His Daily Commute

His Daily Commute

The rain pounding against the french windows had reached a near deafening pitch. Peter, in spite of his headache, was forced to all but bellow down the phone. 

“But I can’t do that! What is so hard to understand?! Please, can you just help me out here?”

“Sir, if you could calm down, I will explain it to you once more - ”

Oh, will you, Justin? Will you explain it once more?

Certainly there was little sense in explaining the need for shouting. This Justin, or whatever he called himself, didn’t seem inclined to listen anyway. 

“All refund requests must be made directly to the office from which said ticket was purchased - ”

Not for the first time Peter rued the decision to hang their only working clock in the kitchen. More practical was the excuse, but the attempt to wean him off his obsessive clock watching was clear. 

It will help us to live in the moment. Some God awful mantra Andrew had picked up from some God awful mental health blog which he loved to quote several times a day. 101 ways to relax your mind, body, and soul. But 9 to 5 habits were hard to break, and stress had better endurance than Harris tweed.  

“Or failing that, an associated office - ”

Was it too early for another paracetamol hit? Every four hours, no, every six. Somewhere in between. The day had dragged on interminably, but a precise measurement of time was impossible. Peter had a feeling that he would be pushing it if he took another dose now. 

“It’s simply a matter of surrendering your ticket to the officer on duty - ”

“No! No, this isn’t a simple matter!”

Paracetamol was practically harmless, right? Peter could already hear his speech slurring as his brain throbbed against his skull. Over and over like the beat of a drum.

Great, who wants to help the crazy drunk guy?

Two little blue and white pills, only enough to take the edge off. This headache promised to be his constant companion well into the afternoon. 

“Yes, sir, it is. There really is nothing I can do for you that can’t be done at a ticket office”

“But - ”

Here, always, was where the problems began. The explanation simple enough. Sure, it was personal, but hardly embarrassing. Not by today’s standards. 

And that’s the real issue, isn’t it? Peter berated himself as his free hand dug through the piles of old receipts, bank statements, and train timetables which at one time he had convinced himself would be useful. You’ve always been a coward. 

“Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”

The insincerity of the statement almost made Peter choke on his tepid coffee. No doubt it was ill advised to wash pills down with caffeine, yet was there anything advisable about this situation? 

“That depends. Are you actually going to be helpful this time?”

It was a strange kind of victory, that defiant click, the sign that a person whose job it was to deal with difficult customers had reached the end of their patience with you. Nothing gained, except the elation. Which was a high all of its own. 

The sun had finally given up. Obscured by unrelenting dark clouds and unable to break through. Not that it tried. The day was nearly half gone, the other half completely open to be filled with this Sisyphean task. Peter rubbed his temples as if the action would relieve him of the grim thought as well as the headache. 

Pounding, pounding, pounding, the rain had somehow become worse. Harder. Aggressive. The afternoon walk was completely off the table now. Along with most of the paperwork. 

Aching shoulders, strained eyes, a persistent cramp running up and down his right calf, there seemed little logic to cramming himself into this cluttered room. There was, of course. A logic which had nothing to do with signal hotspots or a calm, bright workspace to calm an anxious mind. 

In fact, everything in the barely functional dining room was intent on souring Peter’s mood. 

The table, almost sturdy enough for a meal between two frugal men. Chairs which required a tentative touch. Boxes upon boxes stacked in piles so precarious they threatened to topple over with the slightest glance. They were supposed to have been unpacked three weeks ago. Unpacked, sorted, and out of the house. Telling yourself it will only be for a few more days becomes less convincing with each passing week. 

Still, there were benefits to the forced confinement. No clear path to the kitchen, the window, the living room, all lousy with signal black spots. The nearest only four feet away, a distance rendered as insurmountable as Everest. No chance to accidentally lose connection, oh no, what a shame, might as well give it up as a bad job, try again later, and pray that no other excuse rears its head to further delay you. 

Yet £6000 was a lot of money. £6000, give or take, from Rochester to St Pancras, five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. About £18 per his daily commute. 

“Back in my day you could get a season ticket for half that price”

You nod along. Yes Dad, really, what has become of the world?  

The refund would be nice, there was no two ways about it. It left a bad taste in the mouth, spending so much on a ticket that would, that could, never be used. Non-transferable, make sure you have your photo ID ready, the fine for using the season ticket of another passenger…

Peter had always considered money gauche. Exhausting, really. He leant back in his chair before catching himself as the ominous creaking reminded him of the frugality of this particular purchase. 

He was exhausted. Sitting here, all day, same explanations, same inquiries, an endless, debilitating spiral that was well within his power to end. It would be as simple as walking away. He didn’t care about it, not really. But the questions kept him pinned to his chair. 

What did you do today? Did you swing by the ticket office during your walk? 

The admission of failure. Double failure. But Andrew would merely feign mild interest, partially concealing his disappointment. Which would always inevitably be replaced with worry. And then “I have some annual leave left. Why don’t we take a trip?”

And Alice. Peter had insisted there must be something he could be trusted with. Anything to help, so the burden didn’t fall fully on her. The “like always” was merely implied. 

“Well, I suppose, if you really want to help, there’s this small thing. I would do it myself, but it seems quite involved, I simply don’t have any time, perhaps you could…?”

She never meant anything by it. On the contrary. Over the last few years, Alice had made a point to call him once a week, just to check in. A visit once a month, three kids and a disinterested husband in tow. No, she didn’t have time, of course she didn’t. But the implication, one of us is busy, the other sits at home all day. Except when forced on his daily walk. Which happens less daily than it should. 

With a sudden determination which he was certain would pass if he delayed any longer, Peter tapped in the customer service number, the brisk ringtone quickly giving way to a painfully tinny version of some one time pop hit. He still couldn’t place the tune, which he allowed himself to blame on the quality. 

“We are currently experiencing a high volume of calls”

No clock. No way to keep track of a day slipping so quickly through his fingers. Andrew was right, Peter felt he was living the same moment. And on and on it went. One singular moment of Hell.

If you kept your phone updated the clock would still work. But how would you live in the moment then?

Pushing himself away from the table, though without any real force, Peter unfolded himself from his alarmingly hunched position, stretching up, higher, higher, until he deemed every single joint had clicked back into place. Even this overly gentle movement was too much for the poor table, another unbelievable yet completely believable deal, as it swayed in protest. 

Boxes to the left, the right, blocking his path with malicious intent. One man's life, encased in cardboard. Insignificant, yet demanding to be noticed. Peter decided to remain where he was. It was as good as any other plan. Besides, he could now see the patio over the sagging cardboard. Old, grey, with the hint of purposely broken slates, once colourful instead of pathetically dull.  

Crazy pavement. How fitting. 

Indecision had become his preferred state of being lately. It made a change from the constant grind, and pressure, and targets. Every minute, every second reduced to performance statistics and hourly meetings. Early retirement was supposedly the answer. Once you’re away from that rat race, why, you’ll feel better in no time. 

It had worked. It was better. 

Yet doing nothing still must be justified. What did you get up to today? Any plans for tomorrow? A shrug followed by “We’ll see” never being the correct answer. 

“Stress? What have you got to be stressed about? Try proper work. Talk about stress when you have people’s lives in your hands. Punching numbers all day, that’s not stress”

Peter stopped challenging his father after a while. Working in construction hardly amounted to a life and death job, but, he reminded himself regularly, his father was from a different time. And he never wanted anyone to forget it. 

“Who are you going to be without your job, huh? You need to contribute, son. What will your life be worth now?”

Earning a living meant nothing compared to status. A job gives you status. Even if it can barely keep a roof over your head, or food on the table. It meant you were worth something. Anything. 

Peter, he had it easy, didn’t know the meaning of suffering. Avoided the dead end construction job, studied finance, worked in the city. Hid inside numbers, figures, and spreadsheets. Until the endless grind broke him completely, and he burnt out at 52. Stepped away from his place in society whilst his ageing father continued his daily commute. 

Rochester to St Pancras. Five days a week. 52 weeks a year. 

Mr Blue Sky, please tell us why you had to hide away for so long…

ENO, that was it. ENO singing Mr Blue Sky. Someone at National Rail must be a fan. Peter was too, although he struggled to name another of their songs. 

“Your call is important to us”

If the rain kept up the path was likely to flood. It always threatened to, regardless of how little rainfall there was on any given day. The drainage had needed fixing for years now. 

We could finally afford to get the path relaid. 

Peter angrily pushed the thought from his mind. It was distasteful to think of money like that. But there was no getting around it. Financially, things were looking up. Which might help with the strain of Andrew being out all day, unable to reduce his hours but never complaining. They could pay off the mortgage, go on a trip, fix up the house. 

Alice still wasn’t ready to talk about it. The estate had to be divided up sooner or later, yet on the topic she remained resolutely silent. Sooner would be preferable to later. If this had taught him anything, it was this: it’s never too early to start living your - 

“Good afternoon, National Rail customer service. My name is Abby, how can I help?”

Same quality as the prerecorded message, most likely purposeful, trying to trick the unsuspecting customer into hanging up first. It should have been no surprise it took a few moments for Peter to realise a response was expected from him.

“Hello? Are you still - ” 

“Yes! Yes, I’m still here!”

Shouting again. Perhaps Abby would take pity on him and assume he was partially deaf. 

“My name is Abby, how can I help you today?”

The same script, learnt rote, no room for deviation.

“I need - ”

The same answers, parroted a dozen operators. 

“I’m trying to - ”

And the truth, the real truth, was that Abby couldn’t help him. 

“Sir?”

Peter knew what he needed to do, if he really wanted the refund. 

“A refund”

A small matter of walking out into the cold.

“For a ticket”

Down the road to the train station. 

“A season ticket”

And dealing with the clerk on duty. 

“Sir, all refund requests must be done at the ticket office - ”

“I know but - ”

But what? Did Peter want to admit that he hadn't left the house for three weeks? That since he left his job, no, was forced to leave, when the stress and the deadlines and the meetings, the endless bloody meetings, became too much, and he found himself melting into the days. Set adrift when his structured reality fell away, until all he could do was watch the minute hand tick, tick, tick away the hours. When getting up became a boulder to push endlessly uphill, only for it to roll back at his weary feet. 

“But what, sir?”

Life becoming empty and soulless. His husband consoling, his sister stifling. His father, nothing but ashamed. What do you have to be stressed about? Nothing much.

Peter hadn’t worked all his life in construction. He hadn’t spent £6000 on a season ticket to make his daily commute to St Pancras fifty-two weeks a year, five days a week. He hadn't doubled over in an empty London street just after six in the morning, dead before he reached the ground. Working until the age of seventy-two, house remortgaged, not enough saved for a proper pension. 

£6000 on a ticket he would never use. Not that he died the day he had bought it, nor was he felled by the heart attack moments after leaving the ticket office. The universe is rarely so poetic. He died about a month into his season ticket. Precisely, 39 days after he paid for it. Even more precisely, 38 days, 18 hours, 22 minutes, and a handful of seconds. Round it up to the nearest day, those spare hours meaning very little to the train company. They would have meant a lot more to him.

“Is there anything else I can help you with today, sir?”

That was all Peter had to do. Walk down to the ticket office and organise a refund. Alice had the funeral in hand. A simple cremation, close friends and family. Only if you can manage it, Peter.

He would manage it. Why give his father one more reason to be disappointed with him? Distance might not have separated them, but plenty else did. 

“No, there’s - ”

Click. That was that, you had your time, Abby wasn’t inclined to waste anymore of hers. Peter half expected to hear ENO again. Something to break up the silence.  

Looks like it will have to be the ticket office. 

Only a short walk. Down the road. Five minutes at the most. 

Eventually the rain stopped. Maybe one hour passed. Maybe two. Yet Peter remained where he was. He couldn’t face clambering over the boxes.