Fiction+Reality

The Commuter

So what really happened to Mike Peters?

I look out from my balcony as the sun warms my face. A far cry from those commutes I used to do on those rattling trains. Everyone sitting or standing with furrowed brows as though riding to the end of the world.

Two times a day. Ten trips a week. Forty-five minutes each way, with no one saying a word. An unwritten rule: don’t speak to your fellow passengers.

But not everyone obeyed. There was this guy, a real blabbermouth, who wouldn’t shut up. I only asked him if I was on the right train, and he started going on about engineering work on the line. As if I cared!

Then for the next month, he wouldn’t stop talking to me, as he was always in my carriage. So in the end, I started taking an earlier train.

I only saw him once after that.

One morning I was running late, so had to take his train. I sat right at the front to avoid him, but when I got off, I heard him shouting at me from behind.

‘Mike!’ he yelled.

I quickened my pace and headed for the ticket barrier.

‘Mike!’

The guy didn’t give up. So after squeezing through the barrier, I doubled my pace up the escalator, out onto the street, and disappeared into the crowd.

I got promoted soon after that, which is why I’m looking out over the bay with the sun warming my face. I go inside and take a beer from the fridge. Slowly ease the cap off and head back out onto the balcony.

I’ve been in this apartment for a month now, and I still haven’t tired of it. The view is gorgeous, and my commute to work these days involves a fifteen-minute walk along the seafront. Does it get better than this?

I doubt it.

Friday evening as well. Later, I’m meeting a few work buddies for dinner and drinks. The CEO insists no one stays late on a Friday. ‘Have fun,’ he says. ‘Enjoy it.’

He’s a cool guy. I like him a lot. Not your usual corporate CEO, more of a hippie-throwback, as he’s got long hair and never wears a tie. He’s only 45, a few years older than me, and there’s no doubt in my mind that once he retires at 50, which he’s already planned, the top job is mine.

Everything is heading that way. I’ve been promoted five times in the past fifteen years, so there’s no reason why I should stop now. All I’ve got to do is keep my head above water. Keep going with the flow.

I look out across the sea and see a boat. Or perhaps it’s a yacht. Like a speck of dust on a blue curtain. Incredible! And to think I sat on those trains for an hour and a half every day with those people. That guy! What was his name, Paul, Ted, Dave?

I take a slug of beer and think of him wearing his rain jacket every morning, even in summer. Sometimes he read a book. But normally he spoke of his home life with his wife. And how they liked to keep things simple. Home cooking and long walks. Always ate at the table and spent their time over it.

‘Every night should be special,’ he once said.

‘I just eat takeaways in front of Netflix,’ I replied.

He was OK, I suppose. Maybe he just wanted to talk. Commuter trains can be lonely places. And jobs can be dull. The guy had been in the same firm for twenty-five years. Slowly progressing up the ladder, but never really making his mark. So that by the age of forty, he had stagnated.

But what was his name?

I walk back inside and flip open my laptop. I remember that he worked near the station and was an accountant. No, an auditor. I look for auditors, and the search brings up 120 auditors within a square kilometre of the city centre.

Where did he work? The building next to the Elridge Building. What was it? The Carlton Building. I type in ‘Carlton Building Auditors,’ and bang! There he is.

Jeff Hands. Commercial auditor. INERT SOLUTIONS, Floor 22–24, Carlton Building.

I’ve no idea why, but I pick up the phone and dial the number. The phone rings three times. It’s nearly six o’clock, but I know he’ll be there. Even on a Friday, he never leaves early.

‘Jeff Hands,’ comes the familiar voice.

‘Jeff. Hi,’ I say, stuttering. ‘It’s Mike Peters. We were on the train together a few years ago.’

‘Mike,’ he says, enthusiastically. ‘Wow.’

‘Sorry, I got your number off your company site,’ I say. ‘Just wondered how you were doing?’

‘Er, yeah, I’m good. You?’

‘Good.’

‘I thought I saw you a few months back at our stop,’ he says, ‘I recognised you because of your red baseball cap. Do you still wear it?’

I laugh. ‘Er, no. I’m in The South now.’

‘The South?’ he says.

‘I got promoted. It’s been a busy few years.’

‘What happened to you anyway? On the commute? One day, you were there. The next you had gone. Vanished!’

‘I got transferred,’ I lie. ‘All happened at the last minute, so I had to take a different train. It’s weird being a commuter, one minute you’re there, the next you’re not.’

‘You’re right,’ says Jeff. ‘I was thinking the same thing a few days ago.’

‘I don’t even commute now, just a fifteen-minute walk along the seafront, it’s nice.’

‘It must be nice. Yeah.’

‘It is,’ I reply.

‘Anyway,’ says Jeff, abruptly. ‘I’ve got to go. Meeting my wife in fifteen minutes for a meal. Good to speak. Good luck.’

I was going to say the same, but he had already hung up.

I walk back outside onto the balcony. The sun is still shining, but my mood has darkened. What was I thinking? Ringing up someone I barely know to tell them I’ve had a whopping great promotion in the sun. Is that why I did it? To tell someone?

The doorbell goes, and I see my colleagues on the videocom waiting outside, dressed in their Ralph Lauren shirts with cashmere jumpers draped over their shoulders. One is making the swinging action of a golf club.

I don’t even like golf. I prefer football, but the guys here aren’t into it, so I talk about golf because I’m chasing a CEO job, just like they are. It’s pathetic. What will I do in five years? Phone Jeff again?

‘Hi, it’s Mike Peters. Guess what, I’m a CEO now.’

The buzzer goes again.

Then again.

‘Idiots,’ I curse and press the answer button.

‘Mike!’ says one, Derek Miles, the one who was practising his swing. ‘What’s up?’

I sigh. ‘I’m going to skip tonight, not feeling too good. Sorry.’

Derek Miles brings his face closer to the monitor, looking serious. ‘Mike, the CEO’s going to be there, you know that, right?’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m just not up to it tonight.’

He looks amazed that I would even consider turning something like this down — even if I was ill. Even if I was dead. But at the same time, he doesn’t look too disappointed. He knows he’s got one up on me already, and I’ve only just arrived.

‘OK,’ he says, while the others practice their golf swings. ‘You sure?’

‘Sure,’ I say and click off.

Their faces disappear off the screen, and I go onto the balcony and see my colleagues drift off into the night. I have the urge to run down and catch them up. Say I’m feeling better.

But it’s too late now. I’ve made a decision, just like I made a decision to change trains to avoid Jeff Hands. Because I couldn’t handle him. Couldn’t handle this good-natured guy. Couldn’t handle someone who was himself. Someone who was happy.

This is a follow-up to The Commute. I’ve tagged people who were interested in what happened to Mike Peters. Kerry Kramer, Sally Prag, Hope, Uduakudousoro. Also thanks to Nick Struutinsky who planted the idea of a follow-up.