch the melee of bodies rushing past this secretive hole-in-the-wall coffee stand.

I don’t have long to wait before the wise-looking Italian gentleman offers me an exquisite and aromatic tall ceramic shot mug of Roman design on a matching saucer. Before I can gently protest that I need the drink to take away, he pre-empts my reluctance by saying five stern words to me, as he comfortingly smiles.

“We don’t-ah do plastic ‘ere.”

My raised eyebrows prompt him to elucidate. He reciprocates by explaining,

“It’s-ah like-ah dis,” he begins. “We throw away so many-ah things in life. Old-ah furniture, old-ah clothes, renewable materials like-ah da plastic cups, for instance. And-ah relationships that make us more lonelier than-ah ever. Butta the most importanteh thing we cannot-ah hold on to, is time – the most-ah precious commodity. Butta instead, we rush through-ah life trying to get-ah here and get-ah there, never stopping to smella da life passing by at a much faster rate than we can keep-ah upper with. We always inna hurry to get-ah somewhere. We treat-ah life like a never-ending race. But whatta good issa racing to a finish line that-ah no-one canna see until-ah the priest, he blesses your coffin?”

He demonstrates the Catholic benediction toward me, while I stand mesmerised at the old man’s blunt but insightful words. So intensely is my stare, he snaps me out of it by ordering me to drink.

“Don’t-ah let the lava get-ah cold. Coz-ah you will need a shovel to-ah dig it out.”

He smiles at his little joke - while encouraging me to consume the entire vessel’s contents. Obligingly, I down the drink in a style resembling the Friday night shots of Jägermeister that me and my own clique of workmates throw down our gullets at the Bierkeller in Covent Garden. However, this was no smooth alcoholic liquorice and aniseed cordial derivative. It was thick, syrupy delight that trickled slowly down my throat toward my awaiting stomach, filling me with merry coffee-berry-resplendent-pleasure.

After licking the rim of the Roman chalice, I hand it and the saucer back to the “Vecchio uomo,” curiously wondering why I’m describing an Italian old man in his native tongue.

“Grazie,” I say – going with the flow like Mount Etna’s magma was oozing from my mouth.

“Prego, signore,” he replies. “I wanna show you-ah something.”

Before I can object, the old man guides me to stand on one of his tables dotted around the cart. Directing my gaze to the mad morning dash of commuters passing by, he sweeps his arms in a vista pattern, prompting me to take in the scene.

“Now-ah, look outta there and tell me whatta you see. Issa alright. I hold onto the table so you don’t-ah fall.”

I play along and for several moments study the crowds making straight lines toward unseen destinations. An instant surge of adrenalin begins to place me in a very alert state of mind. The old man senses this in the small jerk of my table stance.

“You awake-ah now, Sì? Mag-ah-ma becomes-ah lava. Lava becomes-ah free from itssa restraints,” he instructively explains.

He is right. Clarity courses through my awakening mind like dawn had just risen from a very long, dark night.

“Tell-ah me whatta you see, signore,” he asks in a more demanding tone of voice.

“I see… ants!” I blurt out in cognisant tone.

“Sì,” he responds. “But-ah without-ah organisation, without communicating to-ah each other assa to where they need to go. Greedy, unsharing, and-ah without insight, they frantically passah me by every day like-ah time for them issa just a race to beat-ah da clock.”

In one long breath, he imparts his observations like a documentarian broadcasting to a large television audience.

“We have-ah a saying in-ah Sicily that goes,

Supra lu majuri si ‘nsigna lu minuri.

We learn by-ah standing onna the shoulders of the wise.”

Before I can commend him on his forthright imparting of a sensible Sicilian proverb, he continues.

“Itta means to listen to those gone before you and-ah to always gain a higher perspective of-ah the playing field. Too many seekka out the easiest path, or the most-ah convenient, so they do not see the other options calmly awaiting their arrival in the quiet-ah corners of life. But, you-ah certainly did, Giovane uomo.”

“Giovane,” I repeat. “That means, young, doesn’t it?” My understanding of Italian improving with every jolt of Mount Etna’s caffeine hitting me.

“Sì,” he smiles in the satisfaction that there is at least one person he has truly communicated with on this grey morning. “You get-ah down, now,” he instructs. “More-ah customers await.”

Rather than jumping down and risking potential injury to my ankles, I drop to my knees and backward-crawl my way off the table.

“I’d better be off, then,” I bid an explanatory farewell, before turning to wave at him. But both to my surprise and disconcertment, all that greets me is an empty nook where the coffee stand had stood just moments ago, and on the nook’s indented wall, is a dated travel poster depicting an old man welcoming the reader to Sicily with the Italian words, Cu Nesci arrinesci above the English translation that reads, Those who leave their own comfort zone succeed.

My eyes move further down the poster to the tagline that is both poignant and soberly awakening. It reads, Get away from the rat race. Sicily awaits your arrival!

Was I in some form of daydream in my slumbering disorder of morning tiredness? Or did I just enter a magical corner of Waterloo Station, where clarity freely offers its guidance without seeking compensation? I mean, if walls could talk, these are very old walls indeed, with much wisdom to offer those that stop and listen.

Most certainly, a refreshed lucid mind possesses me like the description on the poster. The previous few moments of my confused state of mind matter not because I have suddenly awoken to the sound of a new race. The race to my wellbeing, where time slows to my pace. Where I will not be coerced, manipulated, or intimidated into becoming a slave to the system. What I mean to say is that I will no longer watch time pass before me. I will lasso it like the ticket collector on platform nine wrangles those that skirt the fare paying law. I will be a master of my own destiny. An enthusiastic participant of life and not a spectator waiting until it’s too late to act – where I like others before me, helplessly look up at the priest blessing my casket.

As I slowly saunter back into the onrush of proverbial headless chickens slurping scalding coffee from plastic cups, wolfing down sugary donuts as they trot along, and spilling crumbling baked muffins onto the ground; the world moves around me at such a fast pace, that I find myself becoming a slow-moving buffer amongst the pinball herd of ticking-time livestock. My newly discovered awareness, pledges to concentrate on what is most important to me - the control of my own life, its passage through time, and the air that I breathe. I promise to continue to gain a clearer perspective on life; and whenever possible, to stand on the shoulders of the wise.

My race has come to an end, but not in the sense of terminal or of downfall. More so, in the belief that there is more to life than what is dictated to us by the norm…