I can’t roll my eyes. Nor can I change my seat. The old man besides me is yelling like thunder. His voice so loud that my chest is shaking. His young grandson is shaking a phone, striking it on my legs. He’s but a year or two under half a decade of age. He’s just watered the seat too.
I can’t change my seat. Nor can I stand up. The elderly man has boxed me in. There’s a stack of mangoes, sticky and sweetly overpowering in fragrance. They hide the wretched stench of urine. They boy ignores every dramatically loud instruction. “DO NOT PLAY!” “BE QUIET!” “DO AS I SAY!” His flabby chin wobbles with every wasted forced breath.
I can’t silence the noise. Nor can I use my earphones. I’ve dropped them onto the floor. Into the piss. The gray old man, swats his grandson’s head but still the boy persists in screaming and cheering. “Automan! Automan! Automan!” One superhero and his name rattle throughout the coach. The smell is getting warmer now. The heat of the coach’s overworked air conditioner is vaporizing the urine. Breath it in.
I can’t understand the old man. Nor can the old man see I’m annoyed. The child suddenly stops. He ceases all noise. His grandfather keeps hitting his head. Not gently. There’s a slapping sound. Thud! Thump! Slap! He shouts and balls at his prey. I kick my bag to try and stop the flow of warm stinking yellow waste water finding it’s way to my bag. The bag skips a beat and lodges between the old man and his grandchild, now sat on the floor. The grandchild looks up and strikes the old man with my bag. Oh! My! Gosh!
I can’t understand what the old man is shouting at me. Nor can he catch my look of innocence. He spits between his words and I suddenly want a rain jacket. The flow of words and abuse rains down on me. I’m thankful for my face mask. He prods a finger at me. I understand a few words. Foreigner this. Foreigner that. America or something. Go away. Get out. And that’s when I decide I’ll never use a public coach again. The end.
He’s not gapp
ACTON28: AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC 