Now I am a proper citizen and I get properly eyed and even controlled as such and after arranging my belongings and limbs I find myself privy to an ostensibly physiological process of sleep a fellow citizen is engaged in immediately to the left, which reminds me that I have in inordinate amount of printed matter I just carried away from an intolerably cute bookshop called "Shakespeare & Sons".
And so I study the colophon of one of the books for a station or two, then lift my eyes and see a head and a pad of paper with a conference venue logo, and a female hand scribbling on the paper. The head and the hand and the notepad are protruding from behind a monstrous fold of duffel belonging to a no-bullshit type of lady sitting as it were slightly in front, above and to the left of me and several other people. She is capped with an off-orange wig that looks like dirty mango salad, well settled and becoming.
The hand scribbles, the fold wobbles and I turn to the first pages of the novel. I read: "Shandee's sister gave her all her makeup because she was going off to Guatemala" and then some. The carriage screeches, wails and blips, leaves human pellets on stations, I put on a sordid smile, the sleeping citizen is emitted, and a group of middle-aged gentlemen clears their way into our distended carriage butt.
They smell like regional brands of cigarettes and some beer settling among digestive juices, each with his own composition and character. They initiate a long sequence of movie quotes punctuated by variants of names of involved actors and actresses, and make me think about ageing. I chew into the typographic gruel and read: "The hand end was in her shirt, obviously doing something tender with one of her breasts." The gentlemen start joking, each joke uttered simultaneously by at least two men, so that all can laugh including the joker. I think of the evolution of gregariousness. The men flap their jackets sending the cord locks flailing and laugh like jackhammers. Their digestive juices viciously attack sparse underground air. Another female hand takes away the notepad as the first one struggles to go on scribbling. The head turns unnaturally on an invisible axis and informs the floating mango blob of its utmost respect and the intention not to disturb the fold from underneath which it is about to produce a body of considerable extent and flexibility. The blob remains motionless and inconsiderate, but I can see that its expression intensifies. As the head transforms around the fold into a large whole with the hands, and the whole skims tomb-raider style towards the doors of the carriage, the blob suddenly begins to move, subservient folds convolve and erupt, the train shoots out of the tunnel and implodes with daylight, and a large wooden cross emerges out of a sleeve flare, with the silvery Saviour in His eternal embrace sending rays of sunshine into the eyes and mouths and nostrils of all the citizens, unified and exalted and hearing nothing but the squeal of the rails as the train pulls into Mendelssohn-Bartholdy-Park and spews out most of the flesh. And then all is quiet and gloomy and vacuous, and where the blob was a very small crumpled woman in a grey Wolfskin becomes apparent, and she looks at me very slyly and says: "Tsk-tsk." I avert my gaze and read: "His hand found her stash and she looked down and saw his fingers half buried in her folds, and then she felt a warm filling feeling as first one, then two of Dave's fingers slid inside." And so we beat on.