Morning PT Peak Hour

Get out! Get out! Come on move quick. Battle in, battle out, this is endurance, make no mistake, survival of the fittest, throw dark looks at the stragglers pushing in the final seconds to get out. Too late!

Push past, push past, push past the mannequins and the cadavers standing and staring blankly straight ahead. No brain activity, I swear.

Excuse me! Excuse me! Do I have to say it louder, Louder, LOUDER? Move, or I’ll move you.

Push past, push past, you make me not care. You don’t care. I don’t care. Nobody cares. Who cares!

The dopes lean on the ticket machine. What do they think I am going to do?

Wake up! Come back! Earth to moron! Get out of the fucking way!

They look at me blankly, seemingly no understanding, nothing registering. The big silver box, what do you think it is for? I need to get to it. No, it’s not there just to lean on. Come on, wake up Australia.

Excuse me.

They begrudgingly move a centimetre and I wonder if I have to fell them simply to get a ticket.

Oh well, not a care, they don’t care. I push them away with my mass, I slide my body into them and they move.

The ticket machine works, now there is a plus... or maybe not. There are dollar signs on the display, always a good sign.

The coins feel awkward in my fingers and I don’t want to be another of the dopes who rummage through their purse endlessly and then drops their money on the floor only to scramble through everyone's feet. But, of course, that only happens if I am waiting behind them.

I massage them with my finger tips into the slot. Clack, clack sounds the coins as they slide into the mechanics.

Clack, whir. Click, whoosh. The machine comes to life.

Clack, clack, clack, click, click, click. The white card appears in the slot somewhere by my knee.

It is the only (useful) organic thing, I think, as I take it with my hand.

Step away! Step away! Hypocritia doesn’t suite you.

I take my place on the conveyor belt taking hold of the grab handle overhead.

Stop thinking. Stare ahead. Packed in like dominos, or penguins, my city is black. Power down like all the other brain dead mother fuckers. It is just boredom, I tell myself. You'd have to have a mind like a steal trap not to be bored of this process. And it is a process. We are all processed.

The wheels grind metallically under foot. A woo-whir, woo-whir harmonic. Gr, gr, gr, gr on the steal track in the road.

Someone gets up and heads to the door. A vacant seat, amongst dominos, ready to fall, left just-like-that.

I want it! I’m having it! I’m getting it! It’s mine! As the punters look with hesitant polite faces. They are too slow to respond.

I duck under arms holding straps as if to salute, single minded, not a care. I weave through with intent.

I slide into that seat, putting my brief case on my lap as if as a finishing touch.

I exhale, deflate, sink into the wafer thick polyester cushion. I click into standby and stare blankly at the sentries standing all around me keeping fort.

They stare glumly, stare blindly off into space. This is business, a serious business. A moment's stillness before the tar pits. Silent. We snatch respite stacked in tight.

The wheels grind metallically underneath me. Gr, gr, gr, gr on the steal tracks in the road. The old girl rattles, despite being one of the new models. I momentarily think about the state of quality control in tram factories. For some reason, I picture big Eastern Europe mills. Manufacturing doesn't care about you, it is the dollar they pursue, people are the bi-product, the inconvenient truth, so who knows if the brakes will fail on the next application. Try not to think, "they" don't want you to think.

The punters are jiggling like cattle in a truck to market. And they are going to market, employment fodder.

Grey is all around. Grey is the colour of the day. Their faces, their attitude, all around. Glum is the attitude, silent, serious. We all rattle into the CBD. I always think CBD is some short of acronym for poison printed on a warning label on a big plastic drum. Health Warning, contains CBD. Contagion Distillate Barbital. Handle with care. Prolonged exposure could be bad for ones health.