The winning ticket to freedom
4th November, 2006
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Had the train not pulled into the station the moment I stepped onto the platform, I'd have bought a ticket. Unaccustomed to the rituals associated with public transport, I presumed tickets could be bought at the other end and I just jumped aboard, cowed into abandoning my car by Brisbane's latest outstanding tourist attraction, collapsing freeways.
My only objection to public transport is that it is used by the public, several members of which were now eyeing me with ill-disguised, grim-faced suspicion. I didn't, I knew, look like a train traveller. I was out of uniform and, to compound it all, I didn't have a ticket. Interesting people you meet on trains, I thought, as I watched a man at the far end of the carriage who appeared to be delusional ranting to a woman who was either heavily sedated or newly deceased. In between outbursts, he kept glancing at me and for one terrifying moment I thought he was going to walk up the carriage and engage me in conversation, for I have an unfortunate and unerring ability to attract people whose grasp on reality is tenuous. There exists, I am certain, a brotherhood of the unbalanced who alert each other to my movements. Within hours of arriving in a foreign port, I will find myself accosted by those who are mad of hair and wild of eye. The other fear that dogged me was of detection. What if a ticket inspector boarded the train? Would he believe me when I told him that I was not a regular train traveller and that I had jumped on the first available train with the honest intent of buying a ticket at the other end? I was forced to concede that even I didn't find it convincing. If I couldn't buy a ticket at the other end, I wondered how I would get out of the station. I needed to alight at Central where it occurred to me that they might have turnstiles that require you to feed your ticket into a slot in order to obtain egress. Train commuters must learn at a very early age that eye contact is to be avoided on pain of death. It is a belief that must be handed down from one generation of commuters to the next - stare at the wall, stare out the window, stare at the floor, just do not look at your fellow commuters or you will turn to stone. I practised floor-staring for a while and was getting quite good at it by the time I arrived at Central, stepping onto the platform and being swept along by the general melee. Ahead, I saw the exit. There were no ticket barriers, no turnstiles, no machines, just a wide open space. I was home free! It was at this point that I noticed the woman checking tickets. Panicking, I performed a sudden, unsignalled U-turn and was almost trampled underfoot by those behind me. Head down, I butted my way to freedom and retreated, watching the woman. As they passed her, the seasoned commuters waved variously coloured tickets at her, more in the manner of a "G'day" gesture or salute than a check for validity. The best strategy, I figured as I watched from the far corner, was to walk through with a group and wave happily in the general direction of the ticket police. I fell in with two women who headed for the exit but suddenly they peeled off and changed direction. I was exposed. My legs wanted to run but remained locked in place by the image of me being pursued through the station by whistle-blowing ticket police. I had to keep going. Trying to appear casual, I sauntered along with one hand in my pocket. I had to wave something at the woman. Anything. My fingers closed around a slip of paper as I drew level with the ticket checker, I extracted my hand, waved the piece of paper at her and kept walking, heart hammering away in my chest. For the next ten steps I expected to hear the cry of "Hey! You!" but there was nothing. I'd made it. You may find that, at a distance of a couple of metres, last week's losing Lotto ticket can look remarkably like today's train ticket. |
