In this journey

 He’d told me once that he’d found God in a tomato. 

“You what?!” I’d swiftly replied. 

“Yeah” he’d said nonchalantly. 

“God. In a tomato” And then he’d put his headphones in and returned back to his iPad screen and tapped away, his own face staring back at him as he spoke. Prophetising to those that would listen, as if his words were a spectral fragmentation, a revolutionary vision that all MUST know.

I’d sat and stared, bewildered at him in that moment, unsure of what to say. Uneducated in the correct responses to such spontaneous outbursts from these people, and I’d curled up inside myself questioning my very nature. Was I supposed to understand what he meant? Was I supposed to retort with some equally obscure statement, spoken, of course, matter of factly, to prove my worth? In that moment the windows offered nothing to me. I’d glanced out them still, hopeful of some respite from the inner turmoil stewed up by one singular statement. But, in that moment, they’d merely taunted me with their reflection of the inner carriage, hiding the ever changing landscape behind them. 

There would always be this one bloke, who would get on the train in Chesterfield, who would make this noise as he searched for his seat. 

"Boop be doop be doo" 

He’d walk up and down the aisle, 3 times, touch each chair on the little red handle on the side, not to steady himself though, 3 times up and down, then eventually sit himself in the exact same chair, every time.

"Boop be doop be doo" He would chant, for each trip. 

Sat in his seat he would stop.

Put his hands in his lap, and begin counting. 

Mrs Davies' cackle was legendary. 

Everyone knew it, everyone despised it. Brash, cutting, and eruptive, it would come out of nowhere and any poor sod who had drifted off during the journey would be jolted awake and thrown in with the hyena. 

She was loud. Louder than you’d want. 

I learnt about her wayward husband, 3 errant children, dried up vagina, bank loans, bills, cat murders, coffee mornings, gym membership, athletes foot, leaky roof, fake degree and followers, all in the first trip. 

I couldn’t help it. Neither could the other passengers, I imagined. 

“It’s a bear market. Sell your current bags, keep it tied into Tether. It’s a ticking time bomb, but for now it is the best stable coin to use while the rest play out their volatility.” 

Suits would frequent the carriage in their packs. 

Black and straightened, mostly two piece, mostly formal cut, shaped to accentuate strong shoulders, for strong meetings. Other colours would occasion but as feral wolves, these would not be integrated, left instead to fend for themselves. 

With every word spoken on their mobiles, with every piece of information passed down to whoever it was on the other end of the line, they would always finish with 

“..This is not financial advice, DYOR.” 

It took me a while to figure out they were not simply informing their ‘clients’ of a new cologne. 

Putting down the phone, they would then snarl between them, the 3 piece suit pack leader growling orders to ‘buy’ or ‘sell’ - generally the opposite of the phone call - and they would all howl with laughter, at the joys of insider trading. 

There was this girl on the trip, quite pretty, who everyday would see this boy. He was not so pretty. The boy though would see the girl and smile, and the smile returned, but both would sit, away from each other. The girl, with pride in her appearance would retreat, lonely eyes drawn away, coat shut tightly around her. She believed, it would seem, in unwelcome attention. I believe she considered herself pragmatic. 

The boy was a twiddler. He would twiddle his thumbs, small pieces of paper, plastic, cardboard, he would twiddle them so much that they would cascade from his hands, shredded into impossible pieces falling through his fingers. He wore lonely eyes too. Though he dared not look towards the girl again, for fear of misrepresentation. 

They sat together one day, but neither spoke. 

The gentleman with the food cart would baffle me most though.

Tall, over 6 foot with long hair in a ponytail, open toed sandals and an age that had lived the 60’s. In the middle of all this muted carnage, his voice would travel. 

Bizarre it would seem, as his words would be barely audible at the best of times, yet somehow, no matter how rowdy it would get, his softness would always permeate. 

‘Any snacks off the trolley?’ he would float. 

Heads would never really turn, but hands would fly up with cash and cards and barked orders, exchanges made and thanks provided, but, and this was the intriguing part, but no one ever looked at his face. Except, it would seem, for me. 

Though, I never bought anything. 

The commute had always been a necessary part of my life, unfortunately so. Two hours it would take me to get to work. 

From one cog to another. 

I liked it at first, something new. New journey, new experience, new surroundings. Until, I began to look inside the carriage instead of out. Now it looked very different. 

I never thought I would see incredulity. 

The top of heads, bald spots, weaves, golden, dark, kept, scruffy, covered, all poking just above the seats they chose to sit in, much like myself. We had all decided at one point in our lives to allow ‘the great spectacle’, to embrace the distraction. 

To drink the water.  

Lucidity, for me, had returned though, and I could see. The world was strange, absurd, oblivious, entrapped. 

And in this metal carriage I could see the top of heads, everyone, all facing away, all facing one way, all facing the wrong way. 

All of them. 

Always going backwards.