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Public Transport ComplexBy Eugen Bacon*I was in a rush hour train the other day. It was chockers but people still elbowed their way in at each stop. The bundle of bodies, the sweat, fuzzy breath and oily skin gave the air a murky blend that turned my stomach. Mercifully, at Richmond Station, as the train sighed and its doors beeped open, a bunch of people muscled out. A chap with dreadlocks, hipsters and a tango red cruiser bike stepped in. An old woman with feral silver hair and foggy eyes shambled behind him. So painful was her shuffle, the door closed twice against her and snapped open with a series of bleeps. Her eyes feebly scanned the compartment for an empty seat and found none. A sign near the door read: On request, these seats must be vacated for use with passengers with special needs. Beneath it sat a punk with a diamond nose stud and barbed wire tattoos running the length of each arm. A different tattoo circling his neck read, ‘Cut here’ in stretched print. An Asian brunette with dense hair immaculately styled a little bit up and a little bit down, with golden highlights, sat beside him. Neither of these two young people went fidgety, looked the old woman’s way or offered their seat. A seated gent with a fierce scowl looked out the window. Other passengers stared with glazed eyes at the floor, ceiling, newspapers, books... Some even feigned sleep. The old woman poorly clung to a pole, not far from a sign that said: PLEASE HOLD ON. Sudden stops are sometimes necessary. “Come on, people,” I wanted to say. “Seat the oldie, godsake.” But I held my tongue and inwardly winced each time the train humped and the old woman gasped in distress. Thin films of sweat pushed out above her creased brow. I felt indignant at Punk and Brunette, happily bummed under a sign that gave them direction. More irrational anger fell towards Brunette whose Asian cultural etiquette encourages taking care of elders. If Punk was a non-clued, gothic idiot, brain dead from digital gaming overload, Brunette could have shown different. Hey, I’m not racist. Geez, I’m black. The old woman seemed to share similar thoughts. She scanned commuter faces one by one, until the train’s jolt lost her footing and she fell onto me standing next to her. “Here,” I offered a steady shoulder. “Thank you, dear,” she said in a thoroughbred voice. Again, she groped feebly at the pole. And I snapped. “Heaven sake,” barking at Punk and Brunette. “Let the woman sit.” The train went silent. A beetroot colour warmed across Brunette’s cheeks. Punk made as if to rise. But Brunette had already shot up muttering, “Do you want to sit?” to the old woman. Why ask? It’s stupid. Of course she wants to sit. She wanted to sit right from Richmond. Bloody obvious! But there was no relief in the old woman’s eyes. Unimpressed by the late (and strained) gesture, she smiled civilly and said, “Keep sitting, my dear.” Clearly shamed, Brunette was disinclined to reclaim that cursed seat. She fled the train at the next station and I’m not sure it was her stop. Nobody dared touch the seat and, beside it, Punk fidgeted. All passengers looked at me now. ‘Good one,’ some eyes seemed to say. ‘Very funny but poor,’ others said. ‘Happy now, Mother Teresa?’ that was the guy with hipsters and the cruiser bike. Frankly, without a good result from my intervention, I felt like garbage. * Eugen Bacon is a computer graduate who writes short stories and articles, and works in communications in a State Government. 
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