The handset of the public phone swings in the anaemic yellow glow of Flemington Bridge train station. A man in blue cap and DADA streetwear, wiry and stretched paces to-and-fro on the platform opposite: citybound. Darting about with the intensity of an amphetamine fuelled frenzy, his face red and eyes scrunched up blinking, his hand metering out some beat with a nervous tic or toc; he turns away, flinging himself at the phone, grabbing the receiver, screaming soundless obscenities through copper and maybe fibre optic channels of the telephone network. His anger converted into little electrons and photons passing countless k’s to some poorly formed object of my imagination: a girlfriend, bestfriend, dealer or customer. I don’t know... maybe all of the above. A day of intellectual RSI in my nine-to-five (more like seven) has all but rendered my imagination inert and I am left with other people’s ideas and stereotypes to plug the gaps. I cannot be bothered thinking.
Gesticulating with the finesse of an epileptic, the man throws the receiver back down. The handset swings on its taut cord as the man returns to his pacing, counting, composing himself for another round. I rest my head against the train window removing my beanie to feel the cool glass against my forehead. Who is on the other line? Are there recomposited sounds of tears, pleading, apologies, lies or just more screaming? Referencing Don Delillo: it’s all just waves and radiation.
My eyes burn from behind with exhaustion and the train pulls out of the station. I watch the man pick the phone back up and resume sending.
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