Sleeping Beauty
I dash across Flinders Street when the lights change and down into the station, fingers crossed there will be a train; I don’t feel like waiting around in the cold. My first Society of Editors dinner meeting has been enjoyable and I’m grateful for being seated between the friendly Jan and Robyn. But now I am tired. All that emotional energy involved in turning up to an unfamiliar gig on your own.
The gods have been kind and I sit by the window in a six-booth. It’s empty. Good. I settle in to read the material for tomorrow’s uni class. However, the girl behind is relaying today’s psychology lecture to her boyfriend. I decide that learning about the effects of loading rats and birds up with testosterone and observing their behaviour is fascinating. Will the dominant black rat be tricked if they paint the docile white one a different colour? I close my reader and tune in.
At Melbourne Central a man sits on the seat two up from me. We make brief eye contact before he unfurls his MX. He is about my age, greying hair, paunchy, and wearing an expensive sports jacket. At the next stop, two girls get on and sit opposite, one across from him and the other next to her. The one closest to me nods off to sleep almost immediately. The girl relaxes into such a sound sleep she begins to lean towards the empty window seat next to her. Her body is tipped at such an acute angle I worry she will fall against the glass. She drops the piece of chocolate she is holding, then her phone. She stirs and picks up the phone, and as if the clatter to the floor has sparked it into action it begins to ring. She slurs into it, ‘I’ll be home soon’, then hangs up and slides across to the window seat. Within moments she is asleep again, her head lolled back almost to the seat behind her, which, fortunately, is unoccupied.
I angle my legs away as she slides further down the seat. She is breathing through her thick-lipped mouth which is wide open, as if she were one of a row of porcelain clowns at a carnival. Her skin is olive and her eyes, whenever she opens them through the slits of her lids, are dark brown, the colour of the chocolate fragment on the floor. She is wearing a purple hoodie and fashion-frayed blue jeans.
Her phone rings again, but she doesn’t stir. The man next to me and the girl opposite him glance at me before our eyes are drawn back to the phone, alive in her hand, blaring out a song off the radio. I can’t believe she hasn’t heard it. Her fingers, the nails neatly manicured, squared at the ends and painted bright red, remain curled around the phone, but do not move. The phone stops and several moments later starts up again. She remains oblivious to it. I glance over at the man beside me and he rolls his eyes.
How will she know her stop? The phone rings for a third time but she remains comatose. ‘She’s going to need help to get home, but it won’t be me offering,’ says the man. ‘I’m getting off at the next stop.’ He shakes her leg to see if she is conscious. The girl mutters something that might be ‘leave me alone’. Her eyes flit open for a second.
A woman in a seat further up the carriage catches my eye and raises her eyebrows in a ‘What will we do?’ motion. I shrug my shoulders and emboldened by the man beside me, shake the girl’s leg again. She opens her eyes and looks at me through the slits of her eyelids.
‘What station are you getting out at?’ I say.
‘Why do you want to know?’ she slurs. There is menace in her voice.
‘You don’t look very well,’ I say, and before I can finish my sentence her head has lolled back again.
We pull into a station and the man beside me says, ‘Good luck,’ and gets up and moves off.
‘Should I ring for an ambulance?’ the psychology student behind pipes up.
The woman a few seats down nods furiously. I look to the other girl sitting beside Sleeping Beauty for confirmation, but she looks away. I turn to psychology girl and say yes, ring. She dials and relays she is to press the emergency stop button at the next station. As we approach Camberwell she sounds the alarm. It is so loud it makes me jump. Simultaneously, the driver’s voice blares through the carriage’s PA, asking why the button has been pressed, and the girl suddenly comes to her senses and is on her feet. It is as if the press of the button has also activated an eject function. She lurches out between the seats. Psychology girl is explaining to the driver what has happened.
The girl yells out to everyone in the carriage, ‘I’m on drugs. I’ve had weed. I’m just tired, that’s all,’ then half runs, half staggers down to the other end of the carriage, before realising she has left her bag on the seat. When she turns to retrace her steps her eyes are wide with panic. The train has stopped at the station and the doors open. In the melee I lose sight of her. She has either spilled out onto the platform amongst the crowd or she has changed carriages. I turn to ask psychology girl and her boyfriend if they saw where she went, but their seats are empty. The doors close and the train moves off.
The woman further down the carriage moves seats and comes to sit near me. She asks if I saw where the girl went. She tells me the story of someone she assisted, once, who had passed out on the pavement, under the influence of drugs. She’d offered her the orange juice she’d just bought for lunch. I half-listen. My thoughts are with the girl. I am re-running the sequence of events through my mind. I am cursing for not having the presence of mind to answer her phone. To tell the person on the other end what train we are on. To ask which stop she was to get off. I’m re-visioning the whole thing, as if my getting it right in my mind will help her to get home. The woman, as if reading my thoughts, says if we had tried to answer her phone the girl would have accused us of trying to steal it.
I think of the unfairness of life; of the girl’s beautifully manicured nails; her dark eyes; what cocktail of drugs she has had; try to guess her age – maybe nineteen or twenty? I say a silent prayer that someone will help her to get home.
When the train pulls into my station I say goodbye to the woman. I have the thought that in another life we could have been friends.
In another life either one of us could have been the girl.
The gods have been kind and I sit by the window in a six-booth. It’s empty. Good. I settle in to read the material for tomorrow’s uni class. However, the girl behind is relaying today’s psychology lecture to her boyfriend. I decide that learning about the effects of loading rats and birds up with testosterone and observing their behaviour is fascinating. Will the dominant black rat be tricked if they paint the docile white one a different colour? I close my reader and tune in.
At Melbourne Central a man sits on the seat two up from me. We make brief eye contact before he unfurls his MX. He is about my age, greying hair, paunchy, and wearing an expensive sports jacket. At the next stop, two girls get on and sit opposite, one across from him and the other next to her. The one closest to me nods off to sleep almost immediately. The girl relaxes into such a sound sleep she begins to lean towards the empty window seat next to her. Her body is tipped at such an acute angle I worry she will fall against the glass. She drops the piece of chocolate she is holding, then her phone. She stirs and picks up the phone, and as if the clatter to the floor has sparked it into action it begins to ring. She slurs into it, ‘I’ll be home soon’, then hangs up and slides across to the window seat. Within moments she is asleep again, her head lolled back almost to the seat behind her, which, fortunately, is unoccupied.
I angle my legs away as she slides further down the seat. She is breathing through her thick-lipped mouth which is wide open, as if she were one of a row of porcelain clowns at a carnival. Her skin is olive and her eyes, whenever she opens them through the slits of her lids, are dark brown, the colour of the chocolate fragment on the floor. She is wearing a purple hoodie and fashion-frayed blue jeans.
Her phone rings again, but she doesn’t stir. The man next to me and the girl opposite him glance at me before our eyes are drawn back to the phone, alive in her hand, blaring out a song off the radio. I can’t believe she hasn’t heard it. Her fingers, the nails neatly manicured, squared at the ends and painted bright red, remain curled around the phone, but do not move. The phone stops and several moments later starts up again. She remains oblivious to it. I glance over at the man beside me and he rolls his eyes.
How will she know her stop? The phone rings for a third time but she remains comatose. ‘She’s going to need help to get home, but it won’t be me offering,’ says the man. ‘I’m getting off at the next stop.’ He shakes her leg to see if she is conscious. The girl mutters something that might be ‘leave me alone’. Her eyes flit open for a second.
A woman in a seat further up the carriage catches my eye and raises her eyebrows in a ‘What will we do?’ motion. I shrug my shoulders and emboldened by the man beside me, shake the girl’s leg again. She opens her eyes and looks at me through the slits of her eyelids.
‘What station are you getting out at?’ I say.
‘Why do you want to know?’ she slurs. There is menace in her voice.
‘You don’t look very well,’ I say, and before I can finish my sentence her head has lolled back again.
We pull into a station and the man beside me says, ‘Good luck,’ and gets up and moves off.
‘Should I ring for an ambulance?’ the psychology student behind pipes up.
The woman a few seats down nods furiously. I look to the other girl sitting beside Sleeping Beauty for confirmation, but she looks away. I turn to psychology girl and say yes, ring. She dials and relays she is to press the emergency stop button at the next station. As we approach Camberwell she sounds the alarm. It is so loud it makes me jump. Simultaneously, the driver’s voice blares through the carriage’s PA, asking why the button has been pressed, and the girl suddenly comes to her senses and is on her feet. It is as if the press of the button has also activated an eject function. She lurches out between the seats. Psychology girl is explaining to the driver what has happened.
The girl yells out to everyone in the carriage, ‘I’m on drugs. I’ve had weed. I’m just tired, that’s all,’ then half runs, half staggers down to the other end of the carriage, before realising she has left her bag on the seat. When she turns to retrace her steps her eyes are wide with panic. The train has stopped at the station and the doors open. In the melee I lose sight of her. She has either spilled out onto the platform amongst the crowd or she has changed carriages. I turn to ask psychology girl and her boyfriend if they saw where she went, but their seats are empty. The doors close and the train moves off.
The woman further down the carriage moves seats and comes to sit near me. She asks if I saw where the girl went. She tells me the story of someone she assisted, once, who had passed out on the pavement, under the influence of drugs. She’d offered her the orange juice she’d just bought for lunch. I half-listen. My thoughts are with the girl. I am re-running the sequence of events through my mind. I am cursing for not having the presence of mind to answer her phone. To tell the person on the other end what train we are on. To ask which stop she was to get off. I’m re-visioning the whole thing, as if my getting it right in my mind will help her to get home. The woman, as if reading my thoughts, says if we had tried to answer her phone the girl would have accused us of trying to steal it.
I think of the unfairness of life; of the girl’s beautifully manicured nails; her dark eyes; what cocktail of drugs she has had; try to guess her age – maybe nineteen or twenty? I say a silent prayer that someone will help her to get home.
When the train pulls into my station I say goodbye to the woman. I have the thought that in another life we could have been friends.
In another life either one of us could have been the girl.
Comments
Regards
Patrick