I Heart U Gemma: Strangers on a Commuter Train
by Gemma Cordon.
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He was at the train station, buying a black coffee and The Guardian at 08:24 on Monday morning, dressed elegantly in a navy blue suit and grey overcoat, with scuffed trainers.
He was on the platform, like me, at 08:28 holding a black coffee in one hand and The Guardian in the other, raising it up close to his face and battling to read the front page against the wind. The morning mist was in his hair.
There he was again, boarding the train, my train, holding a black coffee and The Guardian at 08:31. I watched the steam rise from the white paper cup as he strolled down the aisle. The train was busy. He lowered himself down on the chair next to me.
The first thing he said to me was:
"Are you scared of dying?"
I liked him immediately.
"Yes."
"Oh." His voice was deeper than I'd imagined. He looked confused.
"Why?" I asked.
"Oh, I just wanted to find someone who isn't. For tips, like. You looked like you weren't scared."
"Why's that then?" I replied completely taken aback, for I was always scared.
He ignored my question - at least I think he did. "You look like a character in a Hopper painting."
"You what?"
He repeated the statement, adding: "You know, Nighthawks?"
"I know who you mean. It's just that when I think Hopper I automatically think stumpy and lonely."
"You don't look stumpy."
"But I look lonely?"
Again, he ignored the question. "It's the shoes. His people wear shoes like yours. Well, the ladies anyway."
I looked down scornfully at my shoes. I didn't want to be one of those lonely people on a porch in Maine with bad shoes.
"It suits you." He said simply, looking out of the window. We were travelling past white-walled offices and warehouses selling sink equipment.
"What does?" I replied, confused and still reeling from the shoe shock.
He turned his attention back to me. "Your look."
"I didn't realise I had a look."
"Of course you do! Everyone has a look."
"What's yours then?"
"Ah, that's not how you play the game - what do you think my look is?"
I took a good look at him, which was enjoyable to say the least. He had stars dancing in eyes the colour of slate, his face like gravel. After a while I remembered what I was supposed to be doing. I strained to think of what look he would want me to tell him he had, when he interrupted me with:
"Just tell me the truth - what's your first impression of me?"
"You should never go with the first impression, you know." I replied.
"Is that some kind of forewarning?" He smiled slowly, starry. "Is my look that bad?!"
I squinted as if peering at him through a magnifying glass and finally put my finger on it. "You look like...an art thief. You're on your way to London to a famous and world renowned gallery to steal a famous and world renowned painting."
"You're nearly there.” He replied. “This is my City costume, you see. I'm off to the City to make lots of deals that will effectively steal people's hard-earned money from them. And then on my lunch break I'll steal lots of girl's hearts."
"I was close then."
"Yes, well done...er...I don't know your name..."
"Gemma."
"Gemma."
"Yes. But you got me wrong, I'm afraid."
"I did?"
"Yes. I'm not a lonely painted person from Maine with bad shoes."
"Aren't you, now?" He replied with a smirk and gentle sarcasm. "Guess I'm losing my touch then."
He picked up his newspaper as we passed some kind of reservoir.
"So who are you?" I asked.
After finishing the sentence he was reading, he said:
"Harry."
"Well, Harry, this is me." A great "Felton" sign loomed up outside our window, like it was giving me the finger. It took a lot of effort to raise myself from my seat, magnet at my side. "Nice to meet you, Harry. Let me know if you learn any tips."
"But where will I find you?" He asked, legs uncrossed again, elegant neck craned up towards me.
"Oh, I guess you can always look me up in the gallery."
There wasn't time for him to get to his feet and let me pass in the gentlemanly manner as the doors were near to closing. I threaded myself across him in a tangle of limbs, near missing his head with my handbag, and galloped off the train.
***
The next morning I discovered he was married, obviously.
I felt my heart skip a beat or two as I clocked him at the coffee shop again. Three minutes earlier than the previous morning. The same slate man in matching grey overcoat, buying Tuesday‘s Guardian. I watched as the gold ring glinted ever so subtly in the pale morning light as his fingers coiled around the coffee cup.
He didn’t register me on the platform. And for a while I thought he was going to walk straight past me on the train. But without so much as a nod he sat himself down in the available seat next to me and took a sip of his coffee, looking straight ahead.
I wasn't wearing the same shoes. Maybe he hadn't recognised me.
“Are you still scared?” Ah, so he had.
“Yes.” I answered.
“That’s a shame.” He turned to me and extended a hand. “It occurred to me this morning as I was shaving - we haven’t yet shaken hands.”
I gave him my right hand to shake as is the custom and he smiled a satisfied smile. “Good. Now we are officially acquaintances.”
“Ah, is that what we are?”
“Yes, now.”
“Thanks for clearing that up, because I wasn’t sure.”
“That’s because we hadn’t shaken hands.”
“Ah, right. That explains it.”
“Where are you going, Gemma?”
“Work.”
“What’s work?”
“Zoo administrator.”
“Sorry?” He asked quickly. I spoke more slowly.
“I’m the administrator at Felton zoo.”
“Isn’t that unethical?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you want to set the animals free?”
“Every day.”
A pause.
“I feel like one of the animals myself.” I continued honestly.
“They let you out at evenings and weekends, do they?”
“Yeah, keeps costs down.”
“I see.”
Another pause. He raised his eyebrows inquisitively at me.
“Ever thought about breaking free?”
“Yeah.” I answered without hesitation.
“Why haven’t you?”
“I need the money.”
“Does zoo admin pay well, then?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.”
Another pause.
“You want to be breaking free before it’s too late and you’re caged forever.” He said, speaking to the trees outside.
“Are you still scared?” I interjected quickly.
“Excuse me?” He sounded confused.
“Are you still scared of dying?”
“Yes.”
“Have you lost someone? - I hope you don’t mind me asking?” Curiosity coated my tongue.
“No, I don’t. And no. Not to death. Well, the death of a relationship, I guess.”
“What relationship?”
“Wife. Life. Whatever. Both.”
“That’s sad. Why don’t you escape?”
“Too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Too late for me to change my shoes.” He took another sip of the black stuff. “You better be going,” his eyes gestured towards the window. “Time to get back to the zoo.”
I stared at him briefly through a searching sideways glance, as confused and heady as I was yesterday when speaking with this strange man, and got to my feet. Halfway down the aisle I stopped, turned and asked over my shoulder:
“I’ll be seeing you again?”
He nodded. “Yes, most likely.”
“Are you really an art thief?”
“Yes.”
I narrowed my eyes slightly. “Just checking.”
***
Wednesday. This time he was on the train first, sitting next to the window. I scuttled on board like an eager pupil, brandishing a newspaper as my text book.
I asked, “Where do you go, Harry?”
He was minus the fetching grey overcoat and had with him a large black briefcase.
“London.”
“What, every day? Are you on a business trip or something?” I was chewing noisily on a bacon bagel, having missed breakfast that morning on account of waking up ridiculously late, distracted as I was by having a Harry in my head all night.
“I told you, I’m stealing some art.” He wiped a bread crumb from the corner of my mouth.
I mumbled something like, “Of course”, in response.
“It’s time consuming stuff.” He continued in a jolly slightly sing-song tone. “It’s going to take me the whole week.”
Hurrah! - my insides chirruped. “So I’ve got a few more days of you left…”
“Yes…Yes, I like that.” He replied thoughtfully, grey dawn eyes smiling at me.
Unusually, we sat in silence for several minutes whilst I ate my bagel. This had me quite panicked and hungry to fill the air with words before our designated time ran out I asked quietly:
“What hole are you trying to fill?”
“Eh?” His brow was furrowed with confusion.
“You’re obviously trying to fill a hole by talking to me.”
“I could at this point respond with the obvious crude remark but I won’t, because I like you.” He quipped through a becoming schoolboy grin.
“Really though - you could be anyone, and here I am letting you sit in close proximity to me while you fill some hole - at least tell me what it is?”
“You know what the hole is, surely?. We all have it.”
“But I’m a complete stranger.” I protested.
“Are you?” Eyebrows raised.
“Yes. And so are you, to me.”
“But I thought we were acquaintances. Have we taken another step back?”
“Be serious, please.”
“But I am!” He paused. “Do you not want me speaking to you, is that it?”
“NO!” I shouted too loudly to the consternation of the rest of the carriage. I decided to relent. “Ok, ok, I know what hole you mean.”
“Thank you. Does it need filling?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you must carry on talking to me then. Tell me a story.”
“What kind of story?”
“Any story, It’s your choice.”
“I’m not good with choice.”
“Well, that’s where you’re going wrong.”
“Erm, shall I tell you a story about myself?”
“Oh God, no!” He laughed. “I don’t want to know anything about you.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?!” I squealed, put out and pouting.
“I don’t mean to be offensive - I just don’t think it’s a good idea for me to know things about you.” He had moved his body so that he was facing me, palms open, knees crushed against the back of the seat in front. He looked like a giant suited sardine. “That’s where all the trouble starts, isn’t it - things?”
“I suppose so, but…”
“Lets just be ourselves.”
But that‘s what I‘m saying!…”
“Let me re-phrase that…let’s just be. Now. On this train.”
I gave up. I am not a winner. “Whatever you say.”
He turned closer to me still. We were literally breathing the same air - swapping air, if you will.
“Lets pretend - if you could be anyone in the world right now, who would you be?”
I stuck my tongue out of my mouth slightly mid-thought. I didn’t take long to think of: “Liv Tyler in ‘Stealing Beauty.’”
“And what are you doing right now, Liv?”
“Frolicking about in a 1990s field with an Italian. You?”
“Cary Grant - ’North By Northwest.’”
“You copied my film theme.” I retorted, fake-aghast.
“Yes - do you hate me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“And what are you doing right now, Cary?”
“I’m frolicking about with you on a train.” He winked a magic wink - quick as a flash, I nearly missed it.
“But I wasn’t in that film.” I protested weakly, in character.
“Ah, that’s the beauty of it - you are, it’s my film now. I can have who I want. I chose Liv.” I smiled and opened my newspaper. I read aloud:
“Scientists have found a cure for AIDS.”
“Wonderful.”
“Yes.” I looked up instinctively as only a seasoned commuter will appreciate. “I must go.”
“Don’t leave me this way...” He threw a theatrical hand out towards me. The ring winked at me. I giggled like a school girl and skipped off, buoyed by butterflies and a slight queasiness of the stomach.
***
Thursday morning he was late. I thought he wasn’t going to make the train, and resigned myself to listening to my ipod. I was especially overcome with woe in light of the fact that I’d made a special effort that morning - not really sure why, it was all futile really. What did I think I was going to do, woo him with my enlightened choice of clothing and persuade him to leave his wife? I smoothed my appropriately crumpled skirt down in misery. But there he was, slightly breathless, stepping on board just as the doors closed, again plus briefcase. He set it down on his lap and drew his arms across it.
“What you listening to?” He enquired immediately, whilst I was frantically trying to put it away. My cheeks were florid with the anticipation of embarrassment.
“Errr”, I fudged shamefully “just some stuff I borrowed off my flatmate. Silly really. Passes the time.” He smiled broadly at my apparent discomfort, eyes wide and interested. Why must I be so ridiculous?
“So, can I have a listen?” He pushed.
“You want to listen?!…But I was just putting it away…”
“Oh go on…don’t worry, I’m sure it won’t beat your winning conversation, if that’s what you’re worried about?” He continued to grin like a madman.
“Ok then,” I sighed. “If you insist.”
I reached across him and gently nudged an earphone into his ear. He was soft like a summer’s day. I tried again to dissuade him.
“I warn you, it’s rubbish.”
“Ah, that’s quite alright, I knew you’d be the type to listen to rubbish anyway.”
I ignored him and prayed for mercy from some unknown source. I pressed play and we listened together for a while as the filthy electric sounds of Lords of Acid pumped into our ear drums. He glanced dubiously at me, repeating loudly:
“Boom, I fucked your boyfriend, oh yeah I fucked your man?…”
I blushed and said nothing. A few people turned and stared disapprovingly.
After the last chord had ceased throbbing I saw his lips move out of the corner of my eye. “Your buttons’ undone“ he said.
“Hmm?” I murmured too loudly, turning towards him, not hearing a word he’d said with my earphone still in.
“Your button‘s…undone.” His agile fingers got to work on the problem at hand, niftily buttoning up my shirt above my (burlesque-esque, racy-lacy) bra.
Yes! My outfit worked! When in doubt, less is more.
He turned his full attention to the opened newspaper on his lap, a minute shaking of the hands only perceptible to me and my lusty roving eye. My mind was reeling with all sorts of train sex scenarios when we came to my port of fucking call. Aarrggghhhh!, I screamed silently, rising to my feet unsteadily.
“It’s that time again.” I chirruped too jollily.
“So it is.” He said. “Thanks for the musical interlude, we must do that again sometime.”
“Yes.” I squeaked.
“The booming and fucking of boyfriends.” He continued in all seriousness but with a faint smile he was failing to conceal.
I replied with a non-committal “Mmm” as I was climbing over him in a most uncompromising position, for he had not stood to let me pass.
***
On Friday he was already on the train when I got there, staring out of the window at a lone person sat on another train stationed across the track, in some sort of mutual silent acknowledgement.
“Why don’t you reach out to those who are close to you instead, rather than trying to connect with complete strangers?” I enquired as I sat down next to him. He looked into my eyes, face beaming at me like a fresh conker just knocked out of the tree. He was in mohair. He said:
“It’s a dangerous game.” He sounded far away.
“Yes, strangers are dangerous…”
“No, not strangers.” He shot in. “Reaching out to loved ones. Very dangerous.”
“Did you have a difficult childhood or something?”
He laughed gently. “You don’t beat around the proverbial bush do you?”
“No.”
“No, is the answer to your question.”
“Good. Me neither, in case you wanted to know.”
“I did.”
“Hmm. So how old are you, Harry?”
“Hahaha, very forward this morning I see.”
“Well, we don’t have a lot of time left do we, considering this is your last day.”
“Of course. Gemma, I am 26.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t help my surprise escaping from my lips.
“What? - You’re saying I look older?…Great, I look old.” He replied, mock downcast.
“No, - well yes, but no! I just imagined you to be older, that’s all. I think it’s because you told me you’re married.”
“I didn’t tell you I was married.”
“Oh. Didn’t you? Well, your ring told me you were married.”
“That was nice of it.”
“Yes, very informative.”
“Did it tell you anything else?”
“No, you’ll have to do that.”
“Will I?”
“Yes.”
“What is it that you want to know? Don’t hold back now…”
“Do you have children?”
“I do.”
“Really?!” I asked, genuinely surprised for I didn’t know anyone under 30 with children, such was the sheltered nature of my life. “How many?”
“Just the one. He’s enough.”
“So it’s a he. What’s his name - Harry Junior?”
“Are you taking the piss? No, he’s called Parker.”
“Are you taking the piss?!”
“No.” He was serious, apparently.
“That’s an unusual name.”
“Yes. I want him to be a butler when he grows up. An unusual butler.”
“Cool.” I answered, distractedly as I digested this news.
“Obviously, what did you expect from me?”
“I do apologise, for a moment there I forgot you were Mr Cool.”
“Well don’t.”
“So did you want kids then? Sorry, again, I don’t mean to be rude it’s just that I don’t know anyone under 30 with kids.”
“I’ll try not to be offended.” He said through slightly narrowed eyes. “Not at the time, no.” He played with his fingernail, raising his head up again to add, quickly “But obviously, now he’s the best thing that’s happened to me.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “How old is he?” I pursued the subject, hungry for information on this man.
“3.”
“When did you get married?”
“3 years ago.”
A ha, I knew it! A botched emergency marriage! I decided to speak my mind. “Are the events linked?”
He eyed me cautiously.
“Well there is one occurring theme - the same woman’s involved, if that’s what you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” I bravely continued.
“Isn’t that kind of a rude and presumptuous question for you to be asking a stranger?” His tone was friendly.
“You’re an acquaintance. And yes, but I’m feeling reckless so you’ll have to forgive me.”
“Oh really? You’re not going to do anything stupid are you?” He raised an eyebrow.
“All the time.”
“Have you read any Ted Hughes?” He enquired out of nowhere.
“Not recently, no.” I replied curiously.
“Well, you should read some Ted Hughes.”
I looked hard at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not supposed to mean anything - apart from that you should read some Ted Hughes. You read too much into things, that’s your trouble.”
“Well, thanks a lot for your diagnosis, doctor. That’s saved me a lot of bother.”
“Pleased to be of service.”
I decided to change the subject. We were coming up to Harvey’s Catering Supplies. I knew my time was nearly up. A lump had formed in my throat. Do I ask for his number or something? No, it just wouldn’t be appropriate. It’s not meant to be.
“So, is today the day then?” I asked.
“For what?”
“The day for stealing the painting, of course.”
“Hahahaha! Ah, yes, today is the day.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No, never.”
“But you’re still scared?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm.”
He almost leapt up from his seat in excitement.
“Why don’t you come with me?!” He asked eagerly. “For moral support. My right-hand woman, as it were?”
My insides leapt about my body like they were jumping overboard a sinking ship. My mind was sitting on both sides of the fence.
“But I don’t think I can.” I replied cautiously, really wanting to say yes. Half of my body was craning into the aisle, the other was practically in his lap.
“Why not?”
“I’m meant to be at work.” I replied, feebly and immediately ashamed at such a pathetic attempt at an excuse.
“Oh purlease! Big deal! You’ll be working with me.”
“Be serious.”
“I am, perfectly.” He was looking straight at me. It made me uncomfortable.
“I wish I was more original.” I said aloud, not really meaning to but I’d lost the plot by this point.
“If it makes you feel any better recycling is a valuable resource - the world needs you.” He said hurriedly, annoyed at my inability to make a decision. “I need you.”
His right hand brushed against my jittery thigh. The tug of war in my intestines continued to play itself out, the winning half pulling me closer to him. My mind was a muddle. Why is it so hot on this train?! The air conditioning must be off.
“What do you say, Gemma?” His voice was shaky. “Time’s nearly up.” We were approaching Felton. An earthquake seemed to be erupting somewhere.
“I don’t know.” My two minds chimed in unison.
He grabbed the lapels of my shirt and shook me roughly. I said nothing and neither did he. Releasing me and looking me straight in the eye, he said
“What do you want, Gemma?”
“I just want someone to say I love you.” I replied, words rushing up, grateful to be free at last. They were the most honest words I’d ever uttered. And now they’d left me forever. Someone else could deal with them now.
He said nothing. But the ring winked.
It was then that I noticed the train had stopped moving. I knew I wouldn‘t see him again. I leaned towards him and buried my face in his hair. I felt a hand press briefly on mine. I clambered heavy-hearted across him, stepping on his feet and out onto the platform. I never looked back.
***
The following Monday morning was cold, and the platform desolate without his tall frame to decorate it. But I knew it could be no other way. I bought a cup of coffee and the Guardian, just for kicks, and boarded the train just like any other morning. I sat in my usual seat, just like any other morning. I glanced out of the window at the point where we were passing a shop selling sink equipment, just like any other morning. And there it was. On the red brick of a railway arch. Scribbled conspicuously in white chalk, gently nestling amongst the woz eres, massives and penises. I heart u Gemma.
Who said romance is dead? It was so easy when we were teenagers. Love was declared so freely in exercise book doodles, in the playground, engraved in desks. Where did all the love go?
I know one thing for sure - I’m not scared any more.
All change please, all change.
©2007 By Gemma Cordon