What’s Going On?

The train grinds to a halt midway between stations and you look out the window onto a freeway that better resembles a car park. It is as if the entire world has been forced to a stand-still. All about you, in the cramped carriage, there are chaotic bubbles of conversation and exclamations of dismay, and your heart staggers within your chest. You really should have taken the earlier train, you’re going to be late.

You check your watch for the time, then cross check that against your mobile phone. Late. The minutes are ticking closer and closer to ten, and your interview time is ten-fifteen. You drum your fingers in agitation against your thigh, tapping a rhythm of urgency there, that is echoed by your foot as it hammers the counterpoint with your heel.

You check your phone again. Only a minute has passed, the train is still stationary, and now the woman across from you seems to be having a panic attack. Her face is pale and her breathing shallow, while her wild eyes glance from one closed door to the next. Neither door will open. There is no way off this train, and from the look of terror on her face, she knows it. Her terror sparks your own and you begin to feel as if there is not enough air to share.

“What’s going on?” The wild-eyed woman gasps into what has become concerned silence. No one, it seems, has an answer and everyone is just as confused as you are, well almost everyone. The kid in the dark hoodie towards the back is just resting his head against the window, eyes closed and earbuds in, nodding to the music. His body is relaxed and you can hear him humming and quietly beat boxing under his breath. You wonder absently what he is listening to that keeps him so engrossed that he is not part of the collective concern.

Before you can reach panic levels that are elevated past your personal threshold of tolerance, the carriage jolts into motion again, and everyone heaves a sigh. Relieved conversation fills the silence along with what can only be considered hysterical laughter from the wild-eyed woman as she verbally and voluminously expresses her relief. You continue to tap your heel and drum your fingers against the edge of your phone as you eyeball the minutes ticking down. You mentally calculate that if you can reach the station in the next five minutes, you will probably have just enough time to get to the interview… maybe, but it will be a rush.

The train finally pulls into the underground station and you push urgently to the front of the crowd.

“Excuse me,” you mutter. “I have a job interview.” Some people are kind and step back so you can weave to the front of the queue, but most blindly ignore you. As the doors open, you burst through them along with the suddenly released sea of humanity, and ducking and weaving, you dodge breathlessly through the crowd towards the escalator. Once on board, there is no space to move and you are corralled into position by the throng of people. So much for Covid protocols, you think to yourself as you are pressed against a middle-aged man by the mass of people behind. There is no social distancing when everyone is in a hurry.

At the top of the escalator, you vaguely register a busker plying his trade before those who are commuting today, but you have no time for street performers as you hot-foot it towards the Tranby Building. You dodge through oncoming traffic, barely missing the fender of a taxi as it honks its horn at you, which you ignore. Once back on the walkway, you blunder through a group of older slow moving persons, throwing a half-formed apology and wave over your shoulder as you barge past them.

Finally, you arrive breathless and flustered in the foyer of the Tranby Building. Glancing at your watch, you are relieved to note that you still have three minutes to spare. You punch the call button for the lift repeatedly, hoping that the pounding will translate your urgency to the machine, thus ensuring that the lift arrives swiftly.

It doesn’t.

You contemplate the stairs, it’s only four floors up, but just as you dither between going for the stairwell and staying, the lift dings open. Thank God, you think with relief.

In the small elevator space, you try desperately to repair the damage your mad rush has done to your image. You comb your fingers through your hair, and straighten your shirt and jacket, before flapping your hands vigorously before your cheeks in an attempt to fan them and cool down. You are hot and flustered, not the best look to have, but at least you are not late.

Well, not late, according to your watch. The raised eyebrows and prune lips of the woman sitting at the desk as you enter the suite indicate otherwise.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” you begin in a rush. “There was an issue with the train.”

The woman raises her brow even further, as if she had heard that excuse before and thought as little of it then as she does now. You writhe with discomfort under her glare. She obviously belongs to your grandfather’s school of thought, that if you are not fifteen minutes early, then you are late.

“Mr Carstairs is waiting. Please follow me,” she says in a monotone that is far from impressed.

And so it begins, the interview from hell, that starts badly and only gets worse. Mr Carstairs reads over your resume as if he has never seen it before. Not a good feeling. Surely something in your file should stand out. Perhaps the years working for SWP as a consultant, the three years working in London for Wetherby, Wetherby and Smyth updating their online presence and organising their systems. Wetherby senior had even written a glowing letter of recommendation before he had passed away last year. Your file should be memorable at least.

“So, tell me, what experience have you had in the industry recently?” he asks.

Recently? Now here is the catch, you think. How recently does he mean? This week, this month? The last time you were employed was nearly two years ago. Since then you’ve waited tables and watched an old man die. You cringe as that thought flits through your mind. It’s not fair to call your grandfather an old man, but it was true. Although you know that death comes to us all eventually, the cancer turned your Gramps suddenly from a sprightly seventy-year-old to a husk of a man who needed twenty-four-hour care. His death set you free, but it feels more like it cut you loose and cast you adrift with no anchor in a sea where nobody cares.

At the end of the interview, you shake hands with Mr Carstairs, say goodbye to the prune faced lady at the front desk and, unthinkingly, lost in your own misery, step out of the building directly into the path of an oncoming bus.

***

The train grinds to a halt midway between stations and you look out the window onto a freeway that better resembles a car park. It is as if the entire world has been forced to a stand-still. All about you, in the cramped carriage, there are chaotic bubbles of conversation and exclamations of dismay, and your heart staggers within your chest. You really should have taken the earlier train, you’re going to be late.

You check your watch for the time, then cross check that against your mobile phone. Late. The minutes are ticking closer and closer to ten, and your interview time is ten-fifteen. You drum your fingers in agitation against your thigh, tapping a rhythm of urgency there, that is echoed by your foot as it hammers the counterpoint with your heel. Making a decision, you pull up the contact details for the interview and call.

“Good morning, you’ve reached Carstairs and Associates. How May I help you?” The woman’s voice on the other end is a monotone of efficiency, and you quickly introduce yourself.

“I have an interview at ten-fifteen today, and unfortunately, the train that I am on has broken down. I will not be able to make that appointment.” You inform her quickly.

“Thank you for letting us know.”

That is it, you have blown your job opportunity; you sigh as you disconnect the call. Well, from the sound of the receptionist, it wouldn’t have been a place that you would want to work, almost as if it would suck the life out of you, and you’ve had enough of that over the past two years. With your Gramps being sick and finally succumbing to cancer, you need somewhere to work that is life affirming, not absorbing.

You look up from your phone; the train is still stationary, and now the woman across from you seems to be having a panic attack. Her face is pale and her breathing shallow while her wild eyes glance from closed door to closed door. Neither door will open. There is no way off this train, and from the look of terror on her face, she knows it. Her terror sparks your own. Enclosed spaces always get to you, but before you can give in to panic, you catch her eye and smile. “I’m sure it will be fine,” you tell her and the wobbling confidence in your voice seems to settle her.

“What’s going on?” The woman asks, taking deep steadying breaths, her eyes not leaving your face, as if you are the only rock she can cling to in the ocean of fear. You shrug and shake your head, you’ve no idea what is happening, and no one else seems to have an answer either. Everyone is just as confused as you are, well, almost everyone. The kid in the dark hoodie towards the back is just resting his head against the window, eyes closed and earbuds in, nodding to the music. His body is relaxed and you can hear him humming and quietly beat boxing under his breath. To distract the lady, you tilt your head towards him and ask, “I wonder what he is listening to?” You both listen intently to the soft unconscious hums and vocal drumming sounds he is making under his breath. Neither of you can work it out, but his vocal stylings are amusing, slightly off key, and so unaware of anything surrounding him, that you can’t help but smile.

Suddenly, the carriage jolts into motion again, and everyone heaves a sigh. Relieved conversation fills the silence and you and the lady share a smile. The train finally pulls into the underground station and you stand back to let the other commuters off. The boy in the hoodie steps past you, still nodding and mumbling along with his music.

“Good song?” You ask him.

He nods, “Marvin Gaye.”

“Ahh,” you say and suddenly the vocal mumbles and hums you heard make sense. “What’s Going On?”

“Yep!” He smiles. A sense of shared understanding passes between you both, as if in this crazy universe, there is another person who just gets you.

At the top of the escalator, you hear the sound of a violin being played. The notes ring out in joyful phrases, landing on top of each other in playful melodies that bounce and trip and swirl, echoing in the cavernous entrance of the station. It entrances you and you slow to a stop, while the swirl of humanity parts to flow around you. Someone bumps into you. It’s the boy in the hoodie. He glances up to apologise and you point to the street performer. The boy takes his earbuds out and turns to watch the solo violinist caress and dance with his instrument.

The song finishes and the violinist instantly begins the next one, a slower, more mournful tune that somehow speaks words into your heart. Words of sorrow, and loss and pain. Your eyes fill, and your heart swells. The boy next to you is fixed motionless by the music. Together, you share the moment, as if you both see the same story. The last mournful note rises to the station roof as a tear slides down your face. The man on the violin looks up at you and he smiles as he leads into a new song. This one twists your heart with joy, an Ave Maria, played with a tremulous passion that you have never known. The controlled vibrato ripples through you, every nerve ending shivers, lighting a fire in your soul.

There are three people in this moment, the man, the boy and you. Hundreds of people walk by, too busy rushing to the next moment, but right now, you share this incredible blending of one soul with another. It’s like you can’t breathe or move, you can only be. Transcended into something more and as the last note trails off, you are released.

You reach into your pocket. Is there any change there? Whatever is in your pocket, it is not enough, so you walk up to the man with his violin, look him in the eye and say, “Thank you.”