The train was unexpectedly full for an off-peak mid-week morning. As I scanned the front half of the carriage there was only one empty section. I settled myself facing forwards for the short journey to the CBD. On my left, across the aisle, a man was waving his hands and talking to himself. My breath tightened slightly. I put my coat onto the seat next to me and turned to look away out the window.
As we pulled into the next station, Victoria Park, the man across the aisle began an excited out-loud commentary about the footy ground and the Collingwood matches that had been played on it. His voice was loud and cheerful. I breathed out and glanced across at him. He was turning in his seat, looking towards a man sitting in the section in front of me who was with two other people. The footy fan wanted the attention of the man ahead of me, he seemed to know him already. The man in front responded, his voice resonated low and clear. The footy man seemed content with these few words of acknowledgement.
The answering man had a shaved head and a large build; he was very tall with square shoulders. Next to him sat a young fellow, maybe late teens or early 20s. He frequently turned his head to look at the shaved-head man; he himself had short, spiky hair flattened on top, it stood like a shelf protruding from his forehead. He didn’t speak but touched his top lip often, running his fingers along the sparse moustache, as if to remind himself it was there. The young man gazed with such expectation at the tall man, I wondered if he was a leader or companion to the men around him.
Opposite the tall man and the moustached youth, another man sat facing towards me. Possibly in his late 20s or early 30s, he had beautiful dark hair and olive skin. He leaned his head disconsolately against the window glass. Watching his unmoving profile was like looking at a statue of the Greek god, Adonis.
Percussively from an unknown source in the carriage, came a repeated set of sounds. I tried to see if someone was using a device or had leaking headphones. Soon, I realised it was a repeated question of two words: ‘But what? But what? But what?’ The ‘t’ repeating at the end of each word made a ticking sound, ‘But-t what-t? But-t what-t? But-t what-t?’ Eventually I saw it was the Adonis man speaking the words. He hardly moved his lips, but the sound was compelling, like an invisible tapping drumbeat in concert with the noise of the train tracks.
Suddenly, a voice behind me said, ‘That’s a nice bag.’ I wasn’t sure if the person was speaking to me, then he repeated, ‘That’s a nice bag.’ He called out in the direction of the shaved-head man, ‘I’m being nice. I told her she has a nice bag.’ He repeated his comment a few times but without any urgency. I realised he was not speaking about my bag and that he too wanted the affirmation of the shaved-head man.
With the recurring question, the repeated bag-compliments, the footy commentary and the spontaneous bursts of energy around me, I began to feel as if I was sitting amongst a flash mob enjoying their own orchestra. A smile played around my lips. I looked around to see what else might be happening. The leader stayed in his seat facing forwards, he barely moved his head. He was not conducting this music of word, sound and gesture, but he was clearly a sought-after audience.
At the next station, a lanky young tradie strode into the carriage. He had a big bag, the signature large boots, shorts, high-viz vest, and the body language to match. When he sat down opposite the footy-commentary man, his legs took up almost the whole space between the four seats. A twinge of anxiety went through me. I didn’t want there to be trouble between the cheerful footy commentator, and this confident space-appropriating young man.
'With the recurring question, the repeated bag-compliments, the footy commentary and the spontaneous bursts of energy around me, I began to feel as if I was sitting amongst a flash mob enjoying their own orchestra.'
The shaved-head man announced to his dispersed charges, ‘We’ll be getting off at Jolimont.’ The tempo increased as the footy fan recited the names of the stations yet to come and the footy teams related to them. He extended his commentary to the state of these teams and how they were playing this season.
The bag-liking man reminded the leader that he was being nice, and the moustache-man traced his finger horizontally through his moustache and then pointed. It seemed like he wanted to give a message from his moustache to the people around him. He did not speak. The tall man reminded him about getting off the train soon. The Adonis man repeated his ticking, sorrowful calls, ‘But-t what-t? But-t what-t? But-t what-t?’
When the train pulled into Jolimont, home of the Melbourne Cricket Ground, the men stood and exited with anticipation. The tall man gathered them, and they stepped off the train. When they were gone it was not only the seats that were empty; the energy disappeared out of the carriage. Almost everyone who remained in this absence reverted to their phone screens.
I turned to speak to the young woman behind me, the owner of the nice bag. ‘How good was that?’ she asked. ‘You’d better show me your bag.’ I replied. She shrugged and held it out. Then she smiled and said, ‘Such great energy. It’s not often you see people so engaged.’
As I turned to face forward again, the tradie with the long legs spoke up from across the aisle. His words sounded abrupt and at the same time bewildered. ‘But how happy were they?’ The words fell into a pool of silence. They rippled, like a burgeoning truth, just beyond our grasp. Eyes averted again, all hands in the carriage held firmly to their smartphones.
Julie Perrin is a writer and storyteller, she lives on Wurundjeri land. Her books, Tender, stories that lean into kindness, and A Prayer a plea a bird are both published by MediaCom Education