I had a train day yesterday.

Not as in I bought a train set yesterday, or even took a glance at Mr. Y's train magazine. I didn't stand at the end of a platform with my notebook and document trains roaring by, and I didn't take lots of pictures (that said, at one train station I was at the lovely Pullman dining car train was parked, and I confess I really did want to take a picture-either I am nostalgic or the train obsession Mr. Y and his brothers have is rubbing off on me, I'm not sure).

I meant I was screwed pretty much constantly on the trains yesterday. And I didn't even orgasm. Not once. I would know.

Only yesterday's train day ended with an unexpected twist.

I had to go to London all day for meetings, as I do every Wednesday. The weather was lovely-warm and sunny, gorgeous blue skies. I had talked to my friend Jim the night before-he had arrived safely in my lovely adopted country and we agreed to meet up Wednesday night for dinner.

I felt the warm weather called for celebrating, so I was dressed in a short pleated kilt and a sleeveless top, the requisite cardigan dutifully packed. Mr. Y dropped me off at the train station with a kiss goodbye, and I walked to the platform to discover that my train had been cancelled.

It would be a 30 minute wait for the next one.

I didn't let it put me off. I stood on the edge of the platform, in the sun, iPod tucked into my ears and I watched the wind chase the wispy clouds away high above my head. When a train would whoosh by the train platform, I would laugh and bounce around trying to contain the hurricane of hair, flying kilt, and compressed wind driving past me. I giggled into the departing train space as all the business-suited men around me chatted angrily on their phones, pissed off at the cancelled train.

When the train finally arrived, we loaded in. Off to London, my day began. I was actually in a good mood-Mr. Y and I were doing well, Jim was in town, I felt like a cute girl in a cute skirt, and I had a full day of work ahead of me. Work has been up and down lately, and to be honest, I think I would prefer to be busy (albeit with a working laptop, which still isn't resolved).

The meetings dragged on, and for some reason everyone was in a terrible mood. Stress littered the tables like spilled coffee, and tempers frayed more than I had ever seen before. For some reason, each action point that was raised got thrown my direction, but I didn't really mind as I wanted more work to do, anyway.

The afternoon whizzed by in a meeting with some of my more favorite colleagues and it included a visit in the pub for a quick pint before heading off. We talked about work, mostly, relaxing and talking about what is going well with the project and what needs improving. It was my first post-work pub visit, and I actually felt really comfortable there, talking with my co-workers, being able to express how I feel about how things are going. Is this what the British pub culture embraces? Sign me up!

I make my excuses and head to Paddington Station to get to Newbury, which holds both my Mr. Y and Jim. Since we moved to Whitney Houston, I have only been going through Waterloo Station, so it was like being back to my old stomping ground. When I get off the tube at Paddington and make my way to the train platforms, I am floored.

I have never, in my life, seen so many people in a train station. Never.

People are everywhere, lined up in all places, squatting, sitting, running, looking angry. A glance at the boards tells me why-every single train is marked "delayed" or "cancelled". Every single one.

There must have been literally thousands of people in that station.

I don't really understand what's happening, so I make my way to the boards, past the harrassed looking train employees in the fluorescent green vests with their walkie-talkies trying to manage groups of angry people, past the nervous looking policemen, past the hundreds of people on angry mobile phone calls. I call Mr. Y but his web access is down, so he can't tell me what's going on either. Everywhere I look, every sign indicates that all services are cancelled.

And everyone is livid and stressed.

Since this is the only station to get the Newbury from, it means I am screwed. I could go back to Waterloo to try to get to Reading, but an announcement over the intercom lets me know that would be a waste of time-there had been an accident and all services between London and Reading were closed.

There went that idea.

I keep trying to call Mr. Y but the calls keep failing, perhaps because there are so many of us trying to make phone calls at the same time. I hear one of the flourescent-vested people tell another customer that someone has died near Acton, and I find myself annoyed, and then feeling guilty that I'm annoyed. I mean-someone died in an accident. I can afford a little inconvenience. I'm not terribly stressed, I simply want to get to my two boys, but suddenly, looking around a crushing sea of people, I have to confess a really horrible thought occurs to me-we are one big station full of sitting ducks, smack dab in the middle of rush hour traffic.

Unnerved, I decide to go to Costa and treat myself to a Lemon Frescato to try to dial down the paranoia.

I walk out of Costa and notice people sprinting hell-bent for a train. Since most of the trains out of Paddington stop at Reading, and Reading is where I can change for a train to Newbury, I ask a sprinter where the train is going. He pants over his shoulder, tie smacking me in the face, as he wheezes: "Cardiff!"

The Cardiff train stops in Reading.

I haul my bag over my shoulder and start sprinting, too.

I make it to Platform 5, into a train that is wheezingly full. I find a tiny place to stand, sip my Frescato, get my breath back and rejoice in the fact that I wasn't wearing my strappy heels that day, when the conductor's voice comes over the loudspeaker. We all had to get off the train since they had to couple it with another.

The train regurgitates its dinner of commuters, and I see a fluorescent-green vested man.

"This train is stopping at Reading, right?" I ask, nervously making sure.
"Nope." he replied. "This train is now bound for Acton. The Reading train is from Platform 1."

I look over at Platform 1, and the conductor is blowing the whistle, meaning "All aboard."

Fuck.

I sprint pell-mell for the train and I manage to squeeze on just in time. It is so full that there are 4 men in business suits standing in the toilet reading their newspapers. They smile at me and gesture there is room for me, but I grin.

"I am not standing in the toilet. I am willing to compromise lots of things, but I am not standing in the toilet!"

They laugh and I squeeze onto a space next to the luggage rack. The aisles are choked full of people, every seat is taken, every inch of space used. I realize that I have never been on a train so full in my life before. The train shudders and begins to move-I wonder if we'll break an axle at the weight of all of us. I manage to wrestle my phone out with one hand and I text Mr. Y the following: "We are now moving! I've gotten less close to people I was fucking!"

Indeed it was true. I could be having sex with the people around me, especially considering my unwise choice of clothing. However, neither the 70-year old man nor the young punk appealed, so I just relaxed.

Outside of Reading our train ground to a halt. We were all hot and sweating in the tightly packed car. My temper was fraying. People around me were getting really angry. The young punk next to me swears.

"Fucking figures! A bloody suicidal wanker had to off themselves during rush hour!"

And I stop.
What?

"Excuse me?" I ask. "Is that what happened earlier? That's why we have all these train delays?"

"Yeah." Punk replies. A business-suited woman next to me nods as well, listening in.

"That's what they told us at information. Someone committed suicide by jumping off a platform." she says, irritably.

Oh.

Ironically, I had just spoken to Mr. Y about this the day before. In England, most trains are powered by a highly-charged third rail, which runs alongside the two normal train tracks. This third rail packs a serious punch, and if a body touches it (and is touching anything else), the body becomes a conductor for the electricity, frying them to a crisp. I had remarked on how dangerous it was, to have a third rail, but he replied that accidents were rare.

Is this what happened to this person? Did they throw themselves off a platform and onto a third rail? Or did they jump in front of a moving train?

The third rail, a horrible way to die. Electricity short-circuits the heart and brain, and the internal organs that are touched by the current turns to mush. The third rail is a no-return ticket, it's one method you can use if you're serious about checking out. For someone to throw themself on the rail...they must really have been at the end of the line, at the bottom of the well. I think about their level of despair, the integration of mental illness wrapped around their brain stem, the hole in their heart once occupied by hope. I imagine facing the third rail as they would, thinking this was the last and only thing they could do.

Jumping in front of the train...even worse. I love to stand there and feel the sucking gaping whoosh that the train separating the air causes. The trains that rush through the stations do so at high speeds, screaming past the platforms. Did someone choose as their last horrible moment the screaming motion that I usually revel in? Did someone step off at the crucial moment, the moment that would mean the train couldn't stop in time? Did they look at the train approaching as they were slammed into with the power of a tornado? And worse...is the conductor, a man who just showed up to do his job and got wrapped in the tangled web of another person's life...is he ok?

When I snapped, I just opened a bottle and swallowed the contents.

They used the third rail or jumped off the platform.

And my irritation vanished in a second. I felt terrible for being stressed and angry at the delays. I felt guilty that I hadn't been there to listen. I could've tried, I could've talked, I could've told them that I know what it's like to think a third rail is all that's left. Or, if their act was an impulse break like mine, then I could've caught their hand as they tried to jump in front of the charging metal bull.

As the train started to move, I knew that I didn't even know where it was that the person jumped. I know there was nothing I could've done, except to know that any inconvenience I could've experienced on that journey wouldn't even compare to what had happened to the person who jumped. The train journey hell, all things considering, was a sign that I was still here.

As stupid as that sounds.

I felt so small and so calm.

When I finally got to Newbury I was so damn happy to see my lovely Mr. Y at the platform. We walked along the platform to the car, the evening sky set upon us. It has taken me almost 3 hours to get from work to Newbury, a journey that should take half that time. I didn't want to take my hands off of him as we walked out of Newbury station and into the night.

And I wondered if on the other side of the platform lay the third rail, a piece of hot metal that can take a person home, that can take a cargo to an airport...and that can end a life.

-H.

PS-my laptop gets fixed (allegedly) tomorrow.

PPS-in exactly one week, Emily will be here. If you don't read her, give it a shot. She can elicit the loud snorting snickering from me, I always appreciate her. I really hope she likes it here.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:10 AM | Comments (14) | Add Comment
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