Three Men
Station Stories
Three men.
I wish this were some chic lit. fantasia, (how will Jane choose between 3 handsome hunks) but alas it’s just a story of my Friday.
The Thunderbirds man was back from holidays and of course he came to say hello which meant ranting intensely at us the outrage of the fares going up. He doesn’t know what this country is coming too and those politicians need some serious retribution and he tells us what! one day he’s going to go and see them and break their necks with a good rugby tackle and give them what for. He shouts and waves his arms and if you’re not careful spittle hits you.
When I first met the Thunderbirds man 6 years ago he used to be much more odder. He would fulminate noisily at me about how people walked across the tracks at Jacana and how it was a scandal and how it was dangerous and how at the first sign of danger he was going to get out his Thunderbird because he was a member of the Tracey family and how his thunderbird could go 150,000 miles and hour and get people out of danger.
You can imagine when he turned up again last year, and seemed to have some regular journey to take, how my heart sank. You talk to these kind of people because it keeps them from haranguing the other customers, but for twenty minutes or so you really feel like you’re earning your wages. However he’s settled down a bit over the 6 years and even seems to be holding down some kind of job and we are used to him even if we dread him coming during a cancellation.
Today I tried to lead him onto happier topics. He loves rugby. He tells me he’s gong to Paris this weekend to call the Irish/ French game, but the distraction doesn’t last.
“I tell you what if my neck was out here and my thighs were as big as the French rugby players, I’d go down to parliament and show those politicians a bit of surge mentality. I tell you what they’re ruining this country.
By the way,” he says to my work mate and his voice is almost conversational “I like your hair like that.”
The second man who stood out on Friday was my bus driver on the way home. Seeing me in my uniform he took the opportunity to give me some hints on handling customers because:
“sometimes they ask me such stupid questions, I like to give them stupid answers.”
“For instance if they ask me how long the train is, I used to answer 6 carriages.” (oh big chortle I think. Just the kind of thing to calm me down when I’m anxious about missing my train. Not)
“Or if they ask me if this is the Werribee bus, I say no. And when the stupid fools go to get off, I laugh and say why would I be sitting in the Werribee bus bay, if I wasn’t?
Or when they ask me if this is the bus down Moreland Rd I like to say no this is the bus up Moreland rd. That really confuses them. Half the time they ask where the bus down Moreland road is. (This is because not everyone knows that yours is the first stop on Moreland Rd, I think.)
I laugh politely and hold my tongue. Personally I can’t think of a better way to wind up with a black eye.
And the third man in my day, I hear you ask. Only my old (and daily friend) Local Mental Health Issue, the one with the great arse who today decided to yell good advice from the opposite platform about better ways to use toilet paper to wipe my behind. Oh Joy! Even his companion shook his head and hid his face in his hand.
Three men.
I wish this were some chic lit. fantasia, (how will Jane choose between 3 handsome hunks) but alas it’s just a story of my Friday.
The Thunderbirds man was back from holidays and of course he came to say hello which meant ranting intensely at us the outrage of the fares going up. He doesn’t know what this country is coming too and those politicians need some serious retribution and he tells us what! one day he’s going to go and see them and break their necks with a good rugby tackle and give them what for. He shouts and waves his arms and if you’re not careful spittle hits you.
When I first met the Thunderbirds man 6 years ago he used to be much more odder. He would fulminate noisily at me about how people walked across the tracks at Jacana and how it was a scandal and how it was dangerous and how at the first sign of danger he was going to get out his Thunderbird because he was a member of the Tracey family and how his thunderbird could go 150,000 miles and hour and get people out of danger.
You can imagine when he turned up again last year, and seemed to have some regular journey to take, how my heart sank. You talk to these kind of people because it keeps them from haranguing the other customers, but for twenty minutes or so you really feel like you’re earning your wages. However he’s settled down a bit over the 6 years and even seems to be holding down some kind of job and we are used to him even if we dread him coming during a cancellation.
Today I tried to lead him onto happier topics. He loves rugby. He tells me he’s gong to Paris this weekend to call the Irish/ French game, but the distraction doesn’t last.
“I tell you what if my neck was out here and my thighs were as big as the French rugby players, I’d go down to parliament and show those politicians a bit of surge mentality. I tell you what they’re ruining this country.
By the way,” he says to my work mate and his voice is almost conversational “I like your hair like that.”
The second man who stood out on Friday was my bus driver on the way home. Seeing me in my uniform he took the opportunity to give me some hints on handling customers because:
“sometimes they ask me such stupid questions, I like to give them stupid answers.”
“For instance if they ask me how long the train is, I used to answer 6 carriages.” (oh big chortle I think. Just the kind of thing to calm me down when I’m anxious about missing my train. Not)
“Or if they ask me if this is the Werribee bus, I say no. And when the stupid fools go to get off, I laugh and say why would I be sitting in the Werribee bus bay, if I wasn’t?
Or when they ask me if this is the bus down Moreland Rd I like to say no this is the bus up Moreland rd. That really confuses them. Half the time they ask where the bus down Moreland road is. (This is because not everyone knows that yours is the first stop on Moreland Rd, I think.)
I laugh politely and hold my tongue. Personally I can’t think of a better way to wind up with a black eye.
And the third man in my day, I hear you ask. Only my old (and daily friend) Local Mental Health Issue, the one with the great arse who today decided to yell good advice from the opposite platform about better ways to use toilet paper to wipe my behind. Oh Joy! Even his companion shook his head and hid his face in his hand.
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