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Shorts
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| Dogs That Bite | |
| By BlondeBimbo | ||||||||||
| 23 March 2006 | ||||||||||
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Who know what lies behind the outer facade of people on the train Dogs That Bite Through swooshing doors they tromped like Burton suited gladiators. The smell of Impulse for men, halitosis and wet gabardine forged before their eager shuffle to find comfort ahead of the ping that heralded their exodus to the metropolis. A broadsheet plopped beside the sleeper who was always there, third window seat from the door, a forty something. Tattooed, studded and pierced, swathed in remarkably faux fur, expressions that he was once an exceptional youth but now appeared more like a middle-aged, hibernating hedgehog. The briefcase sat down beside him then hunched and sniffed the dusty field of local news, briefly looking at the hedgehog with distain. Heads swayed united in motion as they travelled through estates where people slept, ate crunchy nut cornflakes and watched morning TV. Past squelching brown, green fields and black trees weighty with winter rain. Then a horse running, head swaying symbolic of freedom versus human heads swaying captured by the train. “This Is A Designated Quiet Area”. The symbol suggested that mobile phones should not be used and therefore peace would prevail, but morning voices carried. Polite. uniformed voice, officially thanking travellers for showing their orange tickets. Thick, North European voice, asking if tea or coffee was required. The conversation of four adolescent men halted the woman vainly dabbing at her face, diminishing the signs of age and lack of sleep. “Fuck me, only the dead should get up at this time of night. How come you ain’t sitting down? It’s gonna be a long enough day as it is.” She looked at the back of the chattering heads, sniffing to herself in comment on the short, slick hair. Occasional travellers just didn’t understand the unwritten law of “Commuting In Silence”. Across the aisle, the faux hedgehog shifted anxiously in his den, newborn eyes tight shut. The chatter continued. Comments about the breasts of a girl covering their tabloid page, confirmation of the time they should arrive, sharing of mints and chewing gum. Unflattering observations on absent colleagues. Schoolboy farts and beer belches punctuated their prattle, which turned again to their pal straddling the aisle. “Sit down.” “I can’t.” “Why?” “ ’Er bleeding dog bit me arse. I bent down to pick up me pants and the bastard got me. I ‘ate that dog. Hope it gets blood poisoning.” “Alcohol poisoning more like, the amount you shifted last night!” The human hedgehog curled tighter into a ball, studded nostrils flaring. The silence of the other travellers thickened. Finally, an efficient wave swelled. Books were banished once again to bags, scarves curled comfortably around warm necks, some advanced shuffling to the doors broke out. It took only minutes for the train to empty leaving coffee cup and greasy pastry bag echoes of the journey just past. His newborn eyes remained steadfastly shut, deep in anguished hibernation, persecution, terror, oppression. Memories soaked in stinging scars pulsated through his veins. Something about the voices, the faces, sucked it all back into his brain and beat his skull, hammered, thumped, swore, spat and kicked until his arteries broke and agony oozed him back into the gravelled play park and smooth parade ground scenes of his broken uniqueness. He couldn’t run, nor hide, just curl tighter and tighter as his blood-soaked memories pounded. Through swooshing doors they tromped like Burton suited gladiators. The smell of Impulse for men, halitosis and wet gabardine forged before their eager shuffle to find comfort ahead of the ping that heralded their exodus to the metropolis. A broadsheet plopped beside the seat where he used to be, its mournful headline, “Mysterious Death on the 6.30 Train.”
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