The Attendant

Clink – Clack, clack, clack.

Clink – Clack, clack, clack.

The same monotonous rhythm continued. As designer leather shoes scurried across the worn concrete, a sea of grey, black and navy-blue suits passed in hurried succession. The air felt dirty, possibly of tar. He raised his head wearily as the carriage doors hesitate together. The heavy wheels groan to a start, then speed up with urgency. Distracted faces fly off down the dark tunnel.

Clink – clack, clack, clack.

Clink – Clack, clack.

“Sh** – some help here!”

His attention snapped to an annoyed face and hips bumping against the jammed turnstile.

“Why don’t you guys get these things fixed, I’ve got a fricking train to catch!”

He apologised and pressed the release button and the inconvenienced passenger rushed down the stairs, without acknowledgement or thanks. Another Monday.

Turnstile 3 had always been sticky and jammed unpredictably. Every time number 3 captured a helpless passenger, the verbal exchange was not pleasant. But that was not his fault. He was there, “in case”.

“In case of what?” he had once asked his supervisor. Surely there’s more to this job than sitting on a stool and watch as people unnoticeably pass.

“In case number 3 jams of course! Or if someone tries to jump the turnstile instead of paying, that’s your job. Now sit there and don’t screw anything up.”

It seemed easy enough, but he discovered after a week that dealing with people, especially rushed ones, was seldom easy and hardly worth his time. Perhaps this was why his supervisor sat behind 2 inches of clouded, scratched glass, mainly reading the paper, but occasionally catching an eye over the action.

The gritty, peeled white walls and dark grey bars made him feel like a guard in an overcrowded prison; only these inmates wore tailored clothing and sharp hairstyles holding even sharper mobile technology. Freshly brewed coffee in hand, ready to start the day. He clutches his coat closer to his heart and adjusts the scarf around his neck. Others do the same, searching for comfort in the cold of June.

A crackled electronic voice echoed from the speakers, “Platform number 2. 7:15 - All stops to Central - Delayed”

A disappointed chorus erupted from the passing men and women.

“Are you kidding me, why can’t you guys get these trains running on time?”. An angry gentleman asked.

“What do you guys get paid for?”. Another annoyed woman scoffed.

As the mob of heads descends downwards towards their phones, clicking away at the screens in their hands, he started to realise it wasn’t his fault, he knew that. Still, whenever something happened in this station, angered words were darted his way, along with other nasty comments.

He remembered once trying to help an elderly woman down the stairs. All he got was a wack from her bag full of groceries, “What? You don’t think I can do this myself?”. He had been taught his whole life to help the elderly.

Another time he requested to assist a young boy who had dropped his toy, the mother had recoiled, “He is okay... please don’t touch him!”. What an odd thing to say he thought. He was never going to hurt the child, let alone touch him.

“Umm... pay attention, a little help here!”. By the sounds of it, number 3 had captured another passenger.

He snapped over to the attention of the incident and walked over to push the release button. The trapped passenger pushed the metal bar, but it was jammed. He knew she wasn’t pushing hard enough, so he approached her. The passenger looked at him wearily, she had the look of a fox caught in a trap. He tried to assist, extending his arm to force the turnstile around. She resisted and forced away from him from her.

“Don’t touch me you dirty Sikh, or I’ll choke you with that headwrap of yours!”

Many eyes direct their attention to them. A crowd begins to form. Again, he was only trying to help. Such rudeness and intolerance shouldn’t be accepted but he was used to it. Tough skin was all part of the job.

The woman managed to free herself. He stood there in shock as she hurried away, not looking back.  He returned to the sideline, confused about what he did so wrong, waiting for another incident. The crowd got bored and continued with their morning.

He wasn’t so lucky for this one time his supervisor had been woken up from the commotion outside the box office. He overheard and approached him with an enraged expression, a rosy sea flooding his face. “Did you just assault that lady?”

He looked at his supervisor with disbelief. How could he ever do something like that? Of course, he didn’t assault her. It seemed like whatever he did someone from somewhere accused him of some repulsive act of violence. He didn’t know how to respond.

“What do you have to say for yourself, if you want another job, go back to your shithole of a country!”

He was so mad. He froze. It was as if time had stood still and the flowing traffic of people had slackened their paces down. He blanked out and completely forgot what to do next.

He had enough.

A strong urge to beat this guy up was all he could think about, to make him suffer as he did. To hurt him with more than just words was an understatement, he wanted to really hurt this guy. But he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t because people like him were never meant to win against them. He needed this job.

He excused himself and left the office.

He walked into the bathroom and was greeted by a foul stench of vomit and faeces. As he fixed the lock on the door he walked over to the faded mirror. His reflection showed a middle-aged man with a head wrap and a tilak on the forehead. His eyes start to cast as waterfalls and his tears as rivers, plummeting down towards the earth, soiling the hard ground.

His head lifts and his mouth starts to form the words;

Āpaṇī śāntī nū rakhō*

*Meaning “keep your peace in Punjabi