He sat down with as much grace as a sixty-something with dodgy knees and backache could muster, exhaled heavily and assumed his position for the day. Taking out his flask of chicken soup, his worn copy of Around The World in 80 Days and tugging his flat cap securely onto his salt and pepper hair, he waited patiently.
The dead, dismal platform was completely silent. Always there before the first train arrived early every morning, the people watcher liked to make his perch on the bench at the very end of the platform, closest to the gaping black jaws that swallowed tens of thousands everyday. It carried the masses in rattling metal boxes on wheels to some far off place, probably much more interesting than here. Probably much happier, too.
Twenty-nine minutes past six.
The People Watcher preferred to wake up early and eat a bowl of porridge, then walk round the local park on his way to the train station, in order to take in the crisp morning air before being sucked down underground to the dingy, gloom-ridden tunnels.
However that gloom would always light up with a carnival of colours as people began to swarm like ants onto the platform. All wandering blithely along in their own little worlds, they were the source of his entertainment. With some it was easy to tell where they were going, what kind of house they lived in, what their relationship was with their mother. Others took a little deducing, or required at least ten minutes in their vicinity to know their story, which only entertained him more. He was a People Watcher. It was what he did best.
Thirty minutes past on the dot and at least seven people appeared at the other end. Three glued to their phones, one searching for something in her bag, and three still half-asleep. Not very fascinating at all, he would have to wait for something with a little more intrigue.
Ten minutes more and the first train screaming down the tunnel towards them, sweeping his coat tails up into the air like little brown birds. The trio of dozers blinked furiously as the hot air hit them face on and the train halted in front of them. Miss Scatterbrain left at least four things on the bench, consequently only just leaping between the doors in time. Engines screeching back to life, train number one sped away, the carriages blurring into a mess of blues and reds before vanishing into the abyss.
The People Watcher sipped his chicken soup. Train number two would be arriving in three minutes.
Every day from his bench, the People Watcher counted one hundred and twenty trains roll on by, picking as many up as it spat out. Loathe to those that stood over the yellow line (for it made him very nervous indeed) and inclined to smile at those who seemed relieved to be standing on the right platform, he saw everyone who's anyone and all the nobodys in between. Short men in long coats looking down their spectacled noses at the less respectable citizens surrounding them, groups of girlfriends chattering like parrots to each other about the latest malicious gossip; awe-inspiring business men and women with gleaming leather briefcases, sleek black suits and somber expressions. The man at 9pm with his tie tugged loose around his collar, who talks at such an absurd volume on his phone that he lets everyone know he'll be home late - again- and no, for the umpteenth time, he didn't have dinner with his secretary.
During this particular afternoon, at fifty four minutes past four, the People Watcher was joined on his bench by a young woman. She was desperately trying to hold in the tears that filled her eyes, drowning her previously immaculate face in some sorrow unbeknownst to the rest of the world. He offered her a handkerchief. She declined and checked the remnants of her makeup in a little pocket mirror. When she left on the 5:01, he spent the next three arrivals creating stories for her grief. A break up, the death of a loved one, a lost engagement ring, eviction from her grotty flat on the council estate...
As the sounds of February maladies and music leaking from headphones depreciated, the People Watcher tucked his book back into his coat pocket and checked his watch. On Fridays the last train came in at 12.34am. Yet again he twiddled his thumbs and tossed a thought around his mind. Could he do it? Leave this nothing-special, tedious town at the drop of a flat cap? Doubts at who would miss him were few and far between, for the People Watcher was alone in his hobby and in his house; he didn't even have acquaintances, let alone friends. Who would notice if the unimpressionable, unforgettable man with greying hair and a head full of other people's stories never sat on this platform ever again?
Two minutes.
One minute.
A distant whistling was growing louder and the familiar trundling of the wheels echoed in his ears. Welcoming the scraping of metal on metal that makes some people's skin crawl, he stood up suddenly. The doors opened painfully slowly and the last dregs of commuters spilled out of the carriages. In five seconds those doors would close again.
He stepped closer to the yellow line, nerves rising in his chest. The People Watcher gripped his empty flask and raised a foot from the ground. This time. This time he would do it.
"Are you alright sir?" the late night cleaner looked unsurely at the sixty-something man. Turning to face her, he smiled a very sad smile, full of dolour unbeknownst to those who'd barely even glanced at him during their journeys.
"Yes, quite alright, thank you. I'll be going now. Good night."
The People Watcher went back to his house opposite the park, made a cup of tea and mulled over the stories he'd written that day.
The stories that could be his if he just got on a train.
