Trains used to cause you a high level of anxiety - the lack of control, the hurtling toward uncertain destinations at the whim of an unseen and potentially-questionable individual.
As you aged, that became a good thing - for a brief window of time, you relinquish control, and are thus innocent of any wrongdoing.
It's like being drunk.
[Look]
Let us enter the social quagmire!
The train carriage is divided into two aisles - an aisle of two-seat benches, and an aisle of three-seat benches.
You prefer the two-seat variety. Less human in your sphere of personal space, less logistics for entry and exit.
There is a free seat to the left. An entirely-free seat. A rarity.
To the north, the platform.
[Look at seat]
The seat is both empty, and covered in chalk graffiti.
You can't pinpoint when chalking seats became a practiced art - but you appreciate the sheer sociopathy involved. For the dark-suit wearing professional subset of the commuter market, it's a nightmare.
[Use seat] - blocks exit to north (platform).
You sit in the seat, and shuffle about until you reach a point of equilibrium.
The doors close, the train sighs, and inertia gently pushes a wave of blood to the back of your brain.
[Look]
Here you are, surging toward unknown shores. A bold adventurer. An intrepid explorer.
A bored commuter.
A young lady sits to your right.
An elderly man has taken a seat beside you.
A well-dressed young man sits in front of you, talking on his phone.
[Note: The next scene will not open until a defined amount of time has passed. Each action will move the individual closer to that amount of time]
[Look at lady]
An attractive young woman, in a white blouse with a grey dress.
She is wearing a pair of thick, rectangular-rimmed glasses, and her lipstick is slightly more bold than average.
Your internal category for these women is "Saucy secretary".
You understand the latent sexism in that category designation.
But you've never seen a woman wearing that outfit who wasn't a secretary.
And you can't ignore the power of observation.
You suspect that she is a complete animal.
[Look at old man]
The polo shirt - the uniform of the over-50s.
And the color scheme is largely pastels.
You assume that old people buy clothes in their 30's - clothes of bold, bright, enthusiastic colors - and they fade and loosen over the years until they become the loose-fitting, desaturated, grey/khaki/yellow affair you see today.
Don't look directly at him - he may just attempt to speak to you.
[Look at young man]
You can only see the back of his head, but you dislike what you see.
His hair is black or dark brown, but the tips have been bleached, and the whole affair has been styled into a pointy mess.
He has a thin plait running down his neck. It makes you shudder.
Apart from this, he is wearing a very nice suit - that looks to be in good condition.
So weighing the evidence:
Young man. Poor choice of subculture. Nice suit that has been worn rarely.
Hypothesis: This young man is on his way to a court appearance.
His obnoxious phone conversation lends credence to this:
"Yeah bro. Nah mate. Nah mate. Wot-de-fuck."
Something about a car. Something about a bitch. Something about his mother taking care of everything. Something about how tough he is.
Reaffirmation: Neuter everything to the left of the bell-curve.
[Use enthusiasm on lady]
You wait until you catch the lady's glance and - before she can look away with discomfort, you smile.
It clearly throws her reaction. She gives you an uncertain smile and looks away.
That should hold you for the rest of the day.
[Use confidence on lady]
You wait until the woman is looking in your direction and execute your patented - 'independent movement of eyebrows' technique.
It's always a longshot.
Today, it doesn't elicit a smile.
Tight-fisted whore.
[Use intelligence on lady]
You look at the lady. Pretty. Viable age. Obviously confident.
It's a mainstream attractiveness too. You wouldn't have been the only person to notice this.
You can therefore extrapolate...
She has been with many many partners, and if your 'saucy secretary' theory is correct - they may not have been of the most elevated socio-economic class.
She is commuting, so she may live in a more regional location than yourself.
The whole affair spells....
Chlamydia.
Your intelligence says: Leave that business.
[Use confidence on young man]
You prop yourself up a little, to allow yourself a bit of hip-torque.
When the man turns to look out the window, phone still glued to ear, mouth still violating the English language bitterly - you ram drive fist into his temple.
His neck goes limp for a second, and before he can reorient himself, you take a handful of his hair and smash his face into the window. Again and again, until the window is opaque with grease.
The pretty lady opposite you stands up. She is beaming. She gives you a long, deep kiss. Your heart is beating with pure joy. Your Father meets you on the platform. He is proud of you. You walk into the sunset, with the smell of the cool ocean in your nostrils.
Microsleep concluded. You turn to look out the window. Your adrenaline levels are uncomfortably high.
Your confidence is good, but not that good.
[Use book]
You read the first thirty pages of the book - Silas Marner, by George Eliot.
By page twenty, something bothers you about this novel.
By page thirty, you are certain that you can't read anymore.
There is something distinctly wrong with the style that Mr. George Eliot has approached this tale.
You have a suspicion.
You flip to the foreword and read a little about the author.
You cannot believe the scam you have just been involved with....
George Eliot is a woman!
It all makes sense now.
You've read many books in your life. Many, many books. And of those, a quarter were by women. And of those, you have only read one that you remotely enjoyed.
Your taste is not pure sexism - it's pure experience.
If we begin to ignore experience in order to apply equal rights, we'll be touching fire and petting snakes all day long.
Not all snakes are venomous, but it's unwise to assume individuals are not.
You feel so cheated.
[Use lady]
You stand up. Your heart is beating heavily. Forget about all of this nasty business - the rent, the power, the water, the documents, the email, the teamwork. Forget it.
You are a man. And this - this is a woman.
You move to her. She looks at you with innocent eyes. You have an unspoken bond. Her skin is flushed. You take her in your arms. The world slips away.
You get the call the next week - you are having a baby. You reserve a ticket to Denmark and throw your phone in the waste basket.
Your cynical worldview is applauded across the European Union. You are asked to host a guest lecture at Oxford.
Mid-lecture, a man stands up.
"Do you have a question?" - you dip your glasses.
"Father!" he cries.
You feel the bullet before you see the muzzle-flash.
Your last wish is that you had been less considerate.
Microsleep concluded.
You are on the train. You hope you hadn't been speaking aloud.
[Use your brain]
You think.
Maybe I could become a profitable musician?
Five years ago, it would have been 'a famous musician'.
But fame? Seems to be like 'popularity' or 'family' or 'professionalism'. All concepts requiring constant maintenance for a fickle cluster of people who will hen-peck your face clean off at the slightest provocation.
What could you do...
Maybe you could sing? Something that you could practice without equipment.
But then you would likely need to stop smoking. And rehearse. And the inevitable interpersonal challenges inherent in coordinating a group of people in order to achieve a goal.
And in this case, the goal is subjective, so you have the added challenge of an indistinct end-point.
You could probably earn more money by forcing your way into an apartment every month or so - torturing the occupant with a screwdriver and emptying their bank accounts, sealing them up in the bathroom while you eat their food.
Building a career is tricky.
[Use enthusiasm on lady] - repeat
You've sewed the seeds. The ball is in her court now.
That seemed so much like a euphemism. A cruder person than yourself could probably have twisted that into a joke.
[Use confidence on lady] - repeat
All romance is just the threat of violence painted in a delicate manner.
So what... manicure and a punch in the face?
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood - one is the road of the psychopath, one is the road of the socialite. The car is fuelled by confidence.
See the danger here?
[Use intelligence on lady] - repeat
If you think about anything too deeply it becomes obvious that it is a bad idea.
Nothing is a good idea, in reality.
Stand up - you will fall down.
Maybe you'll finally snap and just sit on this train forever, riding back and forth. The drivers will learn your name and bring you sandwiches.
On white bread!
That thought scares you straight.
[Use confidence on young man] - repeat
Every violent hypothetical brings you one step closer to forgetting the line between fantasy and reality. One step closer to that imaginary brick becoming a tangible brick, and the blood with quite literally fly.
And in that alternate timeline, you would be in the clinic every second day - checking on the progress of your AIDS test.
[Use book] - repeat
You understand the authoresses desire to suppress her gender identity. Given the time period she lived in, this may have been a fair move.
But in this - the age of equal rights and...
...everybody being just as good as everybody else and having no positive or negative characteristics that in any way differentiate them from every other person...
Why... the just seems out of keeping with the zeitgeist.
[Use lady] - repeat
You feel as if you should double-wrap your imagination before attempting this again.
Better to stop now.
Don't want the power of your mind giving you placebo-Gonorrhea or anything.
[Use your brain] - repeat
You think...
Do fat people have more nerve-endings on their enormous bodies?
Or, on a per-inch basis, are they less sensitive than a normal, healthy individual?
If the former - do they have more nerve-endings per inch if they lose weight drastically? And if so - do they become super-sensitive?
You will need to run an experiment.
If only there were a small subset of the population who were both stupid, frequently-unhealthy, and often fat - who would permit you - an individual with no ties to medicine or science - to do strange things to their bodies, in return for cash.
It's not a perfect world, you guess.
[Use your brain] - repeat
You have a headache. Without external input, thoughts just turn upon themselves.
That's paranoia.
The first assumption forms the basis of the second, which forms the basis of the third...
But without verification of the first, the entire effort is fundamentally incorrect.
[Look]
You have arrived!
No tingle of achievement. No sense of satisfaction.
You feel that an implied contract has been broken.
A line has formed for the door. You must carefully balance your good breeding with your inherent dislike of everything and everybody - and pick an opportune time to enter the queue.
To the north, the crowded-platform.
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