The Crank

He was a crank, and he knew looked it. He stood under the overhang on the platform at Kenilworth station, a full rubbish bin to his left, empty tracks to his right. He was a crank. Pissed off. Dikbek. He listed them as he waited for the train to come in, peering at the lights, willing them to flash green. It was hot and he was waiting. Trains, heat, waiting. He worried the words over in his mind, making them fit.

He reached up to touch the rafters above his head, scowling as his fingers brushed over pigeon shit. He ground his teeth at the unconcerned birds, hating them for their well-worn perches, their homey mess. As he hated the other would-be passengers who joined him under the overhang. His antipathy swelled as he watched them cluster together, away from the bin where he stood.

Flies, attracted to his overheated appearance, circled lazily. Flies, heat, trains, waiting: he listed them again as the lights went green and the train screeched into the station in fits and starts. The people around him forced open the doors, clambering over each other in their eagerness for seats away from the broken windows. Carrying his list of peeves with him, the crank chose carriage number two.

Unsure of his reasons, he faltered for a moment, trying to rationalise his decision. The shrieking whistle yanked him out of his reverie and he barely managed to avoid the closing door and grabbed onto a rail for safety. Unnoticed, unheeded, unwanted, he thought morosely when none of the other people in the carriage so much as glanced at him.

Not thinking this time, the crank chose a seat by the door. He settled next to a schoolgirl absorbed in her book. A wave of something encroached on his habitual self pity. A quick glance at the girl confirmed that she hadn't noticed. Uncaring, he thought, adding the word to unnoticed, unheeded and unwanted.

He glumly examined the spear of sun shining on his well scuffed shoes. Soon it would creep over his ankle, attack his knee and bake his leg. Stickiness, stuffiness, sullenness. The alliterative misery broke through and he smiled, briefly and sardonically. He reached into his pocket and brought out the other list, the one he had had no say in compiling.

Breathe, it said.

Quashing the impulse to roll his eyes, he huffed in and out.

Close your eyes and absorb the atmosphere, it said.

He blinked and considered that done.

Sit without judgement, it said.

Look without criticism, it said.

Relax, it said.

He folded the list away carefully, placed his hands on his knees and prepared to stare at the floor. He ground his teeth as he noticed an identifiable stain by his right foot.

“Think we'll be late again?” a young voice asked.

Startled, he swung around to face the schoolgirl.
She bent the spine of Wuthering Heights back. “Were you stuck yesterday too?” she ventured when he looked at her.

“No,” he answered eventually.

Breathe, the list had said. He inhaled, exhaled.

“I don't usually take the train.”

“I always take the train,” she answered him comfortably. “But it means I'm late a lot. Have you ever tried to explain to a teacher that it's Metrorail's fault? The first 50 times, sure. After that they start to get a bit sceptical. Have you read this?” She gestured with the book.

He nodded slowly.

“It's prescribed,” the girl said. “I don't know how I feel about it yet.”

“Either you like it or you don't,” the crank said, surprising himself.

She shook her head.

“Impossible to say.”

“Why?” the crank asked, despite himself.

“Because they're horrible. Obsessed and pathetic is not particularly appealing you know. They should just let it go.”

Relax, the list said.

“This is me,” the schoolgirl said as the train shuddered to a halt. She leapt up and was immediately lost in the crush.

The crank followed more slowly, his instructions screwed up in a ball in his hand. He walked up the platform, not noticing the vendors and their buckets of ice and cooldrink. He didn't notice the ticket collector's glare when she buzzed him through the turnstile. He walked straight past the boys with their hands outstretched to where the young therapist waited.

“Well?” the young man asked. “Did the list help?”

“Goddamn fucking waste of my time,” the crank grunted, and threw the list away.