Skytrain blues
I flare my nostrils as the unmistakable smell of stale body odour gathers around me. It’s emanating from the starched blue shirt of the Skytrain security guard who’s just squeezed himself tightly into the small space in front of me. I’m not flaring my nostrils to get a better sniff you understand, I’m just trying to make it clear to the other passengers that I’m aware of the smell - and more importantly that it’s not coming from me. Not that you can blame the guy. If I had to stand on the platform all day wearing that uniform I’d probably smell too. Hell, just the thought of saying goodbye to the air-con of my apartment gets me sweating.
“Pizzaaaa! Sip-et, sip-sawng!”
As the train pulls into Asoke, I shift my feet nervously amongst the mass of contorted arms, bulky handbags and open-toe high heels that probably won’t appreciate the firm design of my heel. Yes, welcome to the rush-hour madness that is the space directly in front of the skytrain doors. My movement is meant to be a vain attempt at acknowledging the people who want to get off, but judging by the sudden push from behind, it has mistakenly been interpreted as meaning that I want to get off myself.
“Ooh! Cherry-co!”
At last some space. I can see the floor again. The train lurches forward and I reach out to steady myself on the central pole. Instead my hand meets the shiny polyester of a man’s shirt. He is casually leaning against the pole with his entire back propped against it, seemingly unaware that others might wish to hold onto it. Shit. We’re about to reach the wobbly bit before Ploen Chit. I make a last-ditch attempt to reach for a hanging handle. It gives a disapproving squeak as it readjusts to my weight and positively shrieks as we hit the bumpy bit of the track.
Hold your breath, hold your breath. Woosh. The doors open with a clumsy sense of urgency and we pile out, composing ourselves as we step onto the platform and into the sunshine beyond. Aaah. And breathe.
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