Train Time • Snap Judgements • External Numbers • Murakami

I take the train on weekdays, once in the morning and once in the evening. I normally read a novel of any genre, and don’t interface with humanity if possible. This is the fundamental principal of train time; 50 minutes a day of time with out possibility of interruption. I may start turning my phone off to try and complete the illusion.

Today, tiring of my book (the excellent “Wind-up Bird Chronicle” by Haruki Murakami) I got back to an issue that has been nagging at my mind for sometime. Just past Croke Park where the train-track becomes elevated (or EL in Americanese, an abbreviation that I really like) there is a block of council flats. A few days ago I noticed that the doors to their balconies have house numbers. This must be affecting me at a subconscious level because I haven’t been able to shake my “why?” reflex since.

Is it a form of obscure house pride? Is it for athletic burglars? Is it for literate homing pigeons? Is it just a mistake? The doors were built and installed in pairs? It hardly matters, the phenomenon exists and people don’t care. Spread the word.

I started to look around on the train to see if I could ask somebody else what they thought. In my immediate vicinity there were nine people. I straight away formed snap judgements about all of them, and gave them names. I feel that Murakami would have approved of this introspective exercise.

They are in order from furthest away to closest:

Blue Wraparounds Man:
This guy had a pair of very well cared for or possibly new blue wraparound sunglasses. I have an aversion to people who wear sunglasses on the train, and he had a mean mouth. He struck me as the type of person who doesn’t wait for the green man at busy intersections, and doesn’t give up his seat for pregnant women.

The Mauve-Trouser-Suited Woman, and Daughter:
The Mauve-Trouser-Suited woman was wearing a suit one size too small for her. Her daughter was wearing a mauve jacket two shades different, as if deliberately chosen to cause maximum discomfort to onlookers. Both had bleached blond hair, and were engrossed in conversation. They were standing too far away for me to eavesdrop, but I imagine they were talking about the Brown Thomas’ summer sale, and their planned assault on wandering eyes.

Necklace:
Necklace was an abnormally tall man who wore his shirt unbuttoned by an unfashionable three from neck. Nestled above his collarbone was a linked chain, which at first appearances was made out of pewter, but was probably silver. When the train stopped at Connelly station two tourists leaned in and asked him if the train went to Bray. He said (correctly) that it didn’t. The tourists went away and asked a guard; they didn’t trust him either.

The Piano Tuner:
This girl was nestled into the far corner reading the “The Piano Tuner” by Daniel Mason. I remember more about the book then her, which is probably due to the quantum (and distortive) nature of Train Time. In my Murakami daydream, perhaps she knew about my attention and stepped outside my focus. Her ears were covered, but I suspect they may have been perfect. It’s lucky I didn’t see them or I may have been lost.

The Doorman:
A suited man of slight build stood at the door with one hand on the doors, as if waiting to be let out. I suspect that he releases himself to Train Time completely and is unreachable for the duration of his journey.

Hangdog Texter:
The Hangdog Texter was a repulsively ugly, or maybe just sad women with an old model Nokia mobile phone. She was fully absorbed in what she was doing. Her ears were on full view and nobody was affected; they were far from perfect. She had managed to create an unusual amount of space around her for the morning commute. I would be surprised if this was coincidence.

Couple:
A man and woman stood talking for the entire trip. They were not a couple couple, just two people of opposite sex talking. It was clear that they had no idea of Train Time and it was not my job to inform them. They stood next to the Doorman, who of course remained oblivious.

Drunk:
Right next to me, was a short fat man in a grubby T-shirt. The smell of mouth wash couldn’t mask the smell of booze. On the commuter route, he was still holding down his job, but probably not for a great deal longer. Too downtrodden to worry about abstract thought he was best given a wide berth, but he chose to stand beside me. One look at The Piano Tuner’s ears may have sobered him, but she doesn’t show them. Not even for mercy.

I got off the train without talking to anyone. While being entirely unsatisfactory for you if you read this far, it is still an ending.