I absolutely adore taking the late-night train on Friday evenings. I work at a busy chain bookstore every Friday night and I'm very keen on taking the LRT, not because I marvel at the sleek, efficient German engineering, or the soothing hum and gentle rocking of the train cars, but because of the inordinate display of human neuroses (alcohol-induced or otherwise). In each car, linked by emotional triumphs and despairs, exists a theatre of the absurd, bizarre and depraved, a stage lit by crackling, unforgiving fluorescence and an audience of people who would rather be anywhere else.
I realize taking the late-night train (and by "late-night", I'm describing the Calgary mindset being that everything should be closed down and people tucked snugly into their beds by midnight) can be a frightening and often dangerous situation for many people; I, however, feel confident--or stupid--enough to handle any unusual altercation, so I'm never self-conscious about dealing potentially with nocturnal psychopaths. Sometimes it's wise to ignore some of the drunken shenanigans that occur on the train: loud, obnoxious meatheads can never be reasoned with or remonstrated without police assistance (Although I do question why so many Calgary drunks like to attempt phony British accents--is it a misguided ploy to attract the attention of sober female riders who will submit to sexual congress because of the mistaken belief that said drunken lout is tolerable only because he has a funny accent? Trust me, it never works.). Ignore the drunks who gesticulate wildly and treat the train car as their personal gymnastic set because they're of interest only to professional anthropologists--they also impede the flow of genial and intelligent conversation one has with an accompanying friend or co-worker.
I often write stories about eccentric people in seemingly mundane situations, so people watching, especially on the train, is quite valuable for research and inspiration. In one memorable train ride, Rob, a co-worker, and I quietly observed a solitary young man desperately trying to integrate himself into a raucous group of drunk, faux Britons. At first he sat alone, away from the drunk chorus, laughing at their moronic verbal utterances, but as the train shook and buckled, the young man, clad in ill-fitting winter coat, curly, greasy hair and thick-framed glasses, walked over and joined them. However, the drunks exited the train at the next stop, likely to continue their drunken carousing elsewhere, and the greasy-haired young man became solitary once again. Perhaps in frustration, the budding psychopath began to use the side banquettes as his personal ramming gear, kicking and jumping, uttering what can best be described as "quacking" sounds. Nonplussed, I found it difficult to talk as the duck calls continued (Rob, being no stranger to observing human folly, appeared completely unfazed).
At the conclusion of our ride, Rob and I bade each other farewell and I quickly realized that the quacking man was also taking my connecting bus, not only getting off at my stop, but also apparently living in my building, as he accessed the lobby doors with his own key. We shared an elevator (the young psychopath having ceased his quacking) and uncomfortable silence. It came to no surprise that he should live in the same apartment complex that houses drug-dealing Neo-Nazis, The Cowboy (a genial though perpetually drunk cowboy, who is always seen in his ranching apparel: neckerchief, hat, leather roping gloves and spurs--fucking spurs), Cat Lady and Moustapha, the sleepy cab driver who monopolizes the laundry machines.
Often night train rides are unremarkable; one can't expect eccentrics to perform every night. Sometimes cars are littered with sleepy shift workers, bored shoppers and nervous teens who try to act cool, but are inwardly dreading going home, having broken curfew yet again. No, it's the potential for unscripted drama that makes a train ride pleasurable: sometimes there is disappointment and sometimes there's the filthy homeless-looking guy (no judgments here) who yearns to join strangers' conversation, perched anxiously on his seat, pulling out empty bottles and cans from his oily backpack in order to brandish his laptop, as if to show the strangers that he too has tools to communicate and is sorely missing genuine human contact. Maybe the man pulled out his laptop to show us that we had wrongly assumed his social status, or maybe he was inspired enough to write a blog about his own experiences riding the night train.
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