Piccadilly

Middle carriage. The one I enjoy most and the one people avoid most. There must be a widespread belief that the middle is the busiest. Life’s examples of Bell curves, I suppose. The train pulls up, so I take my waiting spot on the platform like a responsible citizen. I feel my armpits sweaty, so I keep my arms close, just in case.

The breaks are applied, and I’m perfectly aligned with the door. Years of the same job, same route, same carriage work wonders. Sometimes I play mental games to measure how far I am from the split between the doors. The distance I was away by most was 10 inches, ever since I started counting. One horrible mistake I never repeated.

The doors open, and after letting people get off, I make my way in when a zoned-out weirdo who probably just remembered this is his stop shoves into me on his way out.

“Sorry mate,” he says.

“No bother,” I say. I was bothered.

I take my seat next to the window panel. The middle couch's left panel is on my right as I walk inside. 66% of the time, this is free. 10% of the time is that bellend from two stops before that does in at the same hours I do on Wednesdays. He always works on his laptop on his way in and huffs and puffs to, I guess, show people how stressed he is. Something conditioned him to think that being stressed signifies higher status. Well, he’s not in today, so I take my seat.

The train starts moving and it’s the usual faces. Three, at most, tourists take space for six people with their suitcases. That young rebel teenager sitting just a bit differently to not seem a conformist. The co-workers talk about their past evenings with their spouses when deep down they want to rip their clothes off and fuck like no tomorrow. Maybe they will act on that one day, or perhaps one will move jobs, and the fantasy is over.

The next stop is Earl’s Court. Please mind the gap.

This one is always full. Two ladies walk in wearing long summer dresses and stand before me holding the rail. One of them keeps giving me occasional glances, as to suggest that perhaps I should make room. No.

“So anyway Cheryl, I told him – do you really think he’s the right man for the job?” says the blonde one.

“No, tell me. What did he say?” says Cheryl.

I watch this like a game of tennis. I feel like they know I’m eavesdropping, but they don’t mind. Something tells me they’re both used to attention.

“Give the man a chance! That’s what he said. I couldn’t believe it, Cheryl!”

“Girl, say no more,” says Cheryl.

“I’m not saying one more thing!” she said, saying.

I turn my head to the geezer on my right. Old gent with a thick black and silver beard. He's scrolling on his phone, and there are plenty of pictures from the Olympics. Every once and again, there’s a gymnast that pops up, captured perfectly for a gaze of the ass cheeks to which he zooms in. He catches me looking at his phone, to which he elbows me friendly.

“Watcha’say brother,” he asks with a devilish look. Do you reckon I could do something to her if I were a few more decades younger?”

“I doubt you’d have that flexibility, mister,” I try to respond cynically, to which he slightly turns away, scrolling continuously.

The next stop is Gloucester Road. Please mind the gap.

The tube gets more packed. The sweat is dripping ever so slightly on the sides of my body. Cheryl left what’s her name, who’s still eyeing me out, alone. This slim brunette walks in, wearing a tight black bodysuit that compliments her figure fully. I wonder if earlier in life, should I have chosen a different path, I might’ve bagged one like her. Maybe if I looked after myself better, ate my veggies, hit the gym, that kind of thing. All I am now is a slightly overweight fuck, with a baldy patch and sweat dripping on my ribs. I bet her SUV is in the garage today, and she is forced to take the tube with the commoners. That’s what I am. A commoner. Never above average, only slightly below. I was content with that, and I never thought I’d find a higher purpose. I never expected one.

What’s her name moves her feet closer to me and stubs her toe on my work bag.

“Auch! What do you have in there? Bricks?” she asks rhetorically.

I apologise. To which she insists on carrying on.

“You know what, love, you could’ve offered me a seat. I’m pregnant.”

I examine her from head to stubbed toe. She doesn’t look like it.

The next stop is South Kensington. Please mind the gap.

“No – I don’t think you are,” I say to the revolt of the nearby passengers. “Where is the badge?”

The old lad next to me gets up, feeling a chance to score a point with the ladies.

“Here you go, darling, take mine.” He says chivalrously.

She thanks him and sits next to me. More people come in, and it’s a group of primary schoolchildren at this time. Oh no, I say to myself—hopefully, just a few stops.

They start making noise and cheering the train up. This is one of those situations where 50% of people hate their guts, whilst 50% are smiling and thinking of their children and whatever happy thoughts they get from seeing these minions taking up space. One such minion points at me. He has round glasses and looks a bit weird. He keeps pointing but doesn’t say anything. I get my workbag and hug it closer to my chest. I feel like he’s got something to do with it.

I was his age once. I had dreams and aspirations. Until this system, which claims to be meritocratic, shows its ugly face at every turn. It’s all about who you know, whose ass you’ll kiss, how rich you were born – all that jazz. The hardest-working people are the poorest. Every politician loves them and praises them when it’s election time but fuck me would they actually do something to ease up their life. I’ve still got 25 years left on my mortgage, and now, with the divorce making sure I remain indebted forever, I have no extra power to pay it off. Bet that hot brunette knows nothing about a mortgage. Those designer clothes and shoes, not to mention the thick sunglasses in the underground, tell me all I need to know.

The next stop is Knightsbridge. Please mind the gap.

I see Cheryl’s friend texting next to me.

Never taking the tube again. People R weir. LOL

I agree. The co-workers in front of me are having a proper laugh. Probably some story from work drinks, and Oh! She rests her hand on his knee. That’s it. They are going to fuck soon. The kids get off, thankfully, and the weird one waves to me. Doesn’t say anything again. I wave back.

One of the adverts on the top panel talks about retirement investing. What a joke. The way things are going, most people my age would be lucky if they even retire. Negative population trends, a job market in decline, and a wild system run for its shareholders. The tourists are making their way in between the seats, and their suitcases keep hitting my knee.

“Do you mind?” I say in an aggressive tone.

“Aw, sorry, sir!” says one of them. “Apologies.”

The next stop is Hyde Park Corner. Please mind the gap.

Thank fuck. After a couple more stops, this will all be over. To my right, there’s some argument brewing. A young lady is filming a man with a large backpack.

“I told this guy, yeah.” She says, addressing the phone and pointing at the guy, “to take his backpack down ‘cause it keeps smacking me in the face, yeah, and he won’t do it. Are you dizzy?”

The man looks at her and wants to say something but realises the battle is lost before it even begins. He takes his backpack off and looks at it with a bowed head.

“What? What you got to say?” she keeps pressing him. He refuses to engage. As most tube arguments, it naturally dies down with a few people chiming in “Leave it, it’s not worth it, hun.”

I check my watch. It’s almost there. Many more people get off. Many more come in.

The next stop is Green Park. Please mind the gap.

A flashback of memories goes through my head. My childhood, my wife, my mother's funeral. The joy, the angst, the anger. Precious memories and memories I wish I could’ve erased, pressing so hard on my soul and making me a miserable man, almost 35, with no real prospects. It feels like I’ve missed that one train to happiness, but I keep catching the same one taking me to a shitty cubicle, with sweat now almost close to my buttocks. There’s no more space to move now. It is absolutely jam-packed. This is what we wanted, to travel like sardines, get a wage, and say we’re living. Living.

A man gets up from his seat and reaches the door, pushing people sideways. He drops his newspaper on the floor at my feet.

The next stop is Piccadilly Circus. Please mind the gap.

Ah, Piccadilly—tourist heaven. It is one of the busiest undergrounds and areas in London. This is my stop, coming up.

I checked the newspaper's front page. Greg Butterknocks won the election with a sweeping majority. The far-right leader will receive the King's blessing later today.

That scum. I can’t believe how many he tricked. We need a big shake-up. We can’t let him take reign and ruin this country. I check my clock. It’s almost time.

Maybe this is the right thing. Or perhaps it isn’t. I guess I’ll never know. I get my bag and feel its heaviness in my whole body now. I feel light, and the bag presses me hard in my seat. I started breathing fast without realising it, sweating all over my face, and Cheryl’s mate was checking on me now. I look at my watch again, and here it is.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5…

“Mate, what’s in that bag?” says what’s her name with a petrified look on her face.

…3, 2, 1.

It’s quick. I feel hot, and then I feel nothing. Silence at last.